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

Chapter 26

CHAPTER 26

There had been times in his childhood when Mallon had wished he wasn’t a human boy at all. How much simpler to be a hare on the moor—running wild and answerable to no one, with a burrow to escape into. He wanted to be the hare now, to bury himself where none could see him.

But, he feared if he did so, he’d never come out, so he put on his evening attire and brushed his hair. He’d go down and behave as if everything were fine. No one needed to know his world had shrunk to nothingness. Pain was always worst at the beginning.

He descended the stairs as late as possible, receiving a flash of annoyance from Marguerite. Scanning the heads of those below, he saw Geneviève was absent. That was a relief. Had she been there, his resolution might have been dashed, and he’d have fallen back into the pit he so feared—that place in which he was powerless to stop someone he cared about from hurting him.

Mallon moved among his guests, shaking hands. Finding Reverend Wapshot, he thanked him for having offered to lead them in a Christmas service later, just before midnight. Mallon accepted a cinnamon biscuit, breaking off a small piece, but his mouth was dry, and it stuck in his throat. From a passing tray, he took a glass of mulled wine, when what he really wanted was an entire bottle of whisky.

He thought, momentarily, of escaping to the kitchen and hiding down there with Mrs. Fuddleby, but that was a ridiculous notion.

Alongside everyone else, he clapped at the lighting of the Yule Log. Scroggins had been tasked with finding a large chunk of oak—a piece sizeable enough to burn right through until midnight chimed, when they’d all greet one another with joyful Christmas tidings in the chapel. It had been many years since Mallon had participated in the custom, but he remembered how it had made him feel as a boy—wistful and expectant.

Once, dreams of the future had been hopeful, despite the pain of his mother’s absence. The Eve of Christmas had been magical, as those dark hours passed in awaiting the coming of the Savior. Of course, many of the Christian rituals were mere adaptations of their pagan predecessors. Nevertheless, he remembered the excitement he’d felt. Tonight, there was no room in his heart for joy.

Marguerite summoned their attention and announced the singing of their first carol, a French setting of Away in a Manger . Beatrice, of course, had been asked to accompany them on the piano, which had been rolled into the hall. The melody was heartbreakingly familiar, and Mallon found himself listening to the voices around him, seeking out one that would be lovelier than the rest. Geneviève would have a beautiful singing voice, he felt sure, though he’d never heard her sing.

The next was O Holy Night , and the words were so tender and hopeful he felt his throat again constricting, a piercing ache building in his heart.

Mallon’s thoughts drifted back to Constantinople, where he’d sought out the Holy Spirit Cathedral for midnight mass. Whatever darkness filled a man’s soul, there was comfort in the thought of a higher power. Comfort in the notion of the divine—of man being loved unconditionally by his maker. Comfort, too, in the thought of humanity linking arms in goodwill.

He wanted to believe in man’s ability for goodness, and his own, come to that. He wanted to put the cheerless days behind him and welcome the light of hope.

But what hope could there be without Geneviève?

He remembered the day he’d driven her onto the moor. It had been cold and damp, but she hadn’t uttered one word of complaint. He’d rambled on, telling anecdotes of his childhood upon the heathland, exploring its ancient sites of standing stones and its windswept tors. She’d asked eagerly about the countryside and its history, and it had been a pleasure to share with her his love for the land.

At the inn, too, he’d felt the same desire to take her into his confidence—to reveal how it had been for him all those years ago, after his mother died.

And how right it had felt to hold her in his arms as they’d danced. His greatest moments of happiness had been those spent alone with her, and not just in the heat of passion.

The realization of his foolishness came upon him in a great surging rush. He’d wanted to believe he was worthy of the love she professed, but his self-doubt had held him back—that old fear of being betrayed and having his heart torn apart, of being abandoned by the one who should love him best.

It had been easier to hide behind that fear than to face it down, and he’d let her go because of it!

What sort of man was he?

A damn foolish one, to reject a woman like Geneviève Rosseline.

Little wonder she’d kept to her room. He’d been so afraid of having his heart broken, he’d barely considered Geneviève’s feelings.

Was she, at this very moment, shedding tears for him?

How he must have wounded her!

God help him, he’d do all in his power to ensure she never doubted him again; that he would never more cause her anguish.

He must go to her and make everything right, if it was still possible. Heaven help him if he’d destroyed his chance of happiness with her.

He’d understand if she couldn’t forgive the way he’d behaved, but he’d do all in his power to convince her he could be the man she needed him to be.

She deserved so much more.

Without waiting for the carol to end, Mallon slipped through the throng and skirted behind, toward the staircase. He needed to speak to Geneviève right away.

However, just as he was laying his hand upon the banister, someone touched his arm. Turning, he saw it was Hugo, beaming even more effusively than usual.

“Uncle, I must share my news with you.” Tugging at Mallon’s sleeve, he indicated for them to retreat to the corner.

Mallon glanced up the stairs, impatient to go to Geneviève. He felt a swell of irritation, then quickly reproached himself. His nephew was cheerful by nature, but never had Mallon seen him so elated, nor so insistent to impart a message. Mallon hadn’t forgotten he had news of his own to share with Hugo, relating to Slagsby’s disappearance—though he hoped that could wait until Christmas had passed.

Hugo’s eyes were shining. “I hope it will meet with your approval. I really think it will, but your good opinion matters to me, and I want you to be the first to know, although not quite the first, perhaps, since it was the countess who made me see.” His words were tumbling so fast he was making no sense at all.

“A bit slower, Hugo,” Mallon urged. “Or start again, if you like, but try to be succinct.”

Hugo took a deep breath and resumed. “Aunt Geneviève told me Beatrice was holding a torch for me. I’d not had the least notion, but I jumped in the car and went straight over. I did everything properly—asked her father first, then got down on one knee and presented the ring. She said ‘yes’, and has made me the happiest of men. I don’t think I even knew what true happiness was until this moment—and it’s all because of Aunt Geneviève!”

Mallon was finding it rather difficult to take in. “And the ring…” He remembered what Geneviève had told him.

“Exactly!” Hugo grinned. “All my aunt’s doing! And not just the ring, either. She’s given me the Rosseline diamonds in their entirety. They were hers to keep, for her lifetime, you know, but she was adamant. Something about turning a new page and having faith in the future.”

Hugo rubbed his chin. “She even mentioned signing over some portion of her income from the vineyards, but I assured her the estate has enough money for me to manage, and she’ll need something to live upon.”

Mallon was dumbstruck. Her generosity stunned him, yet it felt true to the woman he’d grown to love. She was risking her financial independence. If she did as she proposed, what safeguard would there be for her?

Like a lightning bolt, the truth struck him. She’d believed so wholly in his steadfastness that she’d been willing to surrender herself to his protection. Rosseline was part of her past, not her future, and her marriage to the count had been inspired not by love but by gain. In renouncing her wealth, she was demonstrating her faith in a new life with him.

Mallon felt sick with shame. He’d behaved like an ass because of his fear of Geneviève abandoning him. It hadn’t been she who’d let him down. Instead, he’d deserted her.

Hugo was looking about the room. “Where is she, Uncle? I really must thank her again for her wise advice, and I know Beatrice wishes to thank her, too.”

Whatever else Hugo said, Mallon never heard, for he was already taking the stairs, not caring whom among their guests thought him rude.

A Staffordshire ceramic sheep, a Donyatt jug filled with dried heather, and a matching pair of china cockerels almost went flying from a sideboard as Mallon raced down the corridor to Geneviève’s room.

He didn’t bother to knock. Breathless, he flung open the door.

And his heart fell to his stomach.

For the most part, the room had been cleared. Her perfume and hairbrush were no longer on the dressing table. The wardrobe door swung ajar, revealing an empty interior.

She was gone.