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

Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

The supper seemed to last an eternity, the chatter about him mere noise. Marguerite had arranged for some rollicking mummery, their farmworkers appearing in garish masks and costumes before partaking of the wassail punchbowl. It was the sort of folk custom he’d once enjoyed, cheering St. George’s slaying of the dragon, and the outrageous prancing of the hobbyhorse. He believed in upholding those traditions but, this evening, he was in no mood for the teasing jokes and boisterous cavorting.

Moreover, the actors enjoyed several glasses too many, resulting in considerable effort to remove them. The clock had long since chimed eleven.

There were few families Marguerite felt worthy of her invitation, but she’d cast her net wide to the grander houses on the outskirts of the moor, to Tavistock and Yelverton, Ashburton and Bovey Tracey, to ensure enough couples for a ball.

For Mallon, it was a trial to be endured. A room full of noisy and self-satisfied guests congratulating themselves on their wealth and taste and breeding. How frivolous they were!

Though who am I to talk? What have I to show for all these years of life?

He’d informed Lisette her mistress had a migraine and wished not to be disturbed, then relayed the same message to Marguerite. She offered cursory sympathies, for she had far too much to organize to dwell on Geneviève’s absence.

Only Hugo had seemed genuinely downhearted at the countess keeping to her room. “Rotten to be missing all the fun. Might I go up do you think and take her a little something?”

“Best not,” Mallon had declared firmly. “Migraines are terrible things.” He’d steered Hugo firmly toward Beatrice. “Mustn’t neglect your other guests, Hugo. Not many people here of your age, so you’d do well to keep her company. There’s nothing to stop you from taking her onto the floor. Your mother’s a tyrant, making the poor girl play all the time, but we’ve the musicians tonight.”

To Mallon’s relief, Hugo adopted the idea in perfect contentment.

Throughout the evening, Mallon was aware of the key within his pocket, and the delicious Geneviève recumbent on her bed.

Going to her, at last, he lingered in the passageway, wishing to see if she might be calling out. Though the walls and doors were thick in this part of the house, a scream would likely be heard .

However, she was quiet. He’d made her as comfortable as possible, placing a second pillow behind her head on which to rest her elbows, and the ribbons were not too tightly wound. Nevertheless, after several hours, he feared her shoulders would be aching.

The anger which had consumed him earlier had ebbed. Hugo, it appeared, was most amenable to being distracted. Mallon needed no further proof that his nephew’s heart would recover from Geneviève’s rejection. Moreover, it had taken less than an hour for Mallon to realize that it was Geneviève’s absence that made the festivities so dull.

Resist as he might, he was disastrously besotted, and it was too sodding late to get a grip on himself. Far too late and bloody inconvenient.

Whatever he pretended, he didn’t just want an illicit liaison; he wanted to share a life. The thought of facing a future without Geneviève—at Wulverton, or anywhere else—was too desolate to contemplate.

When he returned, she was asleep, her chest rising and falling in slumber. She snuffled and sniffed and shifted slightly, her body restricted by his handiwork. He wondered what she was dreaming about.

Knowing Geneviève, something wicked!

Delivering her from her constraints, he lowered his lips to her wrists, turning each to seek out the delicate skin above her pulse, before drawing down her arms to rest by her sides.

She was so very beautiful.

The quilt had slithered down, revealing the curve of her breasts through the sheer fabric. She was peaches and cream waiting to be eaten.

He couldn’t help himself. If he was gentle, she wouldn’t wake. He pulled back the covers, placing his hand lightly on her hip. She was remarkably warm. She mumbled something but did not stir.

He lowered to her breast, breathing hot through the thin chiffon. So soft! He closed his mouth about that softness, kissing her nipple. He cupped the other, offering a tender caress.

She shifted, parting her legs, but he knew that this was where he should stop. He wanted to trace and touch every part of her, to kiss and taste and learn, but he knew he should leave. To act as he wished without her consent would be a violation. Moreover, if she were honest in her proposal that they wed, they’d have a lifetime to enjoy each other.

He drew back to the edge of the bed, regretful but knowing that he did what was right. She’d been willing enough a few hours ago but that had been before he’d left her tied up for the evening.

He’d behaved abominably and, when she woke, he’d have to face her wrath. For the meantime, it would be enough to be close to her, with nothing between them—to be naked, her skin against his.

Having removed his clothes, he climbed beneath the quilt. The air smelt sweetly of her. Mallon’s conscience turned somersaults as she twisted toward him, her foot nudging his .

Damn it! He was only flesh and blood!

She moaned as he drew his hand lower, pushing up her gown to reveal her bare thighs. He lowered his lips to Geneviève’s belly and she shivered, uttering the smallest of sighs.

“Don’t stop,” she breathed, and a rush of joy filled him.

Moving lower, he brushed his face in her soft curls, inhaling her fragrance. She parted her legs fully, inviting him to delve the plump folds, and he did so eagerly. Caressing her in one long, languid stroke with his tongue’s tip, he came to rest on her swollen pearl. She whimpered as he teased there and sucked upon its velvet, delighting in each sound she made.

Lisette had been reluctant to wait in the corridor for Lord Wulverton’s approach, but Geneviève had known he’d pass eventually. Her maid had clearly acted her part effectively, for he’d entered in such a fury, convinced of her duplicity!

Seeing he meant to restrain her, she’d hardly been able to curb her excitement—but then he’d made his exit, just as things had begun to be interesting.

It had taken a great deal of patience to wait, though the ties were not uncomfortable. He’d positioned her carefully, supporting her arms atop the pillows. Had she wished to free herself, she might have done so with her teeth, but she was content to wait. When he returned, she knew, he’d be unable to resist her .

She’d drowsed for a while but heard the click of the key in the lock. Time to be still and await what she knew to be inevitable.

Would his lovemaking be a savage demonstration of his strength? His will over hers? The thought of Lord Wulverton claiming her as she struggled thrilled her, though any resistance on her part would be purely feigned.

As he nuzzled her breasts, it was torture not to speak. A tickle in her nose almost caused her to sneeze, but she’d managed to convince him that she was sleeping, she was sure.

He smelt of cologne and brandy and cigar smoke, and of male arousal. By the time he removed his clothes, she was quivering with anticipation.

When his tongue entered, she was unable to curb her need, writhing against its flickering demands until she was keening. Clutching his head, she urged him deeper, arching to meet his mouth, repeating his name. She cried ‘Oh! And ‘Yes!’ and begged ‘Please!’ as he worshipped her, until she was tugged into fluttering ecstasy, breaking wave upon wave.

“Geneviève!” He nuzzled from her throat toward her ear. “My Geneviève.”

He kissed her with the passion of one who has waited too long for such comfort. He would kiss her everywhere, bringing her more pleasure than she could imagine. When he released her mouth, he returned to her exquisite breasts. He’d never tire of teasing those cherry nipples, licking first one then the other, murmuring his delight in her body.

Soon, she was begging again, shifting her hips to seek out his manhood, offering him her slipperiness.

“Not yet.” He knew he must slow down or spill immediately.

“Then let me taste you.”

“I shan’t last,” he warned, but she urged her request again.

“Here,” she commanded, licking her lips.

Holding the headboard, he parted his thighs either side of her head and lowered his thickness to her open mouth, gasping his astonishment as she drew him down, humming against his length.

Dear God! He was conquered. His body was hers.

He held himself above her, letting her choose the depth of her strokes. Within moments, his seed was rising, and with a wild cry, he surrendered.