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

Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

Mallon shrugged off his jacket, casting it onto the bed. What a bloody mess! He tugged loose his cravat. He hadn’t wanted to find himself in this position, of being so close to Geneviève alone.

Riding out to Fox Tor, he’d been ready to take her down several pegs—to revoke her invitation and ask her to leave. How could he have known that her horse would bolt, taking her off like that, to the west of the tor?

There lay the most treacherous of all the mires. He’d tried to stop her, but she hadn’t heard him calling, or had ignored him, or hadn’t been able to pull up her mount.

He’d been assailed by a fear worse than any he harbored over Hugo’s future. The mire had a habit of claiming lives. It had taken her hadn’t it—his mother, and Geneviève had almost ridden into that same danger.

Some angel had been watching over her, to make her tumble as she had, throwing her to safety. Seeing her on the ground, mud-splattered but alive, any anger he’d felt had ebbed away. He’d wanted to kneel and pull her to him, to kiss her until she gasped for breath, to hold her tightly and keep her there.

She might have died and been lost to him forever.

The thought sickened him; made his mind swirl black with despair.

He sensed that she understood more about him than he’d first realized. Different as their childhoods had been, they’d both been raised by ‘strangers’—she at the convent, and he at Eton. Of course, he’d had more of a family than she. He’d had Edward, at least, and the knowledge of a father still living, even if he’d bestowed little enough affection upon his sons.

They’d both sought out new places to belong—he with his regiment, and she at her beloved chateau.

She seemed to understand something of the moor, too, its beauty and its majesty. He thought of the things he might show her, sharing what he loved about this wild, untamed land. He’d never before wanted to reveal that part of himself to anyone. Never wanted to allow a woman to get that close—to see what truly mattered to him.

Ridiculous nonsense!

How could one prolong such feelings for a woman? Men were asses to allow their amorous emotions to rule them. Look at what it had done to his father. His broken heart had robbed him of the ability to show love to anyone or to take any joy in living at all. He’d become a bitter old man .

Permitting himself feelings for Geneviève could only lead to disaster. Deceit came too easily for her to be capable of fidelity, showing him one face and another to Hugo.

She feigned gentility when she was as brazen as any courtesan.

No matter that he partly admired her for that very audacity.

No matter that he understood the need for her to keep that side of her nature hidden.

He knew the world’s hypocrisy, men being judged in one way for their sexual exploits and women in another. It was simply the way of the world. A woman’s virtue hinged on her constancy.

He found her attractive, but more than that. Knowing she was the woman on the train did nothing to diminish his desire. Quite the reverse. Were it not for the complication of Hugo, he’d have acted upon that desire before now.

But, whatever he was feeling, whatever the hell this was, it was a passing whim. A temporary state of insanity.

How could it be more?

Mallon unfastened his cuffs, then pulled off his shirt. He’d try to forget she was just two doors away—forget what he wanted to do.

He’d requested a bath be filled in the room between their two chambers. He’d heard the water running and seen the maid going out. For now, he should get clean, climb under the covers, and seek blessed release in sleep. The rest he’d think about tomorrow.

Opening the door, he saw Geneviève had gotten there before him. He felt a flush of irritation. Was he to have no peace?

Her head was only just visible above the lip of the tub, her hair half-tumbled, pinned haphazardly.

To do anything other than retreat was an invasion of her privacy. After the way he’d expounded on the state of her morals, it would be outrageous for him to abuse the situation, yet he found himself compelled to look upon her. A single curl clung wetly to the nape of her neck, dark against pale skin.

As he watched, she extended a leg—long and slender, hooking it over the bath’s rim, then did the same with the other, raising herself slightly. He caught a glimpse of full breasts and rosy nipples.

Her hand was sliding down, stroking beneath the water. He could be in no doubt as to what she was doing. She reached lower, lifting her hips. Almost above the surface of the water. Almost.

Even a saint would have had trouble turning away, and he was no saint.

Beneath the towel at his waist, he grew hard.

Her breath was coming in shivering gulps, until she threw back her head, gasping her release.

He stood, unmoving. Before long, she’d realize he was there.

Without question, he ought to retreat through the door, but part of him wanted her to see him; needed her to see him .

He could no longer fight.

To submit might be his undoing, but he’d run mad unless he had her.

He’d been clear regarding Hugo. It was to be all over between them. Whatever hope Geneviève had harbored in that direction would cease. She’d let Hugo down gently. Find herself some other man.

Thinking further ahead was impossible.

She bent one knee, then the other, returning them to a position from which she could rise. Emerging from the water, she stood very still, facing away from him, rivulets of water trickling down her plump, rounded buttocks. Her body was shiny-wet, the elegant curve of her spine arching into her lower back, her delicate waist, and the generous splay of her hips.

She half-turned her cheek, surveying him through wet lashes, and he understood. All along, she’d known he was there. She’d been taunting him, waiting to see what he would do.

He should have realized, but what difference would it have made? Almost as soon as he’d entered, he’d abandoned any thought of leaving.

Stepping out, she didn’t pick up her towel. Instead, she faced him fully, presenting herself—entirely naked, entirely wet, entirely vulnerable. From the ebony fur at the apex of her thighs to her heavy, tip-tilted breasts, she was every red-blooded man’s dream.

Still carrying the sponge from her bath, she held his eyes as she came forward, water dripping from her body. She stroked the sponge upward from her belly, squeezing out its suds upon her right breast, then rubbing its moistness across her nipple.

Drawing it away to reveal the constricted peak, she said, “Don’t you want to touch me?”

Mallon feared his voice would break. He’d never wanted anything more in his life.

Pulling the towel from his waist, she let it drop to the floor. Looking down, a devilish smile played upon her lips. She brought the sponge to his groin, caressing the length of him with its soapiness, stroking back and forth. A ripple of raw pleasure made his muscles clench.

All the while, she kept her head tilted back, looking into his eyes, daring him to take what she offered.

Blood pounding, his control broke, and he dragged her to his chest. Bending his head, he took her mouth. No tender meeting of lips but a kiss of all-devouring hunger. Answering in kind, she opened to him, curling her tongue over his.

Dropping the sponge, she wound her arms about his back, clinging to him, moaning as his hands found the lush curve of her bottom—satin-soft and slippery from her bath.

It was just what he’d wished to avoid, a woman having power over him.

Power to hurt him.

For what if this moment meant nothing to her, while the hunger burning in his soul meant everything?

And then those thoughts melted away, as fire blazed through him.

He was stronger, physically—could have her by force, if he wished, lifting her onto his manhood and taking her pressed against the wall. Her strength was of a different sort. She was tenacious, independent, audacious! Intensely carnal. Luxuriously sensual.

A sound emerged from Mallon’s throat more animal than human. He’d never been so swollen with lust, so thick and hard.

The only way to be rid of his obsession was to bed her. Only then would the torment end.

She needed him inside her!

To pound away the yearning, consuming her, until she knew nothing but blinding ecstasy.

He was everything that Hugo was not, and it was he her body craved. Something unknown whispered that her heart desired him, too. From the moment he’d lifted her onto his horse, she’d known. In the library, too, she’d wanted him to ravish her—to cleanse her of Slagsby’s foulness through the heat of his passion. The day they’d spent in the cart, she’d been fevered with longing.

Even on the train, she’d known he was unlike any man she’d met before. The attraction between them was more than physical. It was a meeting of souls—made of the same rare mineral, brittle-hard and hidden deep, yet yielding when molten.

And the way he spoke of the moor! She wanted that same ardor for herself, for him to worship her as devoutly as he did the landscape of his birth.

She didn’t give a rat’s arse about the Baroness de Boulainville! Or care a fig for any of those hateful women and priggish, lecherous men. She saw how empty her wishes had been. To think that marriage to Hugo would change anything.

She’d been clinging to an illusion, born of her desperation to belong. Chateau Rosseline had never been hers. Her home—the place in which she might be truly loved—was not in that far off place.

She hoped, she believed, home might be with Lord Wulverton. It was he she must have, and she wanted him to yearn for her in the same way. Something in his gaze made her believe that, if she was his, she’d be cherished, protected, and loved unconditionally.

His kiss was growing more insistent, while his hands claimed her firmly, rolling the tender flesh of her buttocks between thumb and forefinger, pinching the underside, making her sigh into his mouth. His manhood was pushing against her belly, the tip moist.

She shifted her position, wanting to draw his leg between hers, that she might rub herself there and ease the aching need for friction, but he was clearly too impatient for preliminaries. Cupping under her behind, he lifted her.

With her thighs clasped around his waist, her slickness found him and she drew breath sharply, taking the first inches of his shaft. Her moan was guttural as her sheath yielded to the full length of his penetration.

Dear God, it felt good.

Inside her again, he was drowning, with no desire to save himself. Whatever she wanted, he would give her.

Her arms were around his neck and her hands in his hair. Her eyes were darker than ever, the pupils fully dilated, leaving only a rim of violet.

He groaned as she clenched her inner muscles, driving her hips forward. Holding her arse firmly, he made her follow a rhythm of his choosing. He was almost there, the sweet release so close.

Her lips skimmed his neck and downward, to the puckered skin of the scar on his shoulder.

“Yes!” she urged, her breath as ragged as his own. “Oh, Mallon! I love you!”

Mallon’s heart was suddenly in a vice. The words she’d spoken were a douse of icy water. A slap in the face. It was not simply the fact that, for the first time, she’d used his given name. She’d made a declaration he’d never thought to hear.

No woman had ever said those words—except his mother. The last time he’d heard them had been the day she’d left him, before she rode away to meet the man she loved more.

Geneviève had known him barely a few days. Only hours ago, she’d planned a rendezvous with Hugo! Now, here she was, bouncing on Mallon’s member like a three-shilling trollop.

Was that all it had taken for her to reel him in, making him forget his loyalty to his nephew? A peep show and a few minutes of her skillful touch?

Not that he should be surprised. Since he’d scuppered her pursuit of Hugo, she’d chosen to apply her charms to him instead. Scarred and surly he might be, but he was still a catch, of sorts.

It was just the sort of behavior he expected of women. Not only Geneviève but all of them. Love wasn’t an emotion, it was a transaction. For his mother, love had been of dubious import, bendable to the caprice of the moment.

He stopped abruptly, forsaking his hold upon the countess. She clung to him for a moment, her arms about his neck and her thighs clutching his waist, trying to hold on, but then slithered unceremoniously down his body.

Bewildered at finding herself at his feet, Geneviève gazed up, frowning in confusion. She rose to her knees and extended her arm like a supplicant, her face mere inches from his groin. For a brief moment, he wondered if she’d attempt to fellate him—as if her caress would erase the chasm between them.

Mallon staggered back, swept by a wave of abhorrence, though more for himself than for her. Bile rose in his throat. All that talk of having Hugo’s best interests at heart, and how easily he’d been tempted.

Reeling toward the door, Mallon propelled himself through it, slamming the heavy oak behind him.