Page 3 of The Lady's Guide to Marrying a Viscount
Stuffing the promised francs into the Frenchman’s hand, Mallon made for the grand archway of La Gare de Marseille Saint Charles.
It was takingall Mallon’s self-control not to punch the conductor full on the nose.
“Regardez mon billet!” It was the fifth time he’d demanded that the manlook at his ticket. Twice in French and three times in English, embellished with increasingly violent oaths.
“Je ne peux pas vous aider, monsieur.”The conductor shrugged his shoulders. “Vous allez devoir vous en aller.”
It was bloody hopeless! He was going to end up sleeping in the corridor at this rate and all because some damned idiot in the ticket office had managed to double-book his compartment, giving it to some other passenger entirely.
The bulb inside flickered, emitting a low buzz, offering barely enough light for him to see the occupant. Her abundance of skirts indicated a woman, but her veil prevented him from discerning more.
His final volley of expletives having caused the conductor to scurry away, Mallon placed his head in his hands. He was too tired for this. His only hope was to find space in the buffet car. If he gave the last of his ready cash to theserveurs, they might overlook him lying down on the seats there.
He took a final, yearning look at the compartment. Plenty of room and the bedding neatly stacked. Propriety would never permit them to share, but he wondered if the woman might consider lending him one of her pillows.
He was reluctant to ask. Though he’d managed to wash before disembarking the ship, Mallon hadn’t shaved in several days and his hair was long overdue a cut. The sight of him, not to mention his aggressive behavior, would hardly have created a good impression. Mumbling his apologies, he turned to leave.
“Arrêtez, monsieur.” She beckoned him to enter.
Mallon didn’t need to be asked twice. Taking the banquette opposite, he leaned back against the velvet cushioning. With all the rushing about and his ridiculous labors on the ship, his shoulder was irking him.
“Vous voyagez seule, madame?”
To his relief, she responded in his own tongue. “Yes, but with my maid. She has a compartment further down.”
Mallon perked up a little, though he hated begging favors. “I don’t suppose…Might she share with you, and I’ll take her cabin? I can write a draft on my bank to compensate for your trouble—double the original cost, of course.”
She seemed amused. The lace veil made it difficult for him to be sure, but his eyes were growing accustomed to the dim lighting. He could see her features somewhat: large eyes, a delicate chin, and lips curving upward.
“Why would I do such a thing?”
The train jerked, pulling away from the platform, slowly gathering speed. With her hands in her lap, she sat very still, looking him over, from his boots upward.
“Take off your coat,Monsieur. Be comfortable.” Rising, she first drew down the blind upon the outer window and then upon the smaller pane of glass within the door leading to the corridor. She clicked its lock closed.
He caught her scent—an arousing blend of orchids and orange blossom with a smoky, woody undertone,and his heart beat faster.
As she placed her hand upon his thigh, the bulb flickered again and fizzed out.
CHAPTER 2
Enfoldedin her green velvet travelling cloak, Geneviève, Countess Rosseline, slept for most of the journey from Dover. She’d been on the train since late the night before and the prior crossing from Calais had made her thoroughly sick, preventing the slightest rest.
She’d considered taking a sojourn in London but had deemed it unnecessary after taking some days in Paris. What was there to see or do or purchase in London that could not be attained with infinite superiority in France’s capital?
Paris was an enchanting place—of restaurants, ateliers, and galleries. She’d even ascended La Tour Eiffel, to look out over the great city. Regrettable that she’d had only her maid, Lisette, for company.
Many times, she’d asked Maxim to bring her to Paris, but there had always been some excuse. He’d preferred to leave her at the château on his expeditions, which he’d professed were purely for business. Geneviève had known better than to pry.
As beautiful as Paris was, it was not her home. If any place deserved that name, it was Château Rosseline.
Geneviève’s earliest years had been a kaleidoscope of colorful commotion, of theatre dressing rooms and the vivid characters who inhabited them. Trailing the skirts of her mother, Antoinette Villiers, the darling of the Marseille stage, young Geneviève learnt not just to dance and sing and to speak the Italian and English tongues, but how to charm! There were flowers and chocolates and champagne, delivered by various hopeful men.
Then, there was just one—who sent jewels instead of trifles. Geneviève was but eight years old when her mother took her to stay with the nuns of Santa Clotilde Magdalena.
Gone were the gaudy delights and the soft, fragrant embraces of the lovely Antoinette. Geneviève shed nightly tears for her absentmaman, until she realized that tears were wasted when there was no one to heed them. By the time she joined the household of the Comte Rosseline, at the age of fifteen, she’d long given up the act of weeping.
It was not the first time the château had embraced its civic duty in relieving the convent of one of its foundlings. With the nuns, Geneviève learnt the advantage of appearing meek to avoid the cane across her palms—a performance she refined during her years as companion to the Dowager Countess Rosseline. Geneviève’s manners were impeccable and, unlike so many young ladies, she did not gabble.
