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

Chapter 25

CHAPTER 25

Geneviève had dreaded Hugo pleading with her to change her mind or—worse still—a torrent of tears.

Ha! How conceited to believe she’d inspired such devotion!

He’d diverted his attention to Beatrice with mercurial speed.

Geneviève couldn’t help but congratulate herself on ensuring Hugo suffered no heartbreak, but also on the decision she’d made. Impossible, now, to think she could ever have been content as Hugo’s wife.

She’d thought a malleable husband to be just what she needed—one whose mind she could shape to her own ends. How very foolish she’d been. Only on meeting Mallon had she realized her desire for union with one she could both admire and respect. Far better to be equals in intellect and to treat one another as such. She was willing, even, to concede Mallon’s superiority in some matters (alongside her own in others, of course) .

Giving Hugo the jewels had been the right thing to do. If she were to commit to a life with Mallon, she needed to set aside the past, and that included the Rosseline diamonds.

Maxim had given them to her on their wedding day, his fingers—always so cool and elegant—fastening them about her neck and wrist. She’d never dreamed of owning such jewels. Knowing they were hers had been exhilarating. The diamonds had proclaimed her elevation. She’d arrived at last!

He’d clipped the large pendants to her ears, then kissed the length of her throat, whispering how beautiful she looked.

Later, Maxim had removed all her clothing and taken his pleasure of her body, adorned in nothing but those diamonds. She remembered every time she wore them. Every time she looked at them.

Maxim had given her so much, but not love. Never love.

The diamonds represented all she’d clung to. All she’d aspired to. Chateau Rosseline would always hold warm memories for her, but her heart no longer hungered to call it home, for she’d found something more captivating. As for the approval of those noble families she’d once yearned to emulate—she cared not a jot!

She had Mallon now, and he was real. They would be everything to one another. One day, perhaps, there would be a child. Warmth blossomed through her. Married to the man she admired and loved, safe in his arms, building a life together on this mysterious, dangerous, bewitching moor. And a baby for them to love, together. What more could there ever be?

Mallon needed to speak to Geneviève, and as soon as possible. He knew he must allow her to explain. He owed her that.

He looked for her in the drawing room, in the library, and then the salon before realizing that, within the hour, Marguerite wished them to assemble for carol singing about the great tree in the hall. Geneviève had probably gone to change her dress.

Though he walked briskly up the stairs, by the time he reached the corridor to her bedroom, his feet were lagging. Standing before her door, he almost feared to knock.

When he did so, she opened it immediately, bidding him inside. She wore the dress of red silk he so admired, though not her ostentatious jewels. Her earrings, tonight, were simple jet, her throat bare of adornment.

He opened his mouth to speak, but she flung her arms about his neck, pulling him down to meet her kiss, folding her body to him. He wrapped his arms about her waist and squeezed her tightly.

The kiss endured for some minutes before he had the will to break away. It was a kiss sweeter than any she’d given him—a kiss of tenderness and longing, leisurely yet insistent. The sort of kiss a bride would give to her groom, knowing they had thousands of kisses yet to come.

She was so beautiful. She always would be. Even in another forty years, the same bright light would flash from those stormy, violet eyes, and her lips would beckon as they did now.

But perhaps he wouldn’t be the man to see those enchantments.

She must have sensed something was wrong, for her eyebrows knitted. She raised her hand to touch his cheek, and he took it in his, turning it to kiss her palm, then her fingers. When he gave it back to her, a little crease formed above her nose.

His throat felt constricted, but he forced a cough and said, “You’ve settled everything with Hugo?” His voice sounded strange, as if from far away.

“Yes! All done.” She took his hand in both of hers and raised it to her lips, kissing his fingers as he’d done to her.

“And your decision, Geneviève?” He forced himself to look at her, needing to hear her say the words.

“My decision?” She looked genuinely puzzled. “Haven’t you and I already made that together?”

He hated to tell her that he’d spied upon them, although it hadn’t quite been like that. It had been sheer happenstance that he’d glanced them through the window.

“I saw you, Geneviève, with Hugo. I saw him offer you the ring. Did you accept?” The last word seemed to exit his mouth more sharply than the rest, with its own keen edge.

“No! You’re quite wrong.” She gave a faltering laugh. “Hugo wasn’t giving the ring to me; it was I who presented it to him!” She shook her head. “I mean, the ring belonged to Hugo’s grandmother. I’ve given it to him.”

“Very generous of you.” Mallon was aware his voice had become a deadened monotone. His face felt rigid.

“Mallon?” Geneviève blinked and frowned. “I don’t understand. Has something changed?”

He sighed, and it felt like the last breath of a dying man. An ache had begun beneath his ribs, knowing what he intended to say.

They’d promised to have no secrets, in those long hours in which they’d laid in each other’s arms. After a lifetime of hurt and resentment, he’d wanted to let those feelings go. He’d wanted to believe in her, and in himself.

Perhaps she was telling him the truth. There was something in her expression that made him believe so, but he realized it didn’t matter if he’d been mistaken in what he’d seen.

Her promises of fidelity wouldn’t be enough. She could tell him a hundred times he was her only love and it would make no difference. For the seed of doubt had been sown, and it made him realize he’d never be free of his uncertainty. What sort of future would they have if he couldn’t bring himself to trust?

She might stand before the altar and pledge herself to him but, in his heart of hearts, he would be waiting for the day when all would come crashing down.

If she disappointed him, could he live with that failure and pain, as his father had done? Loving her, then losing it all?

“I can’t,” he said simply. “I thought I could, and I wanted to, and no other woman has made me feel that I might…”

Dear God, he sounded like Hugo.

For a moment, Mallon thought he might laugh, but he found the eruption in his throat wasn’t laughter but a choked-back sob, and his eyes were prickling.

Geneviève shouted after him as he strode away, but he didn’t look back.