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

Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

The night had been long and terrible. When no more tears had come, Geneviève tossed in frustration and remorse. She’d taken a gamble, climbing into the bath the maid had drawn for Lord Wulverton, and he’d responded as she’d hoped, as she’d believed he would.

The way he’d kissed her!

And the look in his eyes as he’d entered her body. It was more than lust. She’d felt the depth of his longing.

Still, what had possessed her to say those words, to say she loved him!

Little wonder he’d recoiled in shock. No one fell in love in the space of a few days. Her heart had been soaring and the words had come tumbling out. She’d meant to say she loved how he made her feel...

She ought to be angry. She was angry—but not just with him. She’d gone about things all the wrong way, and risked losing her chance to make him see how good they could be together.

She wanted him to respond to her with the same passion she felt, and he’d done so with more intensity than she could have imagined but she wanted more than that. She wanted their physical connection to bring them together in other ways. She wanted his respect and his admiration.

And, yes, she wanted his love. Eventually, she would need him to tell her that. She had so much to give, and she deserved everything in return.

Geneviève pressed her face into the pillow. She felt wretched, her emotions tangled beyond recognition, and her head thumping. In fact, it seemed less securely connected than usual, and her throat was sore, alongside the rest of her. At least she wasn’t nursing a broken wrist or ankle from coming off the mare yesterday, but was she coming down with a cold?

There was a knock upon her door.

“Morning, Madam.” The girl set down a breakfast tray and went to draw back the curtains. “We’ll get the last o’ the damp from yer riding habit.” She was already laying out the kindling in the grate.

Wrapping the bedspread around her shoulders, Geneviève rose to look out the window. The mist had vanished, burnt off by the rising sun, but frost had taken hold in the night, lacing the trees immediately in front of the inn and the heathland beyond.

She returned to the bed. She couldn’t face the eggs or the ham, and the tea didn’t smell like any blend with which she was familiar, but it was steaming hot.

“I’ve a note fer ye, from the gentleman.” The girl kicked one foot against the other as she took it from her pocket. “The viscount I should say. Him be riding back to the big hall and said he’ll send the carriage.”

Geneviève felt her stomach turn over. He’d left already? Without waiting? No chance of speaking then—of explaining what she was feeling. Though who knew where she’d begin.

She waited until the girl had left before opening the envelope. The writing was in a looping hand, and likely more elegant than the inn’s stationery saw from one year to the next.

Geneviève,

Last night was a mistake—not just yours, but mine.

I trust you to break off whatever arrangement you’ve made with Hugo, as gently as you’re able.

We need speak no more, nor meet once you’ve departed Wulverton—as soon as the immediate festivities are over.

The past is best left behind us.

A wave of nausea passed over her. He wished her to leave? To walk away without a backward glance?

Merde!

Nothing that mattered was acquired easily. Everyone knew that!

She’d seen the grief and resentment he carried with him over his mother. It wasn’t the same as her own bitterness but it was damnably close. A few years back, Geneviève had made inquiries, wishing to trace the whereabouts of Antoinette Villiers. Her mother had been known throughout Marseille, so discovering her fate hadn’t been too great a challenge. Just twelve months after leaving Geneviève at the convent, her death had been recorded in Monte Carlo, from typhus.

There were reports of a love affair with a Russian prince. The one to place a glittering necklace about her mother’s neck, Geneviève supposed.

Mallon’s protestations on the fickleness of women were entirely understandable. His mother hadn’t just abandoned her husband for her lover, she’d left her children. Little wonder he mistrusted the notion of romantic love.

Geneviève had long agreed fondness was possible, and companionship. Physical pleasure, too, with the right man.

But love? The sort that bound you to another for a lifetime? That made your heart yearn for a single glance or touch? That left you helpless and vulnerable?

Who’d wish such a thing upon themselves?

Could the ecstasy of love ever compensate for love’s ability to inflict pain? A week ago, Geneviève would have denied it utterly.

Now, she was ready to fight!

Of course, she needed to speak to Hugo. He didn’t deserve to be led any further down the garden path. She’d talk with Beatrice, too. They had as much chance of happiness as any man and woman.

As for Lord Wulverton, more aggressive tactics would be required. Not to deceive him but to inspire him to look anew at what was before him.

Why not let him believe I still pursue Hugo?

Make him jealous and he’ll come running to prevent the marriage, and to claim me for his own.

Might it work?

It would be doubly difficult with bleary eyes and a red nose but, at least, she’d have tried.

Viscount Wulverton might be ready to consign their passion to the archives but Comtesse Rosseline had other plans!

Geneviève looked out as the carriage ascended, climbing the same hill upon which Hugo had stopped the car. The kiss they’d shared had hardly been a kiss at all—the briefest touching of lips.

She felt ashamed, now. How selfish she’d been! But she was determined to set things right.

Below was the prison, where the men would be taking a midday meal, just about now, alone, inside their cells.

She pushed down the window, suddenly anxious to feel the wind and the open air. The moor was looking lovelier than ever, the land falling, rising and falling again, bathed in sunshine yet crisp with frost. It smelled of December, and the promise of snow.

The landscape had come to be millions of years before and its grandeur would endure long after she was gone. She, and Lord Wulverton, too. The ardor with which he spoke of the land, its traditions and its history, was among the things she most admired about him. He knew its wildness, too, and valued it for what it was, in its savage essence.

Before long, they were clattering into the hall’s stableyard. She’d asked the coachman to take her around, rather than dropping her at the front, wishing to check that the bolting horse had made its way back.

There was much bustle, room being made for the carriages and horses due to arrive that evening. A far grander entertainment was planned than the night before—a proper ball, with twice as many couples, and musicians from Exeter. A cold buffet was to be laid in the dining room.

Geneviève knew which loose box Artemis was stabled in and, sure enough, there she was. The mare surveyed Geneviève in a detached manner, continuing her teasing of hay from the rack upon the wall.

“Well, I’m glad you’re safe, even if you don’t much care the same for me!” said Geneviève. Scarcely had she spoken when there was a rustle from above, where the winter fodder was stacked.

“Hello?” Geneviève went to where the ladder rested, leading into the dark recess beneath the roof. A movement of air lifted some stalks of straw, sending them drifting down through the opening.

Geneviève squinted, peering into the dark, trying to see where the movement came from.

“Can I help ee, Ma’am?”

Geneviève jumped in alarm at the voice which came from behind her. “Oh, Scroggins! How light-footed you are!”

“So folks do say.” Scroggins tipped his cap at her. “Light in the saddle, too, I like t’think.”

“I’m sure…” Geneviève looked up again. The only sound was from the horses, munching on their feed and pawing their hooves. “I thought I heard something…”

“Up there, Ma’am?” Scroggins shook his head. “No’um has time to be up there today. Like as not, it were a rat. They be buggers in the winter… pardon my language, yer ladyship.”

“Yes, of course.” Geneviève moved away from the ladder, feeling rather foolish.

Scroggins stepped to one side, encouraging her to pass. “An’ pardon I for sayin’, but it were best if yer didn’t come over alone, to the barns and stables and whatnot. The animals can be skittish wi’ them they dunnat know.”

As Geneviève walked across the stableyard, she had the distinct feeling she was being watched—and not just by Scroggins.