Page 15 of The Lady's Guide to Marrying a Viscount
A husband had been more useful to her living and breathing than beneath a headstone. She might be a countess in name, but her humble background prevented her from entering thehaute sociétéshe craved. Even while Maxim had been alive, invitations had been scarce. As his widow, she’d ceased to exist in the eyes of Marseille’s finest families.
She rubbed her feet together and pulled the quilts higher. From somewhere far away, she heard the grandfather clock chime midnight. Everyone would be in bed by now. She, too, needed her sleep. She was still young in years, but even Paris cosmetics could only do so much if a proper night’s rest was lacking.
Her thoughts turned again to the problem of Lord Wulverton. He doubtless enjoyed the company of a passionate bed partner as much as any man, but men were such hypocrites in these matters. What they welcomed from a tavern wench they tended to revile in women of their own class.
If he accused her of anything, she’d brazen it out. Preposterous to suggest that a lady would act in such a manner. Inconceivable to charge the Comtesse Rosseline with such behavior!
Yes.She would refute any such assertion. Wiser to present the face of a woman who had nothing to hide and nothing of which to be ashamed.
She wiggled her toes inside her bed socks. Not thatshe felt shamed by her actions upon the train. She wouldn’t say ‘no’, even now, were there the chance to have her cake and eat it too. A hot body in the bed would be more than welcome, and she’d already enjoyed proof of the gentleman’s ability to satisfy. His blood clearly ran more than heated, judging by the little scene at the lake, and his physique was magnificent.
When she at last drifted to sleep, her dreams provided her with a lover whose hands were wonderfully warm, and far too skilled to be those of a man not yet twenty years upon the earth.
CHAPTER 8
Mallon foundthe countess in the library, curled into a highbacked chair beside a fire stoked and crackling, Hugo’s wolfhounds lying beside. Through the window, Mallon could see his nephew bent over the engine of his contraption. He didn’t understand this love of motor cars, but there were worse vices by far.
She’d taken off her dainty shoes to tuck her feet beneath her skirts and, warmed by the fire, had removed the shawl from her shoulders. Her fine wool dress was a modest silver-gray, embroidered at the waist and through the bodice. Tailored with her figure in mind, there was no hiding the swell of her bust and her hips. She was obscenely alluring, exuding a primal sexuality and a seasoned look. The sort of woman to have enjoyed her marital duties.
He stepped forward, bending to stroke each wolfhound behind the ears. “Like the dogs, you’ve found the most comfortable room in the house.”
She mustn’t have heard him approach, for she visibly started at the sound of his voice.
He took the seat opposite. “You’re well rested, I hope?”
“I am, thank you.” She smiled briefly, then turned back to her book without attempt to converse further.
She was under no obligation to humor him but, damn her, shewasin his library. His grandfather’s library, to be precise, since it had been that gentleman who’d purchased most of the editions—but his now. The entire place was his.
“You enjoy novels?” He nodded at the volume—a pristine copy ofVanity Fairhe knew to be a first edition.
“When they’re written truthfully.” She levelled her gaze to meet his.
“So, you admire its heroine for her honesty—Miss Sharp, isn’t it? A rather scheming young woman, I recall.” The book had been a favorite of his own in younger years, but he found himself wishing to provoke, if only for the pleasure of seeing how she would respond.
She betrayed a flash of pique. There it was again, that slight inclination of her head, and her chin raised. Even when wrong-footed, she proclaimed restrained defiance. However, her poise returned quickly enough.
“Quick wits and determination are praised in men. Rather unfair, don’t you think, to deride them in women?” She leaned forward almost conspiratorially. “We’re not all ninnies, Lord Wulverton.”
He usually scorned suchbluestocking talk, but the countess’s physical charms more than made up for her confrontational manner. He much preferred this version of her to that of the previous evening, when she’d seemed afraid to engage him in any conversation. Now, she appeared all boldness.
“I wouldn’t dare suggest such a thing.” He gave her a placatory smile. “I’m sure you’re as capable of judicial thinking as anyone you’re likely to meet here. The moor is known more for its superstitions than its enlightenment.”
He slid his booted feet closer to the hearth. “As you’ll have gathered from Dr. Hissop’s storytelling, this is a place of ghosts and otherworldly creatures, lore dating back to lost ages before man could write. In this place where a moonless night brings utter darkness, people must try to make sense of their fears. The mist is such that it’s easy to imagine wraiths in the shifting light. One’s vision is apt to twist and deceive, until a man’s judgement is untrustworthy. Hardly surprising there are so many tales of demonic creatures.”
He bent to pass her the volume he’d brought with him to place in the library. She tilted it in her hands to read:The Hound of the Baskervilles.
“We’re abundant in legends surrounding hounds, so it’s likely that they inspired Arthur Conan Doyle in writing his book. There are nights when folk say they hear terrible howling on the moor. No one is rational in the face of that. It poisons all a man’s courage.”
He could see he’d caught her attention.
“And what of you, Lord Wulverton? Are you a manof virtue and bravery, or do you cower under the shame of a wayward past? Will Old Dewer be sending his hounds to howl under your window?”
She widened her eyes in mock horror. Little could she know how near to the mark she’d struck.
So many years ago, he’d left the moor he loved. The recipients of his anger were buried cold in the soil, but his resentment remained. He’d squandered vitality and purpose, taking the easy escape into opium and hashish. Only his father’s death had galvanized him to put aside his self-pity, to wean himself from those addictions which had blunted the edge of his torment but never released him from its grip.
As to whether he’d finally find peace, here, at Wulverton Hall, it remained to be seen. Some ghosts could never be laid to rest. If he had returned only to be lured into a new hell of remembrance, he was a damned man indeed.
