Page 32 of The Lady's Guide to Marrying a Viscount
“I’m fine,” she said, her voice very small.
Briefly, she threw a glance to Mallon. There was no need for her to speak. He could guess what she wished from him.
“I’ll see her safely to her room, and I suggest you accompany your guest back to his. We’ll talk about this in the morning.”
Seeing his nephew take Slagsby gently around the shoulders, Mallon was struck by how loyal Hugo was. Generous-hearted in the extreme, even where it wasn’t deserved.
“And lock the door on him—for his own safety,” Mallon added grimly.
He turned to Geneviève.She was in shock, white-faced and shivering. He fought an impulse to drag Slagsby back and throw him down the stairs.
“You need a stiff drink. Can you walk?”
With a nod, she turned toward him but then looked puzzled, pulling her torn nightdress to make herself decent. With trembling fingers, she attempted to retie the sash of her dressing gown.
By the time she looked up again, Mallon felt he’d turned to stone.
She’d covered herself, but not before he’d seen her breast.
Years of visiting the brothels of Constantinople had made him familiar with the female form. Though he’d never lain with those women, he’d enjoyed observing them touch one another, giving pleasure between them with tongues and fingers. His fist did the rest.
Oh yes, he'd become an expert wanker, and an avid watcher, a connoisseur of breasts particularly, in all their variety.
But, only once had he seen a woman bearing this particular mark—a pronounced mole to one side of her nipple.
It had been too dark to see her face on the train—a fact that had added to the frisson of the encounter—but he’d become intimately acquainted with the contours of her body.
Her expression was shifting, a flush entering her cheeks, her eyes growing wider.
She knows!
Whatever she saw, now, in his face—this shock of recognition—she’d been waiting for it.
He was taken again to that night.
Her breast heavy in his palm.
His thumb circling the dark areola, bringing it to an enticing peak.
Tracing the satin smoothness of her skin, he’d found the raised beauty spot, tonguing it before taking her breast deep into his mouth. His loins flared at that remembrance, and at what had come afterward.
Hadn’t she been straddling him at the time? He remembered her sigh as she lowered herself onto him. His groans of satisfaction had driven her on, taking him deep, then tantalizing him with slow withdrawal, only to plunge again, crying out as he filled her. His moans he’d stifled against her breast, suckling the fullness, revelling in the softness of its curve against his chin and cheek—and that mole!
He was not mistaken!
Leading her to the library,Lord Wulverton gave her a large brandy and found a blanket from somewhere. He seemed reluctant to meet her eyes, poking instead at the fire he’d relit. From the hallway, the clock chimed two. Had only an hour passed?
Events had happened in a blur.
Geneviève recalled Slagsby shaking her, his fingers pressing, bruising hard. She’d fought back, kicking his ankle, then catching him partially in the groin with her fist, but not enough to disable him. He’d had the face of a madman as he’d raisedhis arm to strike her. She’d been waiting for the blow when the viscount had shouted. He’d bounded up, taking the steps three at a time, falling upon Slagsby like a demon.
The relief had been overwhelming. With the fight drained from her body, her knees hadn’t wanted to hold her anymore, so she’d curled up by the curtains.
She hadn’t wanted to look at Hugo, nor Lord Wulverton.
It was shaming, to have been called those names. Slagsby was a beast. Men didn’t even treat whores like that.
Or perhaps they did. What did she know?
