Page 43 of The Lady's Guide to Marrying a Viscount
Wrapping the bedspread around her shoulders, Geneviève rose to look out the window. The mist had vanished, burnt off by the rising sun, but frost had taken hold in the night, lacing the trees immediately in front of the inn and the heathland beyond.
She returned to the bed. She couldn’t face the eggs or the ham, and the tea didn’t smell like any blend with which she was familiar, but itwassteaming hot.
“I’ve a note fer ye, from the gentleman.” The girl kicked one foot against the other as she took it from herpocket. “The viscount I should say. Him be riding back to the big hall and said he’ll send the carriage.”
Geneviève felt her stomach turn over. He’d left already? Without waiting? No chance of speaking then—of explaining what she was feeling. Though who knew where she’d begin.
She waited until the girl had left before opening the envelope. The writing was in a looping hand, and likely more elegant than the inn’s stationery saw from one year to the next.
Geneviève,
Last night was a mistake—not just yours, but mine.
I trust you to break off whatever arrangement you’ve made with Hugo, as gently as you’re able.
We need speak no more, nor meet once you’ve departed Wulverton—as soon as the immediate festivities are over.
The past is best left behind us.
A wave of nausea passed over her. He wished her to leave? To walk away without a backward glance?
Merde!
Nothing that mattered was acquired easily. Everyone knew that!
She’d seen the grief and resentment he carried with him over his mother.It wasn’t the same as her own bitterness but it was damnably close. A few years back, Geneviève had made inquiries, wishing to trace the whereabouts of Antoinette Villiers. Her mother had been known throughout Marseille, so discovering her fate hadn’t been too great a challenge. Just twelve months after leaving Geneviève at the convent, her death had been recorded in Monte Carlo, from typhus.
There were reports of a love affair with a Russian prince. The one to place a glittering necklace about her mother’s neck, Geneviève supposed.
Mallon’s protestations on the fickleness of women were entirely understandable. His mother hadn’t just abandoned her husband for her lover, she’d left her children. Little wonder he mistrusted the notion of romantic love.
Geneviève had long agreed fondness was possible, and companionship. Physical pleasure, too, with the right man.
But love? The sort that bound you to another for a lifetime? That made your heart yearn for a single glance or touch? That left you helpless and vulnerable?
Who’d wish such a thing upon themselves?
Could the ecstasy of love ever compensate for love’s ability to inflict pain? A week ago, Geneviève would have denied it utterly.
Now, she was ready to fight!
Of course, she needed to speak to Hugo. He didn’t deserve to be led any further down the garden path. She’d talk with Beatrice, too. They had as much chance of happiness as any man and woman.
As for Lord Wulverton, more aggressive tacticswould be required. Not to deceive him but to inspire him to look anew at what was before him.
Why not let him believe I still pursue Hugo?
Make him jealous and he’ll come running to prevent the marriage, and to claim me for his own.
Might it work?
It would be doubly difficult with bleary eyes and a red nose but, at least, she’d have tried.
Viscount Wulverton might be ready to consign their passion to the archives but Comtesse Rosseline had other plans!
Geneviève lookedout as the carriage ascended, climbing the same hill upon which Hugo had stopped the car. The kiss they’d shared had hardly been a kiss at all—the briefest touching of lips.
She felt ashamed, now. How selfish she’d been! But she was determined to set things right.
