Page 36 of The Lady's Guide to Marrying a Viscount
Since his soldiering days, he’d not been able to abide disorder. The hearth embers were sufficient to burn a scrap of paper; he could simply toss it in. However, it wasn’t just a piece of paper but an envelope—and bearing Hugo’s name, in an extravagant hand.
It was still sealed.
Mallon fought with his conscience only briefly. Tearing it open, heread:
My darling,
I must see you. Find a way to leave the hunt and come to me.
I’ll be waiting at Fox Tor.
Yours, with love and anticipation,
G.
She certainly hadn’t wasted any time. Mallon crushed the note angrily in his fist. When had she pushed it beneath Hugo’s door? Early that morning? Mere hours after offering herself to him.
He’d thought she might abandon her aspirations regarding Hugo, considering last night’s events. Clearly, he’d underestimated her. Were Hugo to deliver a proposal, it would be much harder to persuade him to break it off. The boy was honorable and would be loath to break a promise—whatever the circumstances.
Fortunately, it appeared that Mallon still had time to intercede. Hugo had never seen the note. The countess would be waiting at the tor in vain.
He threw the papers into the fire, where they curled and flared.
Geneviève had learntto ride at Maxim’s insistence. She’d soon become proficient, and the resulting freedom had been a revelation. Her happiest hours had since been spent on horseback.
From thebottom of the hill, the tor stones were barely discernible against the slated clouds. The palette was sombre in comparison to the azure heavens she’d left behind, and the vibrant yellows and pinks of the flowers growing around Château Rosseline. Nevertheless, the moorland landscape invigorated her.
Reaching the summit, she tethered her pony beside lichened boulders engulfed in the smell of earth and age. There were no trees this high, barely a bush even, and a low mist was closing in, filling the air with dampness, still and quiet—the cold breath of the moor on her cheek.
Hugo had set off with a cheery wave, calling that he’d see her soon. Purposefully, she’d held back, to make it easier to peel away from the other riders. Was that the far-off cry of the hounds she could hear, and the horn of the master huntsman? From further down, she thought she discerned a shout, or was it merely the caw of a passing crow? The mist, curling and rolling, seemed to deaden sound. Meanwhile, her own breathing appeared much louder than usual.
Geneviève shivered. She was quite distant from the chapel, but she thought of what she’d seen there, just the day before—or what she’d thought she’d seen. Again, she had the feeling of being watched by unseen eyes. She’d been a ninny, conjuring ridiculous terrors. Her imagination had been seized by readingThe Hound of the Baskervillesand by the legend of the devil’s Wisht Hounds. She ought to feel ashamed of herself. A grown woman and so impressionable!
Of course, there were other things to be afraid of besides ghostly hounds and piskies. The convict was outhere somewhere, wasn’t he? Alive or dead? He might even be hiding nearby, among the rocks.
She glanced over her shoulder at the great monoliths behind. Lord Wulverton had spoken of him with tenderness, but this Silas was a stranger to her, and he’d been locked up all this time. Who knew how that affected a man? Even those who went in entirely sane must emerge half-demented after years of deprivation and constraint. She’d rather die than endure it herself.
I might ride back to the hall.
Geneviève could barely see more than a few feet ahead. Heading toward the boulders where she’d tied her mount, they sprouted an arm, shaking it at her, causing her to scream, but it was only the pony, tossing its mane. It gazed at her stolidly, through eyes long-lashed, before returning to its steady grazing.
She placed her hand on its side. He, at least, was real. There was comfort in his soft snorts and his warmth. Strange to feel more afraid of what you couldn’t see than what you could, but there was something chilling about the immensity of the moor and its cloaked vastness.
Was that a horse? She swore to hearing hooves. Wasn’t Lady Howard’s coach pulled by horses—headless ones? What were you supposed to do if you saw them? Closing her eyes tight, she leaned her forehead against the pony’s flank. If she didn’t look, they’d pass by. Devilish things only consumed those foolish enough to invite their interest.
She pinched herself. Her imagination was running away again. If she could hear a horse, it must be Hugo.He was riding a white dappled mare and would be invisible until he was right upon her.
“Hugo! I’m here.” Her voice sounded thin.
There was no reply, but the hooves were growing louder, beating rhythmically across the turf. Whatever creature it was, the beast was snorting heavily. With numb fingers she began to untie her mount. Better to take the saddle again. She’d feel safer on horseback, though the pony was skittering, eager to get away.
The approaching force loomed out of the mist, galloping toward her. Not white but black; a huge stallion, its eyes rolling in its head, rearing up so close that her own pony cowered in fear. She’d barely gotten her feet in the stirrups when her mount bolted.
Terrified, there was nothing she could do but hold on tightly and pray. They weren’t racing back the way they’d come but to the west, the pony leaping rocks and splashing through small streams crossing the hillside. Still, she could discern nothing, the mist being just as thick lower down as it had been at the tor.
From behind, a deep voice called to her to stop. As if she’d do that when some demon had been conjured to pursue her!
The ground had levelled out and the pony was slowing to a canter, its panting ragged. Still, she could hear the hooves of the demon rider.
