Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
Mallon found the 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, she was in 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 of Vanity Fair he 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 such bluestocking 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 man of 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.
Geneviève noted Lord Wulverton’s study of her as he sat in the armchair opposite, lounging back to cross one knee casually over the other. Evidently, the illumination on the train had been sufficiently lacking, for he demonstrated not an inkling of recognition.
He’d even been flirting with her, in the usual condescending way of a man assured of his superiority—willing to indulge the whims of the female recipient. Until her teasing had seemed to tug at some corner of his conscience, and a shadow had passed over him. Without doubt, he had his secrets—and he was welcome to them. She’d no interest in prying.
He jumped up abruptly, then busied himself with the fire, adding three more logs. “I’m hoping the devil may have some years yet to wait for my company.”
Whatever gloom had overtaken him, he seemed not to wish her to see it.
“Perhaps you’d take me over the house,” she said, laying aside the books and rising to stand beside him. “I’ve only seen the public rooms—nothing of those that have been shut up.”
How tall he was and how large his hand, still gripping the poker. She thought of him gripping something else the day before, when he’d been unaware of her watching him. She’d enjoyed observing him naked, but he was just as pleasing fully clothed, his broad shoulders snug beneath his jacket.
He led the way through hallways and galleries, through rooms decorated with heavy tapestries and ornate rugs—others bare but for dustsheets covering unused furniture.
“Watch your step,” he warned, as the floor of the corridor dropped away. “It’s the same with all these old houses. Various parts have been added over successive generations. They didn’t do the best job of making things line up.”
Geneviève went to the end of the passage, where a long window displayed the northern vista. He came to join her, and they stood looking out at the expanse of bracken and the vast sky above, streaks of violet-gray moving fast against the paler blue of morning.
“I first thought it a rather desolate place—wild and empty,” Geneviève admitted. “But it has its own beauty. At Rosseline, I love to explore. The vines occupy most of the land beneath the chateau, but there are hills and woodlands beyond which tempt me for whole days at a time. I often take a lunch in my saddlebag and go out riding.”
“Our moor isn’t like other places—not like other moors, even.” He spoke softly. “You may walk easily for some hours without seeing another person or a dwelling, but the moor is not so barren as it seems. There is life here, in the streams and damp places, and on the hills, where the wild ponies roam. No man lacks for rabbit in his stew. People have lived here since Neolithic times. Not only their cairns and standing stones remain but their stories. We’re closer to the past here. If you visit the circles at Hingston Hill or Yellowmead, you’ll feel that. Like those stones of weathered granite, our moor-dwellers are resilient, born of the rock beneath their feet.”
Geneviève turned to look up at him, wishing to see his expression. “And you’ve returned from your adventures to take on the mantle of your inheritance. Can you live without the conveniences of our modern century, without proper Society even?”
She made bold to taunt him. “Or perhaps you intend to bring electricity to Wulverton Hall and embrace the innovations of our age. Will you lure down the London elite, making Wulverton a sought-after invitation?”
His smile was wry. “If you knew me better it would be the last thing you’d suggest. As to deprivation of comforts, you’d be surprised what I’ve lived without. In returning, I’m hoping to find…what I thought was lost to me.”
“Ah, yes!” Geneviève sighed. “You seek the English idyll of nature—unspoilt and so little inhabited. A place to feed the soul and heal its wounds. A place in which you acknowledge your belonging. It is what all your poets write of, is it not?”
He paused for some moments. “You might put it like that…”
A reverie appeared to envelop him, and they stood in silence, until Geneviève wondered if he’d forgotten she was there at all.
How strangely he behaved.
At last, feeling restless, she coughed and shuffled her feet. It was sufficient to bring him back from wherever his mind had wandered to.
Smiling sweetly, Geneviève asked, “Your family have lived here many generations?”
There was a certain pride in his response. “Almost seven centuries—through fortunes good and bad. We can claim a certain fortitude. It’s the de Wolfe motto in fact, fortis in arduis .”
“Strength in times of trouble.” Geneviève nodded in approval. “It’s good to fight for what you desire.”
She’d had time enough to learn that for herself. No matter what insults or ill judgements were cast upon her, she would endure. Above all things, she knew the importance of tenacity. Her heart was set on returning to Chateau Rosseline, and with Hugo, Maxim’s heir, as her husband. That was something she intended to fight for. Viscount Wulverton had made no link between her and the woman on the Marseille train. All well and good. Let it remain that way. Meanwhile, she would act her part.
“And has your family braved much trouble?” Geneviève felt doubtful. What strife and suffering had this family endured?
Wulverton Hall was a modest residence in comparison to her chateau—with its priceless works of art and gilded ceilings, its great vineyards and extensive estates—but these de Wolfes appeared comfortable enough. The land made for poor farming, she imagined, but the sheep flourished. Wulverton Hall came with fifty thousand acres, Hugo had told her.
Moreover, life on the moor was obviously isolated from the machinations of politics. No man with ambition would live here. It was more a place in which to hide from trouble. What strength could be needed when a person buried themselves in obscurity?
If Lord Wulverton sensed her skepticism, he chose to ignore it.
“You’d be surprised, though it’s true that my branch of the family cannot compare in fame to the great de Wolfes of Northumberland, nor to those who settled in Wolverhampton. My grandsire of many generations back, being the younger son of a younger son, chose to forge a new path here in Devonshire, sometime in the fourteenth century. His sheep farming was on a modest scale, though he established a dynasty that became stronger with passing decades. The Black Country de Wolfes have always been influential and wealthy, thanks, most recently, to the mining of coal.”
“They are miners?” Geneviève could scarcely contain her mirth. Such a noble family, and involved with such a dirty occupation!
“Rather more than that.” Again, he ignored her taunting manner. “One of my distant ancestors, Gaetan, having fought bravely at Hastings, was made First Earl of Wolverhampton by the Duke of Normandy himself—the first Norman King of England.”
“Ah! So, you are proudly French! And the blood of brave warriors flows in your veins.” The ships in the tapestry, and the names of prominent houses of French nobility now made a little more sense.
“I suppose a great many of us could make that claim, if we looked back far enough, but I don’t think of myself as one of your countrymen—regardless of their many…notable qualities.”
Geneviève gave him a sidelong glance. The English humor! She could not be quite certain, but it appeared he was now mocking her.
“You were telling me of your family’s struggle, I believe, Lord Wulverton. Please do continue. I love a tale of quest and tragedy. Do not be modest. If your people have lived up to their motto, then you should not be humble in telling of their… pluck. What sacrifices have they made in the name of love and honor?”
He paused again, for far longer than was needed to gather his thoughts.
Had she overstepped the mark? Really, he was the most difficult person—talkative one moment and then so melancholy, staring into nothingness.
When he looked down at her once more, his face was very still. He spoke with a nonchalance that belied the intensity in his eyes. “Our family suffered badly through the Civil War, being stripped of its finery by Cromwell’s parliament. De Wolfes have always promised service to the Crown, and we remained true to Charles I, fighting alongside Sir Bevil Grenvile and the other Royalists at the Battle of Sourton Down. Wulverton Hall was left half in ruins by the time the roundheads had finished tearing it apart. Those were hard years, I believe. Full of uncertainty.”
“For that, I’m sorry.” Geneviève felt a flush of shame at her hasty words. “To see one’s home destroyed is tragedy indeed.”
“Well, it turned out well enough in the end. With the Restoration, Charles II rewarded Allenby de Wolfe’s loyalty by elevating him to the peerage, granting him the viscountcy.”
Lord Wulverton shrugged, but there was nothing dispassionate in the way he was staring at her, surveying her lips and her neck, then her lips again. Geneviève had thought his eyes a dull hazel before—a muddy mixture of moss and brown—but a strange light had sparked within them, making the green flicker.
The warmth that had come to her cheeks through shame seemed to grow as he looked at her, fuelled now by a different awareness—of her femininity beside his strength, and her knowledge of what had passed between them. Her knowledge of how it had felt to take him inside her.
She endeavored to find her voice, struggling against the breath catching in her throat. “His loyalty was rewarded.”
“Quite so.” Lord Wulverton leaned in closer. “Some fared far worse. Wicked Lord Cavell, for instance.”
“Wicked?” Geneviève licked her lips.
“Oh, yes! Fiendishly sinful! If anyone’s keeping company with Satan, it’s him.”
“Aren’t we all wicked, one way or another?” she murmured.
“One way or another, I suppose we are.” His mouth brushed her hair. “As for Lord Cavell, the marriage bargain he struck brought out the very worst in him. Having wed the daughter of the man who’d sent him into financial ruin, he took his revenge on her in the most humiliating ways—accusing her of adultery with every man in their employ. Locking her in her chamber, he visited only to exercise his conjugal rights.”
“She was a prisoner.” The thought made Geneviève sway, but Lord Wulverton’s hand was firmly behind her, resting on the small of her back.
He would kiss her, now, surely? She knew already how he would taste, and how his tongue would enter to claim her. How much she knew, and how much she remembered! She tilted her head, parting her lips in anticipation, warmth flooding her lower abdomen.
“With none for company but her loyal hound.” His voice was soft and low. “In the end, she let herself down the ivy from her window and fled across the moor. ”
Geneviève glanced out from the window. The distance to the ground was great and the ivy, though plentiful, looked far from secure.
“And had she been unfaithful to him?” Geneviève met his eyes once more. She found his lids half closed, but the green fire within them just as bright.
“Perhaps,” he replied. “Lord Cavell’s actions were extreme, but some would find them justifiable. No man likes to be made a fool of.”
Geneviève frowned. The idea of being so controlled, losing all independence, would be unbearable to her. She made to step back, but his other hand was upon her now, at her waist, pulling her toward him.
She pushed back with both hands, anger flaring. “And no woman wishes to be denied her liberty.”
As he towered over her, she saw his jaw tense and the pulse rise in his temple. He looked as if he would not just kiss her but tear the clothes from her body and consume her like a wolf hungry for its prey.
Then, just as suddenly, his expression closed, his voice becoming hard.
“Once Lord Cavell had set off in pursuit, it didn’t take long for him to bring her down, and to plunge his knife into her heart.”
His tone was quite poisonous, as if he were berating her for the supposed faithlessness of Lady Cavell, and of all her sex. Shrinking back, she grasped behind her, finding the curtain’s edge.
She made herself laugh, but it sounded hollow. “And what of her faithful dog? Did he not leap from the window to come to her aid?”
Lord Wulverton’s lip curved but there was no playfulness in him. “It did indeed, and tore out Cavell’s throat, but too late to save its mistress.”
With that, he released her. Geneviève fell back against the window ledge, her knees unwilling to hold her steady.
Walking away, Lord Wulverton did not look back.