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

Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

A fine veil of drizzle was falling, so that tendrils of hair clung damply across Geneviève’s forehead. Mud slurped at her boots and caked the ankle of her stockings. Her mount had disappeared into the mist, but she’d rolled as she landed and, fortunately, onto moss. Assessing herself, Geneviève found no injury beyond some tenderness to her right elbow. There would doubtless be bruises but she’d only feel them properly the next day.

Her pride, however, had taken rather a beating. As Lord Wulverton stood over her, she realized all too well what a mooncalf she’d been.

A demon galloping after her indeed!

Hurrying to her side, his face was ashen. Anxious that she’d broken her neck, she supposed. He’d have had the devil’s own job explaining that to Hugo!

“I take it you plan to help me up,” she grumbled. “I’ve no wish to catch pneumonia.”

Seeing she appeared unhurt, his face grew still, his expression indecipherable. He made no apology for having frightened her, nor did he berate her for fleeing from him. Whatever he was feeling, he concealed it well. Geneviève waited for a tirade in the manner of the previous night, but he seemed disinclined to argue with her.

“We’re on the edge of the mire. In this mist, it’s too dangerous to venture back.” He looked about him, as if searching for some landmark. “I’d guess we’re no more than a mile from The Saracen’s Head, so it makes sense to go there.”

She might have been made of feathers and silk as he swung her up, lifting her effortlessly. It occurred to her that she ought to feel angry with him—for interfering, besides anything else—but she supposed she could hardly blame him.

It was indeed pleasant to be in his arms. Hers, she wrapped close about his neck, with a small thrill of gratification at seeing the mud she transferred to his collar. She leaned into him as he carried her, resting her head on his shoulder. His heartbeat seemed far steadier than hers.

Once mounted, with Lord Wulverton behind her in the saddle, she felt the weight of his coat placed about her shoulders, warm from his body and carrying a masculine scent.

Thankfully, the horse seemed to know where to step, its eyes attuned to the subtle shades of green indicating safety or danger. Only once did it stumble; then, she felt Wulverton tighten his arm around her waist, pulling her closer to him .

It was as if the world had disappeared, and only they existed, plodding through the dense bank of mist. His chest was solid behind her but, even with his proximity, her damp clothing invited the chill, drawing cold into her bones. The sun was dipping from the sky and the temperature dropping.

At last, a familiar smell carried to her nose—peat smoke and the scent of cooking meat. The steeply-angled roof of the inn came into sight, dull illumination filtering from its mullioned windows through the crawling fog.

Geneviève’s hands were frozen white and her teeth chattering as they entered. She’d never felt more bedraggled. Her hem was six inches deep in mud, and her skirts sodden.

With a room secured for each of them, she made haste to hers. It was a sorry sight that met her in the mirror. The ringlets that had hung prettily over her shoulder now straggled wetly. Forlornly, she attempted to re-pin her hair. However, within a few minutes, there was a soft knock upon the door. Opening it, Geneviève found a young woman had been sent to her.

“Beg pardon, Miss, but the gentleman asked if we’d summat fer ye to change into.” She bobbed a curtsey and extended her arm to offer a garment of rough green wool. “’Twas one of the late mistress’s, wot she never wore, on account o’ fallin’ ill afore she’d the chance.”

Geneviève was in no position to refuse. Though the dress had clearly been hanging for some time and was not in the latest fashion, or any style she was aware of from the past decade, it was clean and would make her a sight more presentable.

It was with some trepidation that she returned downstairs.

The inn was busy. She glanced into the bar as she went past, and it was already nearly full. No women, she noted. Tucked away at home with the children and the laundry, and stew to make, while the menfolk shared a pipe and huddled together exchanging their gossip.

Lord Wulverton had commandeered the snug, sitting by a fire heaped high and blazing. He reclined in his usual manner, legs stretched toward the hearth, as relaxed as if The Saracen’s Head were his sitting room.

Geneviève feared what he might wish to say to her. She wasn’t in the mood for an argument, and he hadn’t ridden out to Fox Tor merely to wish her a good day. Somehow, he’d discovered her intended rendezvous.

Had he spoken with Hugo? Was the game up?

Suddenly, she felt tired of it all.

Bugger the lot of them! What she really wanted was something to eat. She’d taken only a light breakfast, and it was well into the afternoon. Kitchen smells had permeated even to her bedchamber, making her mouth water as she’d fastened the last of the buttons on her borrowed dress.

“At last!” Wulverton commented as she approached. “There’s steak pie on the way. If you’d been much longer, I’d have been tempted to eat both portions.”

She seated herself opposite, accepting the hot toddy he’d ordered for her. It smelt of cloves and cinnamon and warming ginger. Whatever game he was playing, she appreciated the creature comforts that went with it. Trying to butter her up, she supposed; putting her at ease before ambushing her with an ultimatum. There were only a few days until Christmas. He wouldn’t ask her to leave, surely—not so close to the actual celebrations. It was a miserable thought. Despite having to endure the likes of Mrs. Wapshot, Geneviève had grown rather fond of Wulverton Hall.

When their plates arrived, piled high and steaming with gravy, Lord Wulverton tucked in with gusto, and Geneviève didn’t need any convincing to do the same.

Despite the awkwardness of their situation, she was relaxing in his company. Sitting by the hearth, enjoying their plain yet satisfying meal, she was almost able to forget the thorny circumstances that had led them here.

Able to forget, almost, what her plans had been that morning.

How straightforward it might have been if she and the viscount had met in the proper way, or had never met until this moment—finding themselves both seated before the fire, drawing comfort from the inn’s simple welcome.

She dashed away that thought as too fanciful. Nevertheless, she heard herself telling him of the cassoulet she remembered the nuns making, richly flavored with garlic, the haricot beans soft and buttery, and the duck melting as it touched her tongue.

Her upkeep at the convent had come with a price, obliging her to help most days in the preparation of meals. If she hadn’t gone to the dowager Comtesse Rosseline as a companion she might, at a pinch, have found employment in the chateau kitchen.

“It sounds a darned sight more appetizing than the grub we were given at school,” said Mallon, consuming the last of his pie crust. “But, don’t tell Mrs. Fuddleby about your secret culinary skills, unless you want to be given an apron. She’s already taken a shine to you, I’d say.”

Geneviève returned his smile. “I expect Marguerite has taught her some French recipes, but it would be a pleasure. The kitchens are the heart of the house, are they not?”

He looked at her most curiously, almost as if seeing her for the first time. “I used to find that true, when I was a boy. It was only years later that I thought to wonder at the cook always having a cake to make when I appeared at the kitchen door. Whatever had been troubling me seemed less acute by the time I’d finished beating the mixture.”

“You had the sweet tooth, like all children.” Geneviève eyed him playfully. Noting he seemed interested in the steak pie yet remaining on her plate, she pushed it toward him. “And what was your favorite of the cakes? The famous British scones, perhaps, or your Victoria Sponge?”

Mallon inclined his head in thanks and applied his fork to a large chunk of beef. “Both excellent choices but not my favorites.” He chewed thoughtfully. “It’s a tough call, but I’d say Bread and Butter Pudding.”

“Is this what they serve at Buckingham Palace, when they wish to impress visitors from the other royal houses of Europe?” Geneviève raised an eyebrow. “A pudding made of bread?”

He chuckled. “It’s much nicer than it sounds, although it works perfectly well with stale bread.”

Geneviève wrinkled her nose.

“Mrs. Fuddleby puts plenty of cream in the custard and a generous handful of sultanas. You can make a wish as you sprinkle them in. At least, that’s what she told me. I’ll ask her to make one for us, and you’ll see.”

Geneviève felt her heart beat a little faster. Did he wish her to stay? “I understand. Such recipes are made with love. When the woman who cares for you makes this dish, it cannot be anything other than delicious.”

Mallon dabbed his mouth with his napkin, looking suddenly a little embarrassed.

Although the meal had been generous, latticed apple tart followed, after which they both settled back, replete. The warmth of the room and her satisfied belly were making Geneviève feel unexpectedly content. More drinks were brought, and they sat in affable silence, listening to the crackle of the flames.

Yet, Geneviève couldn’t set aside all unease. Now they’d eaten, he meant, surely, to address the circumstances under which he’d sought her out. She needed a diversion—an alternative subject of conversation. The weather always provided safe ground.

With forced cheerfulness, she remarked, “Everyone keeps saying snow’s coming, but I’m not convinced. Will we see a white Christmas, do you think, or only more of this dreadful fog?”

It was a clumsy attempt.

He surveyed her through half-closed lids but when he gave his reply, it was with disarming sincerity. “Each season has its own beauty. You should see the summer. When I was a boy, I'd wander, sunburnt as a nut, my sleeves and trousers dyed with blackberry stains and hands clammy with sweet juices.”

He held up his glass of spiced cider to the firelight, admiring its rich color before taking another draught. “There’s much that’s bewitching but the moor can also be a melancholy place. Even in the warmest months, you’ll find snow in its shaded hollows. For the swaling, they burn the heather and furze to clear the way for new growth, before digging in the ash. Then everything awakens, young and alive and made anew, and the gorse flames gold.”

‘You should see the summer’ he’d said.

Geneviève found her heart lifting, not just at the remark, uttered more in politeness than invitation, but because he was talking as he had before, as they’d sat beside one another on the cart, visiting each homestead. His Lordship, for all his maddening ways, conversed with her as an equal, rather than in flattery of her physical charms or in a condescending way, to show off his cleverness.

He asked softly, “Have you felt it? The sky gazing at you?”

The words were like an enchantment, pulling Geneviève closer.

“During my time in the desert, beneath the tent of that other sky, I drew some comfort, thinking of the sun looking down with subtler warmth upon the moor. The same sun, and the same stars, too—points of light in the heavens, and the moon’s illumination above. I’d go to sleep imagining myself beside the lake or under the great shadow of the Dewerstone, with the moorland air fresh on my cheek and the moss cool beneath my back.”

She felt a keen desire for him to continue addressing her in this way, crediting her with the same ability to respond to the landscape he loved.

Though aware of the hubbub of chatter from the bar across the hallway, Geneviève felt all else fading away, just as it had when they’d been riding together. There was only Lord Wulverton speaking softly, filling her ear with his confidences, appearing to need to tell her as much as she desired to listen.

Although they were alone, she spoke in a whisper. “Does the moor have so many secrets?”

“You might live here all your life and never comprehend them. Its mysteries are matched only by those we hold within us.”

He flashed her another of his penetrating stares, and her heart lurched.

The previous evening, he’d made it clear he thought her a social climber of the worst sort, using her body to further herself. He meant, surely, to remind her of the deceits she’d perpetrated, exerting her charm over poor Hugo, who was as helpless in matters of love as an adolescent girl.

Geneviève knew that she ought to retire, before he broached what must surely be on his mind, but she couldn’t bear to leave.

He’d lent her the book, of course. She might comment on that. “I can see why Conan Doyle came here, to research the enigmas of the moor, finding inspiration for his novel.”

In her recent nights of sleeplessness, she’d burnt her candle to the quick, reading of the Baskerville Hound and its terrible curse. She could see how cleverly the legends of Dartmoor had been drawn upon. “It makes for compulsive reading…and the ending! So horrible!”

A frown crossed his face. “The dangers of the moor are real.”

“Those damnable mires, waiting to suck you under?” She gave a laugh, but it emerged brittle, constrained too greatly by her nerves.

Wulverton remained serious. “Grimpen Mire, as described by Conan Doyle in his book, is inspired by the very place you almost rode into. If you hadn’t been thrown, your horse would have taken you where I couldn’t have followed. There would’ve been no saving you. It looks like solid grass but it’s an illusion. The quagmire moss is no more than a quaking blanket, concealing dark pools of liquid peat. One false step means death.”

The last he spoke with great emphasis. His hand shook as he reached for his drink, taking a deep draft.

She’d hardly chosen to guide her horse in the direction of the mire. She’d not even known it was there! As for the speed at which her mount had taken her, that was entirely due to the viscount’s fearsome arrival.

Geneviève drew herself upright, intending to explain herself, but he interrupted as she began, his expression so stern she was obliged to close her mouth again to prevent her lip from trembling.

“You’ve heard, perhaps, more of my mother than I’ve told you?”

The directness of his manner obliged Geneviève to lower her eyes. Mrs. Fuddleby had been gossiping and she’d listened, wanting to know more. Now that she had the chance, she felt rather ashamed of herself.

“Among the graves I visited, beside the chapel, one bears her name, but there is no body. She ventured out to meet her lover—the man my father had employed to help him oversee the estate. They’d arranged to meet here, as it happens, with plans to elope. Having waited for several hours, he went looking for her. Like tonight, there was a mist, and she must have lost her way. Neither she nor her horse were ever found.”

“Surely not…” Geneviève experienced a shiver of horror, realizing what he was telling her. She’d assumed the late viscountess to have died of natural causes.

He paused, looking grim.

“Her just dessert, some might say, for abandoning her children, as well as her husband.” His face was hard. “My father never forgave us for being hers, nor did he remarry. The only affection Edward and I received was from our nursery maid and the other staff. As soon as we were old enough, he sent us away to Eton.”

His confession was startling to her. “Monstrous! Whatever the sins of your mother, you were not to blame.”

“True, but perhaps my father thought we weren’t his at all.”

Geneviève bit her lip. What right had she to comment upon the misdeeds of others, or the acts they were driven to through loneliness or betrayal?

Lord Wulverton angled his body away from her. “It wasn’t only we who suffered. There was our stableman, Withers’ brother, Silas. You recall I spoke of him? My father had him convicted of stealing, since he was responsible for the yard and every horse in it.”

He passed his hand over his face, looking all at once weary.

“My father should never have married her. She was unsuited to the moor, and they were unsuited to each other. The union was destined to unhappiness.”

He looked pointedly at Geneviève. “I’ve vowed never to find myself in a similar position, and my vow extends to Hugo. I’ll do all I can to prevent him from entering into an ill-advised marriage.”

He’d come to it at last and there was nothing Geneviève could say to defend herself.