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

Chapter 23

CHAPTER 23

They rested in each other’s arms, whispering all the things they’d not yet said; all the things they’d never said before.

Then, they fell to kissing again, which led to limbs entwined, and she was silken wet, her body pleading for more of him.

He began slowly, relishing her squeezing of him, inch by inch, as he entered her warmth. He growled with pleasure, but soon it was she who was trembling, wanting him buried to the hilt.

“Deeper! Please!”

She’d never desired a man like this. Never wanted someone to have such control over her, but she knew Mallon’s pain and his need, his weakness and vulnerability. In return, she wanted to give him everything. She wanted to know him and for him to know her.

At her urging, he pinned her down, joining her in the hungry race toward rapture. When it came, she arched to meet it, vaguely aware of his body tensing, of labored breath and his final thrust, locked together as she let go, giving herself to the flashing darkness of her climax, spinning her into the abyss.

Afterward, she asked him to stay, wanting to feel his chest against her back as she drifted to sleep. Listening to his steady breathing beside her, she realized she was truly happy. Mallon needed her love just as she needed his.

It was time to banish the spectres and begin a new life together. First, she had to speak to Hugo. She’d been cruel, leading him on, but she could put things right.

Geneviève was careful to lock the drawing room door. The last thing she needed was an interruption. The dogs trotted in behind, making an immediate circuit around each chair and a second sweep of the perimeter, in search of crumbs.

Outside, the sky was starkly white, the windowpanes frosted across each corner where the sun was yet to touch. Fortunately, the fire had been blazing for some time, making the room quite cozy.

She decided not to beat around the bush.

“I hold you in the highest affection, Hugo, but I fear I must step back, discovering that another holds a prior claim.”

Hugo looked most put out. “A prior claim? Dash it, Geneviève! What do you mean? I’m no philanderer! Barely know how to talk to a woman, come to that. It wasn’t until you showed up that I realized what all this romance malarkey was about!”

Geneviève kept an arm’s length between herself and Hugo, lest he take a sudden notion to prove himself with a kiss.

“No one could accuse you of the least impropriety,” Geneviève asserted. “But, I think you underestimate your charm, Hugo dear. For there is one whose love for you is of long-standing. She holds such deep regard I fear it would break her heart were I to continue our courtship.”

Hugo looked utterly baffled.

“You wouldn’t want to break a woman’s heart, would you Hugo?”

“Well, of course not! But how’s a chap to navigate all this love-business when he hasn’t a clue who’s taken a fancy to him.” He rubbed his forehead.

“I hardly like to interfere…” Geneviève crossed her fingers behind her back. If she was employing some deceit, she hoped the angels would forgive her, it being in a good cause. “Perhaps, I could tell you, if you really do need my help…”

“I wish you would!” declared Hugo, shaking his head in puzzlement. “For I can’t imagine who you’re talking about…unless it’s the girl in the post office in Princetown. She’s quite pretty, you know, and always very friendly.” He looked suddenly alarmed. “But I swear I’ve only ever asked her for stamps!”

“No, no!” Geneviève coughed to suppress her laughter. “The lady in question is far more intimately connected with you Hugo. Can you truly not guess?”

“Intimately connected?” Hugo blinked rapidly, clearly rifling his mental list of possible female candidates. “Not Mrs. Wapshot’s spinster cousin!” An expression of horror overcame him.

“Hugo!” Geneviève was, at last, obliged to be stern. “The woman of whom I speak is quite your own age and suitable in every way, as far as I can make out. It’s Beatrice, Hugo! Beatrice!”

Hugo’s mouth opened and closed several times without any sound emerging. Finally, he gulped. “Well, that’s rather better than Mrs. Wapshot’s cousin—or the girl in the post office.”

“Yes, it is.” Geneviève allowed herself a broad smile. “Had you really no inkling? Haven’t you seen how she looks at you? Like a princess who’s sighted her prince over a garden wall but isn’t quite sure how to jump over.”

“Perhaps. Sometimes. Just now and then.” Hugo tugged on his ear. “I look at her, too. We’ve known each other forever. I never thought it meant anything.”

Geneviève ventured to put a hand on Hugo’s arm. “I’m all for seizing the day. Now you know she’s your true match, you mustn’t waste time. I wouldn’t even tell your mother, if I were you. Drive over to Beatrice today and make your proposal. It will be such a surprise for everyone. Just think what pleasure you’ll be bringing both your families! The most wonderful Christmas gift of all! And I wouldn’t hang about with a long engagement, either. Show Beatrice that you’re all in by setting the date as soon as possible.”

“By Jove!” Hugo was almost bouncing from foot to foot. “I can’t thank you enough. He grasped her in a firm handshake, beaming with excitement. “And jolly decent of you to let me know, what with us having begun our grand passion.” He looked suddenly sheepish. “I do hope this won’t cause you too much unhappiness, knowing we won’t be together after all.”

“How could I stand in the way of two people so obviously meant for each other?” Geneviève extracted her hand, discreetly giving it a reviving rub.

“I wonder if it’s too late to drive into Exeter for a ring…” Hugo squinted at the clock on the mantel. He seemed to have taken Geneviève’s suggestion very much to heart.

“Ah!” Geneviève gave a satisfied smile. It was certainly a relief to have the concluding part of her plan presented so naturally. “There, I can help.”

She drew out a blue velvet box from her pocket.

“This is yours, left to you by your grandmother. In the Rosseline family for generations, Hugo, and now passing to you.”

Opening the lid, he made a noise not unlike that uttered by Geneviève herself on first seeing the perfectly crafted jewel.

“What a beauty!” Hugo held it up, the square-cut diamond sparkling in its delicate silver setting.

“Naturally, your bride should also have the matching pieces.” Geneviève had thought long and hard about parting with the gems Maxim had given her, but she knew it would be unjust to keep them. “I’ve laid them out on my dressing table for you.”

“Well, I never!” gasped Hugo. He was about to say something else, but before he had the chance, he lost his grasp on the ring. With a bark of alarm, he watched it roll, disappearing beneath one of the smaller tables.

Falling to the floor, he began skimming the carpet with his palms. Seeing their master in prone position and hopeful of a game, Muffin landed his huge paws on Hugo’s shoulders while Tootle let forth a full-throated howl.

“Silly dogs! Down! Off me, I say!”

Geneviève had a strange feeling of déjà vu. Not the sight of Hugo rummaging under the sofa but something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

“Got it!” Hugo sat up, holding the ring aloft. “Wouldn’t have done for one of the dogs to have swallowed it!”

“Well, it would have pushed back your plans by a few days,” Geneviève conceded.

“Here, let me help you up.” She reached down, offering Hugo a steadying hand. Rising, he gave her a swift kiss on the cheek.

“Thank you, Aunt Geneviève, and I do hope you’ll be here for the wedding.”

“ Mais bien s?r! ”

Geneviève wrapped Hugo in a hug. She was delighted it wouldn’t be she walking down the aisle with him. Far better she become his aunt through another connection altogether.

It really was turning out to be the most marvellous Christmas.

The events of the previous night still seemed unreal, as if he’d dreamt all that happiness. Mallon had been on tenterhooks through the morning.

It appeared only proper to depart Geneviève’s bedchamber before the rest of the household stirred. If he’d had his way, he’d have remained under the covers with her all day, and the next, right through until the new year. Withers could have brought periodic trays of sustenance. Everyone else could do as they liked!

However, Geneviève had insisted they do things properly.

She’d promised to speak to Hugo today, but Mallon remained nervous. Everything had happened so suddenly. What if she had a change of heart?

From the turn in the stairs, he’d seen her take Hugo into the drawing room. Looking at his watch, he’d noted the hour and the minute. How long would it take? The grandfather clock chimed eleven and then quarter past.

What could they be doing? Wasn’t it a simple matter?

Perhaps not. Hugo had surely never been in love before. His heart would be in pieces. Geneviève might be required to comfort him.

Mallon took several deep breaths.

Once Hugo had her in his arms, he might be tempted to kiss her.

Mallon rubbed his eyebrow.

Geneviève might, for form’s sake, respond, to avoid hurting Hugo’s feelings, but just a farewell kiss.

It would be fine .

Mallon paced the landing, looked out the window, then paced some more.

It was here that he’d smashed that blighter Slagsby on the nose. There was still a slight stain on the carpet where the blood had gushed. Not too visible among the burgundy patterning, but Mallon could see it. What had been going on that night? He’d never asked, and Geneviève hadn’t volunteered the information.

Not that he required the full story. Of course not. It was pretty apparent she wasn’t willing, and the bastard was forcing himself on her. What else did Mallon need to know? Perhaps why they’d both been on the landing in the first place at that time of night, and Geneviève in her nightclothes?

Mallon shook away the thought. He shouldn’t be so suspicious. Geneviève was not his mother. She had a healthy appetite in bedroom matters, but she’d declared her feelings for him most unequivocally, as they’d basked in the afterglow of the most wonderful of couplings.

He understood her now; and she understood him. They were going to thumb their noses at the world and marry as soon as possible.

Geneviève didn’t need anyone else. She was in love with him.

And yet, Mallon couldn’t help but worry.

Taking the stairs double-quick, he laid his hand on the doorknob to the drawing room. He’d just pop his head in. The main business would be over by now, wouldn’t it? He might offer Hugo his shoulder or a word of advice. Whatever was needed .

He turned the handle, only to find that the door wouldn’t open. Someone had locked it. Someone didn’t want him to come in—or anyone else.

The muscles in his neck tensed. There was nothing to be concerned about, was there? No need to check up on them? Mallon merely wished to know how things were going…and it was somewhat galling to be locked out. He held his ear to the door but could hear nothing beyond the murmur of voices. That was something, at least. A fellow couldn’t get up to much while maintaining a steady conversation.

He considered, briefly, going outside to peer through the window but chastised himself immediately. He was turning over a new leaf, allowing himself to give his trust. Without that, what sort of man would he be?

Nevertheless, he could do with some air. It might calm his nerves and stop him from dwelling on these wayward thoughts.

It was damnably cold with a fine sleet falling, and Mallon immediately regretted not having grabbed his coat. All those years in the Arabias had made him soft! These moorland winters would take some getting used to again.

He’d take a turn about the immediate grounds. As long as he walked briskly, he’d avoid becoming too chilled.

With breath pluming, Mallon came around the corner and was surprised to see the butler’s shuffling form disappearing into the stables. Following the social whirl of the past few days, Marguerite had given most of the staff a few hours off before they began preparations for the caroling of Christmas Eve and the lighting of the Yule Log.

It seemed most strange that Withers would spend that precious time outside in the cold. Mallon could think of no reason for him to be frequenting horse boxes. Was the old chap losing his marbles, wandering about without knowing what he was doing? If Withers was off his rocker, Mallon would need to intervene before he hurt himself.

Entering the stables, Mallon was relieved at how much warmer it was. Horses were hot-blooded beasties, and the boxes were well insulated against the winter bite. As Mallon walked further in, six equine faces popped into view, looking for a nose rub or a carrot, or anything else that might be on offer.

Perhaps Withers wasn’t so mad. There were worse places to run off to, after all. Mallon made a mental note to retreat out here next time he was feeling exasperated or if he needed to escape one of Marguerite’s tea parties.

Strangely, Withers was nowhere to be seen. Mallon checked each stall and found no sign. However, approaching the far end, he noticed the rungs of the hayloft ladder were mud-smeared and slightly wet. Someone had been climbing up, and very recently.

Mallon stared into the gaping recess above.

He thought he heard a voice. Two voices.

“Anyone there?” Mallon’s call was met with silence, though the horses turned to look at him, wondering what he was about.

Surely Withers wasn’t hiding up there! Would he even be able to manage the ladder? The man seemed hardly able to walk.

Still, Mallon was sure he’d heard something… and the only way to find out was to climb the ladder himself and take a look.

Reaching the top, he peered through the darkness.

Indeed, he’d been right. There was someone. Looking back at him was Withers—his expression filled with fear—and, next to him, another Withers, except the second looked as if he’d been to the devil and back, so gaunt and ghastly was he.

“Silas?” Mallon felt his stomach drop.

Has he been here all this time? Dear Lord, the man looks fit to drop.

“Come along now,” Mallon called through the gloom. “It’s going to be fine. I’m going to help.”

The second face leaned forward, and its owner began crawling toward the light. His voice was rougher around the edges than that of his brother, in the way a man’s voice might become if he’d failed to use it a great deal. Hoarse, too, as if fighting past a lump in his throat. “Master Mallon?”

As Silas reached him, Mallon extended his hand. Questions would come later. For the moment, only reassurance was needed. Mallon squeezed Silas’ fingers .

“I’ve got you,” he said simply.

All thoughts of Hugo, and even of Geneviève, vanished as Mallon helped Withers and his brother descend from the hayloft.

It seemed incredible. Silas was alive!

His face had been among those that had haunted Mallon through the years. He’d suffered under the cold hand of the late viscount, just as Mallon had—but with far more horrifying consequences. Mallon had been powerless to act all those years ago, but mightn’t he have stirred himself to Silas’s defense before now? Had it really taken his father’s death to bring him home? The knowledge shamed Mallon. In too many ways, he’d taken the easy path.

He and Withers had Silas under the arms, supporting him as he staggered around the side of the house, toward the warmth of the kitchen. The sleet was coming stronger now, blowing in their faces, accompanied by an icy wind. Mallon needed to get poor Silas comfortable. Needed to assure him that he was on his side, and he’d be safe now.

As the master of Wulverton Hall, it was Mallon’s duty to see justice done, to speak for those who had no voice, to defend the rights of his tenants and the staff under his roof. He’d fight tooth and nail to keep Silas from going back to prison.

His duty to those living on the moor was more important than playing host to Marguerite’s pompous guests. More important, even, than the pursuit of his own happiness.

As they passed the drawing room, Mallon thought of Geneviève. He’d tell her about Silas later. She’d been horrified to learn of his incarceration and his desperate escape across the moor. She’d be glad to know he was alive. Silas was in a bad way, but Mallon had confidence they’d restore him to health. With people who cared rallying to his aid, he’d surely draw upon the will to live.

Mallon looked through the French doors, wondering if Geneviève were still with Hugo or if all was now settled.

What he witnessed sent ice about his heart.

Geneviève was holding Hugo’s hand.

Hugo was kneeling, holding a ring.

And then they were holding each other.

The last thing he saw was the two of them exchanging a kiss.