The Lady’s Guide to Marrying a Viscount (The Lady’s Guide to Love #8)

Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

Mallon woke to raised voices and a neck stiff from having rested at an unnatural angle in the chair. Who was disturbing the peace at this hour? Not a fracas between the servants, surely. They moved through the house without making a sound; to cause such a commotion in the dead of night would be unthinkable.

Opening the library door, he stepped out into the hall. He’d had just about enough this evening. The noise was coming from the half-landing by the sound of it.

Hell’s teeth! What was going on?

One glance upward showed him the countess cowering, and Lord Slagsby towering over her with his fist raised. A red mist descended at the sight of Geneviève recoiling from her attacker.

“Get your hands off her, you bastard.”

Slagsby swayed, looking down, attempting to focus. Recognizing Mallon, his face took on an ugly sneer. “You, was it? Waiting for this foreign slut? ”

In a flash, Mallon was up the stairs, his knuckles connecting with Slagsby’s nose, followed by a swift punch to the stomach. The younger man crumpled to the floor.

Mallon was hauling Slagsby up by his collar when Hugo appeared on the upper landing, rubbing his eyes. “What’s happening? Is it a burglar?”

“Get down here, Hugo.”

Seeing Slagsby wiping his bloodied nose on his sleeve, Hugo was all concern. “Whatever’s the matter? Did you fall down the stairs, old chap?”

Slagsby shot Mallon a murderous look.

Hugo suddenly noticed the fourth among them. “Good grief! Geneviève! I mean, Countess! Are you alright?”

She was crouching in the corner, attempting to hide her dishevelled appearance.

“I’m fine,” she said, her voice very small.

Briefly, she threw a glance to Mallon. There was no need for her to speak. He could guess what she wished from him.

“I’ll see her safely to her room, and I suggest you accompany your guest back to his. We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

Seeing his nephew take Slagsby gently around the shoulders, Mallon was struck by how loyal Hugo was. Generous-hearted in the extreme, even where it wasn’t deserved.

“And lock the door on him—for his own safety,” Mallon added grimly.

He turned to Geneviève. She was in shock, white-faced and shivering. He fought an impulse to drag Slagsby back and throw him down the stairs.

“You need a stiff drink. Can you walk?”

With a nod, she turned toward him but then looked puzzled, pulling her torn nightdress to make herself decent. With trembling fingers, she attempted to retie the sash of her dressing gown.

By the time she looked up again, Mallon felt he’d turned to stone.

She’d covered herself, but not before he’d seen her breast.

Years of visiting the brothels of Constantinople had made him familiar with the female form. Though he’d never lain with those women, he’d enjoyed observing them touch one another, giving pleasure between them with tongues and fingers. His fist did the rest.

Oh yes, he'd become an expert wanker, and an avid watcher, a connoisseur of breasts particularly, in all their variety.

But, only once had he seen a woman bearing this particular mark—a pronounced mole to one side of her nipple.

It had been too dark to see her face on the train—a fact that had added to the frisson of the encounter—but he’d become intimately acquainted with the contours of her body.

Her expression was shifting, a flush entering her cheeks, her eyes growing wider.

She knows!

Whatever she saw, now, in his face—this shock of recognition—she’d been waiting for it .

He was taken again to that night.

Her breast heavy in his palm.

His thumb circling the dark areola, bringing it to an enticing peak.

Tracing the satin smoothness of her skin, he’d found the raised beauty spot, tonguing it before taking her breast deep into his mouth. His loins flared at that remembrance, and at what had come afterward.

Hadn’t she been straddling him at the time? He remembered her sigh as she lowered herself onto him. His groans of satisfaction had driven her on, taking him deep, then tantalizing him with slow withdrawal, only to plunge again, crying out as he filled her. His moans he’d stifled against her breast, suckling the fullness, revelling in the softness of its curve against his chin and cheek—and that mole!

He was not mistaken!

Leading her to the library, Lord Wulverton gave her a large brandy and found a blanket from somewhere. He seemed reluctant to meet her eyes, poking instead at the fire he’d relit. From the hallway, the clock chimed two. Had only an hour passed?

Events had happened in a blur.

Geneviève recalled Slagsby shaking her, his fingers pressing, bruising hard. She’d fought back, kicking his ankle, then catching him partially in the groin with her fist, but not enough to disable him. He’d had the face of a madman as he’d raised his arm to strike her. She’d been waiting for the blow when the viscount had shouted. He’d bounded up, taking the steps three at a time, falling upon Slagsby like a demon.

The relief had been overwhelming. With the fight drained from her body, her knees hadn’t wanted to hold her anymore, so she’d curled up by the curtains.

She hadn’t wanted to look at Hugo, nor Lord Wulverton.

It was shaming, to have been called those names. Slagsby was a beast. Men didn’t even treat whores like that.

Or perhaps they did. What did she know?

Perhaps she’d been lucky with Maxim. He’d never hit her, at least.

However, there had been times when she’d thought herself little better than the women selling themselves at the docks in Marseille, despite the ring on her finger.

Lord Slagsby was loathsome but there was some truth in what he’d said. Her contract involved a marriage license, but it amounted to almost the same thing. Ownership of her body in return for security.

No wonder Maxim’s circle had gossiped about her—the little convent stray taken into the bosom of a noble family, climbing her way into the bed of the count himself, and extracting no less than a wedding ring.

If Slagsby had heard rumors about her, then who else?

Not Hugo—at least not yet.

She’d have to talk to him, as soon as possible, giving him her version of events. Better that than for him to hear Slagsby’s putrid gossip .

She’d felt such a rush of gratitude when the viscount had stepped in, saving her from Slagsby’s attack, but she had another problem to deal with now.

Lord Wulverton’s face had shown her everything.

It had never occurred to her that he’d remember such a thing as the mole on her breast. Didn’t other women have such marks? How could he know it was her?

That night on the train had been an imprudent whim, however satisfying—being caressed by a man truly of her choosing, taking what she desired.

Her attraction to the viscount had been threatening her resolve to marry Hugo, for she found Lord Wulverton more purposeful, more impassioned, and more stirring in every way. But, it was Hugo who’d inherited Chateau Rosseline, where she’d found a true home.

It was there she belonged, not upon the moors, regardless of how beautiful she thought them. If she could but return to the chateau, and with a respectable husband at her side, mightn’t she conquer those who’d once scorned her?

Her charm and intelligence would help her gain her heart’s desire. Marrying Hugo would be the first step in achieving that.

She raised the brandy to her lips, savoring its bitter sweetness. Whatever happened next, she had money. Society might ostracize her, but she’d never be destitute.

When Lord Wulverton turned, his face was without expression. He remained standing, examining her for several moments before speaking.

“There’s no need for us to discuss why you were in your nightgown on the stairs. I don’t need to hear whatever story you’ll spin for me.”

Her pique flared but Geneviève said nothing. If he wished to believe badly of her, it would be almost impossible to correct him.

“I’ll cut to the chase. You’re here at the invitation of my sister-in-law, who appears satisfied to allow you to court the attention of my nephew.” His eyes narrowed. “Hugo may be a man in years but he’s an innocent. Meanwhile, you, Madam, are an adventuress!”

Gazing into her glass, Geneviève willed herself to remain poised. She would have her say. That, at least, she was entitled to. “It’s true that I desire respectability and an elevated position in Society. I have wealth, but my modest beginnings are against me. There are circles in which I’m unwelcome and there are too many eager to malign my character.”

Looking up, she met Lord Wulverton’s glare, fixing him with her own. “That, dear sir, is something I intend to remedy.”

“You think respectability can be acquired by taking a husband of good breeding?” He stood tall above her. “No woman who behaves as you do will ever be truly respectable. Don’t deny your true nature, for I know you and I call you out! You’re a harlot, flaunting your carnality for the entrapment of men!”

For a moment, Geneviève thought she might laugh. Lord Wulverton had called Hugo na?ve, but the way he spoke! As if ‘respectable’ women never employed their wiles! Even the most well-bred ladies must occasionally make use of what God had given them.

She might have voiced that thought aloud, or any number of similar notions. Instead, she found herself saying, “You know nothing of me, my lord.”

His reply was immediate. “You will own, surely, that I know something, or are you forgetting what occurred on the train from Marseille?”

Geneviève felt her annoyance flare. “If you wish to take the moral high ground, I recall no proposal of marriage before you took what you wanted.”

“My recollection is that the lady was far from unwilling. I didn’t take anything that wasn’t freely offered.”

Geneviève gritted her teeth. “Our pleasure in one another was equal. If you insist otherwise, I must call you a hypocrite.”

The viscount waved his hand in dismissal. “A man’s actions are not scrutinized in the same way—are not judged as those of women. Our reputation is not so fragile.”

“Indeed! A man is applauded for his conquests, a woman reviled. Eve, the seductress sinner, and Adam, the guiltless lamb, led astray. Isn’t this your boorish opinion?”

“You attempt to wriggle away with clever words, but I will have an answer. What are your intentions toward Hugo?”

Geneviève folded back the blanket from her knees before rising. Walking over to the decanters, she took her time in selecting and pouring more into her glass. “He’s a charming young man.”

“One with wealth and a title, whom you intend to deceive into his marriage vows, making him believe you love him when you mean only to use his position for your own betterment.”

Geneviève did allow herself to laugh at that. “Where a man believes himself in love, a woman need provide only a little encouragement.”

“Love!” He spat the word. “Love serves only to blind us to the nature of the other.”

He spoke so vehemently, Geneviève was brought up sharply. “You don’t believe in love?”

“I do not.”

“Then, what do you believe…where women are concerned?”

A muscle was twitching in his jaw and his eyes had grown almost black. The bitterness in his tone was unmistakable. “You profess love but only as it suits you. You are constant only where it provides material benefit. You manipulated me, Madam, but I am no longer deceived, and I will not allow you to play with the heart of one who is gullible. You may feign gentility and the sincerity of love, but I know your true nature. Ruled by your passions, with no thought of virtue, or constancy, you’re not to be trusted!”

Ice had been stealing through her at the tone of his voice, but then the ice turned to fire, and her indignation grew hot. If the viscount wished to preach, she’d happily show him his own ‘true nature’.

Geneviève pulled the sash of her dressing gown. As he reached the end of his tirade, she looked him directly in the eyes, letting the two halves of the garment part. As if absentmindedly, she brushed her fingers across the front of her flimsy nightdress. “You think me a whore because I have a mind of my own and refuse to act the virgin, because I desire physical pleasure in the same way as a man.”

He faltered into remarkable stillness.

Where his voice had risen, gathering in outrage, her own was measured. She moved the torn fabric to one side, exposing the curve of pale skin. “This is how you expect me to behave, is it not?”

Already, the imprint of her assailant’s fingers was visible where he’d squeezed her breast violently. A welt was rising where Lord Slagsby had raked his teeth.

“You saw this?” Geneviève touched the mole. “A pretty thing, Maxim always thought it. And you, Lord Wulverton? I recall you kissing more than my hand, not so long ago.”

“You mean to provoke me.” His voice was tight.

Geneviève continued to speak softly as she came forward. When she stood before him, close enough that he might reach out and touch her, he licked his lips, his eyes dropping to where she teased her nipple, drawing it to a point between her fingers.

He made no move to retreat, his eyes solely upon her body.

“You censure me, yet you wish nothing more than to ravish me again,” she murmured. “We’re alone, so you may do as you wish. I shan’t protest.”

She paused before speaking again, raising the volume of her voice, her manner more assertive. “Here, before the fire? Or would you rather bend me over where we stand?” Bringing her hand to his groin, she found what she knew would be there: the hardness of his desire.

She uttered the last with a cry of defiance. “Remember to leave payment as you did before!”

A shadow crossed Lord Wulverton’s face, as if he couldn’t decide whether to strike her or take her at her word. However, he stepped back, his lip curling in disdain.

“I concede that I cannot control every base impulse of my masculinity. However, tonight, I choose to temper those passions rather than being their slave.”

She was irked to realize that he’d claimed the last word.