Chapter 9
CHAPTER 9
It took some time for Geneviève to compose herself, for the world had tilted from its usual axis, bringing with it a flare of passion that had threatened to see her behave in a manner altogether contrary to her plans.
Displaying her wit and charm was one thing. Allowing Lord Wulverton to seduce her was quite another.
And then…
She could barely understand, but there had been a shocking change in his demeanor, as if he ran mad.
Was there mental instability in the family?
It was common, she knew, in certain places remote from Society, where the pool of eligible spouses was limited.
How else to explain his behavior?
Geneviève declined to attend luncheon, excusing herself with a headache, but she could hardly remain closeted forever.
Her designs stood unchanged. She would encourage Hugo into a proposal, then depart the moor and return to France.
It was simply a matter of keeping her head.
Hugo rose as she entered the drawing room, lifting her hand briefly to his lips before ushering her to a seat between himself and Mrs. Wapshot.
The Waspshots’ daughter, Beatrice, was dressed modestly, as always, in a sensible shade of navy blue, but she’d pinned her fair hair quite charmingly—in the current ‘Gibson Girl’ style.
She was certainly pretty, in a natural, country way, and obviously admired by Hugo. Her temperament, from all Geneviève gleaned, would suit Hugo’s perfectly.
It was simply the girl’s bad luck that Geneviève had staked her claim upon Hugo. Whatever prior attachment had been forming, Beatrice’s golden innocence was no match for Geneviève’s darkly feminine allure.
Hugo was all attention, inquiring after Geneviève’s poor head, then directing her toward the most delicious of the teatime fancies. In honor of the season, they were drinking spiced wine, which Hugo insisted she sample while it was hot.
Meanwhile, from where he stood behind Marguerite’s chair, Lord Wulverton stared at Geneviève quite blatantly. Whatever mood had possessed him before seemed to have alleviated only moderately, for the intensity of his gaze was extreme—as if to delve her soul.
Heaven forbid that he should do so successfully!
The Reverend took a sip from his glass. “How blessed we are. Not all are as fortunate, gathering in festive cheer.”
Marguerite raised her glass. “You’re most welcome. What merriment can there be if one lacks friends with whom to celebrate?”
Reverend Wapshot nodded, taking a pastry from the tray. “It’s at this time that I feel most for those poor souls in the prison.”
Hugo shifted in his seat. “Quite so, although, of course, they are criminals, duly sentenced and punished. We could hardly expect the taxpayer to indulge them with cake and claret.”
Mrs. Wapshot leaned closer to Geneviève, speaking in an undertone. “I try not to think too much of the proximity of that place, nor the nature of the men who reside there. You know there was a break-out almost a month ago? Three men on the loose, having made skeleton keys out of bones from their dinner!” She puckered her lips. “If I was in charge, I’d not give them any meat at all.”
Geneviève whispered in reply, as the others continued their conversation. “And one is yet to be apprehended?”
“If there’s any justice, he’s been taken by the moor. There was a thick mist that night, so the chances are he came to a bad end in the mire.” Mrs. Waspshot’s eyes were positively gleaming.
Geneviève rather hoped the poor fellow had gotten away. Perhaps some of the moor folk had seen fit to help his escape.
“One fatal step and you’re thigh-deep and done for!” declared the clergyman’s wife. “Whole sheep and ponies have been lost on these moors. Divine justice, I’d say, if the criminal was sucked down straight to Beelzebub’s furnace!” She uttered the last with relish.
Geneviève recoiled at the thought of such a horrible fate. “How terrifying!”
“More terrible if we were strangled in our beds,” hissed Mrs. Wapshot, looking about her as if the would-be perpetrator might be lurking behind the sofa. “Or worse! Some of those men haven’t seen a woman in decades! Think on that!”
It appeared that Mrs. Wapshot had given it a great deal of consideration. The lemon shortbread she raised to her lips disappeared in one ferocious bite.
Geneviève felt the pressure of Hugo’s arm against hers. “Don’t worry,” he murmured. “You’re safe here.”
He reached to fondle the ear of the rough-coated wolfhound at his feet. “If any brute comes near, Tootle and Muffin will show them what for.”
Inching her knee away from the spindle of drool which threatened her skirts, Geneviève arranged her face in a gracious smile. As long as the ruffian appeared with a tasty titbit, she doubted they’d have much to fear. Muffin’s attention was fixed solely upon the uneaten morsel on her plate.
“Of course, there’s no need for you to shy from them,” added Hugo. “They’d never attack anyone we presented as a guest.”
Geneviève tried to return her concentration to Reverend Wapshot, who was speaking enthusiastically between mouthfuls of fruitcake.
“I visit the men every Sabbath for their sacred communion with the Lord and, whatever their misdeeds, they offer sincere devotion in that hour of supplication.” The Reverend scanned the room with a satisfied air.
Lord Wulverton scowled. “Hardly surprising, when you consider how they spend the majority of their hours, entombed within those gray walls. Little wonder they take the opportunity to stretch their legs and their voices.”
“Quite so,” agreed Reverend Wapshot, shaking his head and extending his glass to Withers’ approach with the decanter. “We pray for them, don’t we, my dears?”
Beatrice nodded meekly, but Mrs. Wapshot jolted upright. “May they know the error of their ways and repent! The cold of their cells will seem as nothing to the searing fires of hell’s damnation, to which they’re destined for their heinous crimes.”
Glancing at Lord Wulverton, Geneviève noted his expression of extreme distaste. Nevertheless, before he could reply, there was a clatter at his elbow.
Withers wobbled, almost dropping his tray.
“Steady there!” The viscount caught the butler as his knees buckled, and swiftly removed the glassware from his trembling hands, before mishap could occur.
“So sorry, m’lord,” Withers mumbled, apparently not at all himself.
“Dash it, Withers, you’re not well!” pronounced Hugo, leaping to support his other side. “Come along. We’ll get you to your parlor, and Mrs. Fuddleby will make you a reviving pot of tea.”
Tootle, who’d positioned himself hopefully at Mrs. Wapshot’s side, lumbered off as the door opened. Though the spot had been advantageous in the way of pastry crumbs, the dog clearly wasn’t fond of raised voices. The kitchen hearth would be infinitely more restful.
“Ours is a forgiving God, my love,” the Reverend softly chided. “And it’s our duty, here on earth, to show the same mercy. We’re all less than perfect, are we not?”
Mrs. Wapshot appeared to have a ready retort but a stern look from her husband, combined with Betsy’s arrival with a tray of jam tarts, diverted her from further proclamation.
There was a short silence, broken only by the clatter of forks upon plates and the sipping of wine. Muffin gave a great sigh and shuffled round to lay his head in Marguerite’s lap.
At last, Beatrice spoke, having barely said a word for the most part. “Everyone deserves a second chance. Whatever our human weaknesses, we can learn to rise above them.”
“Hear, hear!” agreed Geneviève, giving Beatrice a smile of encouragement.
“What have I missed?” asked Hugo, returning as the conversation became easy once more, this time on the merits of blackberry wine over damson.
“Reverend Wapshot is inviting you to the rectory tomorrow to sample his homemade wines, Hugo,” said Marguerite. “Perhaps, our dear comtesse may like to join you.”
Mrs. Wapshot pursed her lips, but before any more could be said, Lord Wulverton interrupted, having reappeared in the doorway.
“I need an extra pair of hands with me to visit the tenants. The countess may like to see how the moorland farming folk live, and the importance of our benevolent traditions.” He glowered at the back of Mrs. Wapshot’s head. “I’ve a dozen geese to deliver, and Mrs. Fuddleby is making up baskets of preserves and pickles.”
All this he’d uttered without looking at Geneviève, but he turned to her now, his eyes piercing, as if defying her to make some excuse.
“I could help,” piped up Hugo, “In the car, you know.”
Lord Wulverton waved his hand dismissively. “Hardly built for rutted farm tracks is it, that machine of yours, and no room to put the baskets either. Far easier with the trap and pair.”
Hugo conceded with a sniff. Meanwhile, Marguerite looked as if a vat of soured milk had just been placed under her nose.
“All settled then.” Viscount Wulverton might have been absent from his ancestral home for more than two decades, but he appeared to be having no difficulty stepping into his role as Master of the Moor.
Maxim had been old enough to be Geneviève’s grandfather, give or take a few years. The viscount, at a pinch, could have sired her. Hugo was more akin to a little brother. Putting aside the volatility of his moods, Lord Wulverton would make the more engaging husband of the two, despite the irrational outburst she’d witnessed that morning. However, it was Hugo she needed to win over if she was to return to Chateau Rosseline with her head held high.
She wondered if the viscount had somehow gotten the measure of her and, if so, what he might propose to do about it. Had he sensed her plan to entice Hugo and was intervening to thwart her, or was his interest more self-serving?
She was aware of his passionate nature, and the attraction between them was surely mutual. It had been that, she surmised, which had inspired the bizarre fit of temper she’d witnessed. He had fought to control his animal urges, and the result had been a show of force. How like a man to blame his own lack of control on a woman’s wiles, as if the desire that had flared between them had been a re-enactment of Adam’s temptation.
Even so, perhaps he intended to drive her to some remote track and initiate a more thorough seduction.
Such an overture would create the worst of complications, yet Geneviève’s stomach fluttered at the thought.