Chapter 14
CHAPTER 14
Geneviève punched her pillows. She’d been lying awake for a good hour and without sign of dropping off. It wouldn’t do at all. They were riding out with the hunt the next day. More to the point, she’d be sending Lisette with a note for Hugo, inviting him to meet her by the stones on the hill, at Fox Tor.
Rather ap t, she thought wryly. The others would be setting off in pursuit of their little fox, while her hunting would be far more efficient. Hugo would come to her. She’d done enough chasing. Time to bring events to the desired conclusion.
If she had anything to do with the matter, Lord Slagsby would not be visiting them once she’d taken Hugo back to France. Annoying that he’d be staying at the hall another week. She had a feeling he’d be just as obnoxious sober as drunk. Even Hugo’s announcement of their engagement mightn’t stop him from pawing her and making lewd comments. Not that she lacked experience in fending off advances from Maxim’s so-called friends, but it had been a relief to have Mallon step in. Hugo was gallant in his way but, she feared, ineffectual.
Leading Hugo to the mistletoe had certainly done the trick. With a public kiss secured, he’d surely be in the bag tomorrow. The stolen meeting at Fox Tor would provide the perfect romantic setting. He need only begin in the right vein. She’d carry the dowager countess’ ring in her pocket, presenting it as part of his inheritance. One mention of her having always admired it and he’d be sure to pop the bauble on her finger.
It was what she’d come for, wasn’t it? Making the journey to this godforsaken place. Except that, perhaps, it wasn’t as forsaken as it seemed. Rather beautiful, in fact, and its people friendlier than she’d expected. Even with its ghoulish tales of demonic hounds and hairy hands, there was something about the moor that spoke to her. She liked its wild, open spaces and its wide skies.
The dinner itself had been a success. Marguerite had made her approval clear, voicing a desire to return to her family’s estate and dropping hints that Hugo would do well to take a French-born wife.
All the while, Lord Wulverton had stared at her from the other end of the table, though he still hadn’t recognized her, of that she was sure.
During their day together, she’d admitted her desire to find a husband, and he could hardly have failed to notice her conduct with Hugo. Lord Wulverton hadn’t seemed to judge her—had accepted her as she was, but would he attempt to foil her now that he saw the direction of her hopes?
Was that why he’d intervened as Hugo had led her to dance the second time? Lord Wulverton’s gaze had been so intense, she’d worried he would challenge her. His hold upon her waist had been far firmer than was necessary. She’d had the strongest sense he wished to say something. He’d moved with utter surety and with grace but with passion, too, his thigh intruding almost between hers as he’d guided her, his eyes fixed on Geneviève’s, excluding all else.
The music had seemed to fade, coming from far away, and she’d been consumed by remembrance, his hands, firm and insistent, pulling her body to meet his. During the waltz, she’d felt herself surrendering as she had in that darkened carriage.
Had he felt it, too? That overwhelming attraction?
Dear God! Had he remembered?
Allowing him to hold her so near, had she given herself away? Some mannerism, perhaps, had exposed her.
If so, then it was all the more imperative that she act swiftly.
For an instant, she wondered whether to push aside the viscount’s domination of her sensual thoughts and seek out Hugo’s chamber.
Were she to climb into his bed, would he accept the seduction?
From chivalry, he’d be inclined to propose as soon as he’d had his release, but she feared it was too clumsy. He was just as likely to recoil in horror.
She needed to think. Better to wait until tomorrow. Daylight tended to add perspective.
Perhaps she ought to read for a while. The distraction would be welcome. Anything to turn her mind from its current wheel. She’d picked up several new volumes during her shopping trip in Paris, and hadn’t begun any of them yet.
Where were they? At the bottom of the trunk most likely, which would require getting out of bed to rummage for them. It had taken her this long to get warm beneath the covers, so rising held limited appeal.
The only book within arm’s reach was that dreadful guide, which she’d relegated back to its hiding place.
Ah well… perhaps there shall be something in there so awful it shall be of amusement; or, it shall bore me so thoroughly that I’ll fall unconscious with it in my hand.
Propping herself up, she pulled out the drawer, retrieving the edition, and began to flick through.
Between ‘Forks’ and ‘Freckles, was a chapter on ‘Fortitude’, from which Geneviève read:
Believe, and strive, and grasp to your heart what you desire.
For life is too short to waste in regret.
She smiled to herself.
There is a sentiment upon which I can agree. I intend to have no regrets, and I certainly shall be grasping for what I desire.
Idly, she continued her perusal, pausing at a segment headed ‘Poise’:
A lady’s belief in herself—her own strength of will, her self-assurance—is her greatest asset. To believe yourself in control of your destiny is to be so.
Hmmm. Again, I concur.
So, little book, what do you say about making a man fall in love? For a man such as Hugo, and a woman such as I, what do you recommend?
It didn’t take long to find the portion of the volume dedicated to ‘Love’, and a subheading therein, entitled ‘Engaging the heart of the one you crave’.
We fall in love not with charm or beauty, nor with wit.
The heart desires not perfection in its mate, but to receive love, regardless of our flaws.
To be heard, and understood, to be chosen for the person we are, no matter what befalls.
To be loved, unconditionally; what can be more alluring?
Geneviève read it twice through. There was something in it, she supposed, though her experience had been that men were quite fond of wit and charm and beauty. As to whether those qualities inspired genuine love, she did not feel qualified to say.
Was it true, that a man could dote on a woman purely for her loving him despite his flaws, his inadequacies, his mistakes?
It was not a piece of advice she’d heard before, but it made sense in some respects. Men wished to be worshipped, no matter their weaknesses, to be thought of as gods in their own home. This was surely of that ilk.
The woman must be as tolerant as the Virgin Mary, while her husband indulges in any foolishness, or wickedness, knowing he’ll be forgiven!
There seemed no other interpretation.
She turned back to the frontispiece, searching for the year upon which the pages had been printed.
The publisher was listed as Dalreagh Press, and the date as 1835.
Goodness, how long have you been sitting in that drawer? It’s a wonder the mice haven’t eaten you!
That thought made Geneviève glance about the room, as if a parade of scurrying rodents might suddenly be visible. Fortunately, it wasn’t the case.
She leafed through again, this time more meticulously, and stopped at a chapter enticingly named ‘Bedroom Matters’.
…where affection exists, and a man is patient, physical coupling may become a source of pleasure to both parties.
Geneviève rolled her eyes.
Whoever wrote this has clearly never indulged in an impatient coupling. I can vouch for them being far more pleasurable than the patient kind.
The rest of the chapter was similarly dry, asserting that bedroom sports were ‘more to be endured than enjoyed’, and suggesting an unwilling wife might ‘plead a headache or other ailment to avoid the matrimonial act’.
Geneviève pulled a face. Admittedly, there had been a few occasions upon which she’d used that ruse to avoid relations with Maxim.
Was that how it would be with Hugo? Once she’d spawned the obligatory heir, would she start looking for excuses to avoid his attentions? In truth, she hadn’t actually pictured them in bed together. She couldn’t imagine Hugo that way, in the throes of passion.
The thought made her feel faintly nauseous.
Not that it matters! she reminded herself fervently. I won’t be marrying him for his skills between the sheets.
Snapping the book closed, she put it aside and flopped back upon the pillows.
Again, she willed herself to sleep, but it was no use.
Nothing for it but to go downstairs and heat some milk. At the very least, I’ll be glad to get back to bed after navigating the draughty corridors.
Reaching for her dressing gown, she lit the lamp at her bedside and slipped out, padding down the passage, stepping close to the wall to avoid the squeak of floorboards. She descended the first flight of stairs and paused on the landing. The window there was deep, with a broad seat stretching its width. Outside, the moon shone bright, sending its illumination clear through the glass, lighting the oak-panelled walls.
The moorland was bathed silver. How long ago it seemed since she and Lord Wulverton had set out in the cart. To the west was the chapel. Strange to think of all those de Wolfe ancestors, who had once stood where she did now, buried beneath the frosted earth.
The grandfather clock in the hall struck a single, sonorous chime. One in the morning.
As she made to turn away, something caught her attention—a dark shape near the wall of the graveyard. A pony, perhaps, or a black-woolled sheep. The figure rose from its crouch, emerging from the shadows. No animal but a man, moving purposefully down the slope toward the house.
She rubbed at her eyes but there was no mistake. It was a man, his head bent forward and shoulders hunched.
Who was out at this time?
He’d almost reached the house when he looked up and Geneviève caught sight of his face.
Withers?
She gasped and pressed closer to the glass. Her eyes were deceiving her, surely. A man of his age ought to be in bed. The winter cold would be the death of him!
Geneviève strained to follow his path, but he disappeared out of sight, around the side of the house. Just then, there was a creak from the upper passageway, a door opening and a shuffling sound, a man’s voice, low and cursing.
There was no time to run down the stairs. Instead, she doused her lamp and shrunk back into the corner, concealing herself within the curtains as far as she could.
“Damn him and the whole filthy lot.” The voice was familiar, slurred and growing louder. She heard him slip on the stairs, bumping down until he fell upon the landing. More cursing ensued.
Geneviève held her breath, pressing to the wall. She had only to wait for him to pass by and she’d be safe. Thoughts of hot milk were forgotten. A retreat to her bed was all she wished.
“Hell!” Lord Slagsby staggered forward, grasping at the curtains.
To Geneviève’s horror, they were suddenly face to face.
“What’s this?” Slagsby scowled, drawing her into focus. “Oh, it’s you, is it?” He swayed forward, wincing slightly, mumbling to himself. “Hiding in the curtains. Bloody strange thing to do…house full of curs and imbeciles.”
Geneviève attempted to duck past, but his hand shot out, grasping her above the elbow.
“Not so fast.” He looked her over and gave a lazy smile. “I’m on my way to sample more of the viscount’s whisky, or his father’s I should say. He’s not been in this house long enough to call anything his own. Join me, why don’t you. You look like you need a drink to loosen you up.”
Geneviève reminded herself to stay calm. It shouldn’t be difficult to escape him. He was limping a little on his ankle.
“You forget yourself, Lord Slagsby. We’re both guests in this house. I, at least, know how to behave.” She twisted her head as he stepped closer, his mouth curled in a sneer.
“You weren’t always so fine, Countess. Little more than a servant, in fact, doing an old woman’s bidding.” He gave a derisive snort. “And that husband of yours! Known in every gambling den and brothel from Monte Carlo to Paris.”
“Let me pass.” Geneviève attempted to keep her voice even. It wouldn’t appear well to wake the household and have them witness this little scene.
Slagsby leaned his body into hers. “What did you do, eh, to entice old Maxim to marry you? I’ve heard some stories…” He smirked. “You’re no lady, are you? No matter how fine your dresses. You’ll give me a kiss, I warrant, and more besides...”
As he lunged, Geneviève tried to bring her knee up, but he was too close, pinning her to the wall.
“Get off me, you brute!” Geneviève tried to squirm away.
“On your way to meet someone, I expect. Upstairs, I would have guessed but perhaps you’re slumming it, and making do with Down. Meeting you in the scullery, are they? The second footman? More your level, I should think. So here you are—creeping about the house with no fine dress at all. You must be cold, wearing nothing but this.”
Without warning, his hand was suddenly under the wrap of her dressing gown, fumbling between her legs, pressing hard enough to make her gasp. “Well, fancy that. Not cold at all. Burning hot!” His fingers delved to enter her through the flimsy fabric of her nightgown.
“Get off me!” cried Geneviève, paying no heed to the loudness of her voice.
He ignored her utterly, instead pulling at the sash of her dressing gown, so that it fell open. In a trice, he dragged her nightdress from her shoulder. Despite his inebriation, he was strong, and the force of his assault took her by surprise. He was licking her, leaving a trail of saliva across her collarbone, moving toward her breast.
“Stop it! No!”
Snuffling wetly across her nipple, he sucked so hard that she gasped in pain.
“Damn you!” She wanted to shout but her tears were prickling. She tried again to push him away, but he was unyielding.
When he drew back it was to grope at the fastening on his trousers. His mouth was slack as he pressed once more against her, his breath stale.
He squeezed her buttock roughly. “Open your thighs, and I’ll show you a real man.”
She attempted to raise her knee, but the position of his legs blocked her from doing harm.
Gathering all her strength, Geneviève saw her chance. If she leaned forward, she could reach his ear. Fighting her revulsion, she bit down as hard as she could.
Lord Slagsby let out a howl and jerked away. “You little bitch! You’ll pay for that.”