“No, sir.”
“Damn it, Dickens, I’m in no mood for guessing games!” he snapped.
“Nor am I, sir,” he shot back, and suddenly Alexander felt like he was sixteen years old and his valet-cum-bodyguard had caught him in some minor wrongdoing.
Alexander rose, shoving some papers off the desk, and stalked to the door his man was holding open. “You and I are going to have to have a serious talk about all this,” he said in a dark voice.
Dickens didn’t back down. “That we are, sir. One of the upstairs maids informed me about the sheets.”
For the first time in perhaps a decade Alexander Griffiths felt color warm his face. Pushing past Dickens, he stalked down the hallways to the small front parlor kept for inconsequential and unwanted guests.
The woman was standing there, her back to him as she surveyed the view from the window, but she turned swiftly at his approach and managed an exceedingly graceful curtsey. A sight better than Sophie’s uneven attempts, he thought, then cursed himself. He had to stop thinking about her.
The woman was tall, with dark hair and a calm expression. She was attractive rather than beautiful, her clothes were expensive but not quite comme il faut, and the application of paint on her face was skillful. With sudden dread, Alexander knew who she was, and he wanted to turn and run, not listen to her. But he’d never run from anything in his life, and he’d never refused to face the consequences of his own actions.
“Good morning, your lordship. I’m Melinda. Mrs. Lefton sent me.”
“She did?” He was amazed he didn’t sound as hoarse and sick as he felt.
“I’m sorry it’s taken such a long time, but she wanted to make sure she had the right candidate for you.” She had a pretty smile, and in another lifetime she would have done very well. She took a look at his face and her smile faded slightly. “If I won’t suit then it’s no problem, my lord. The carriage is still waiting, and she can send someone else.”
“I-I’ve changed my mind.” He never stammered.
The woman didn’t even blink. “Of course, my lord,” she said immediately. Her well-bred voice couldn’t quite disguise the cockney beneath it. “Would you like Mrs. Lefton to send someone else?”
“No.” Without another word he turned on his heel and left her to Dickens to take care of, while he walked straight through the house and out into the gardens.
The day was slightly overcast, but still warm, and he would swim this afternoon. Swim until he wiped all memory of last night from his mind. He stood at the edge of the terrace, staring out over the length of the pool, and it was there Dickens found him.
“Your lordship.”
Alexander turned his head. “It took you long enough. Are you going to tear a strip off me for my bad behavior, Dicky?” He used the old nickname from his adolescence, when his father had first brought the retired boxer to look after him.
But Dickens didn’t unbend. “No, my lord. I merely wished to know if you had any idea where Miss Russell had gone.”
Alexander blinked. “Who?”
“Miss Russell, sir. I believe you called her Miss Sophie.” There was no inflection in Dickens’s voice; nonetheless Alexander felt flayed. “The staff and I are worried about her. She left no word and I’m not sure she has any place to go.”
He turned, burgeoning anger replacing at least part of his guilt. “What secrets have you been keeping from me, Dickens?”
The man didn’t flinch. “It wasn’t my secret to tell.”
He was feeling sick inside. “Miss Russell,” he repeated slowly. “Sophie Russell. I suppose it’s too much to hope she has nothing to do with the previous tenants of this house.”
“Who else would she be, your lordship?” Dickens was beyond disapproving. “Miss Sophia Russell, late of Renwick and Curzon Street, London, daughter of Mr. Eustace Russell. A proper young lady whom I believe you took advantage of last night.”
Alexander’s pungent curses flew through the air as he felt his world contract into one narrow path. Dickens stood impassively in the face of his profanity, saying nothing until Alexander had finally come to a halt. “Indeed, sir,” Dickens murmured. “We need to find her. I’ve had a few of the footmen out making inquiries in the village, but no one has seen her, and the cottage where she’d been staying with her old nanny has been occupied by some of your tenants whose own cottage burned last fortnight. She has no place to go.”
A slow, righteous anger was beginning to fill Alexander, an anger that wiped out any of the guilt that had been bothering him. He’d been tricked, cheated, lied to. Hell, a proper young woman had allowed him to seduce her, had participated willingly enough, leaving him with no choice at all. The Russell daughters had been cast adrift without a paddle, so to speak, and he’d just been fool enough to give them a lifeline.
Why else would she have shown up here, pretending to be someone else? Of course, she probably had no idea who Mrs. Lefton was, and she’d been annoyingly standoffish, but each time he’d put his hands on her she’d melted obligingly. He had no idea whether it had been a trap or not—at that moment he was just too angry and uncomfortable to give her the benefit of the doubt.
He could refuse to marry her, of course. There was no elderly relative to force him to do the right thing, and few would condemn him. He hadn’t paid much attention, but he knew Russell’s daughters had taken on their father’s disgrace and were considered outcasts from society. No one would blame him if he did nothing, and he didn’t give a damn if they did. They already blamed him for killing Jessamine—he hadn’t been welcome in society for years, and it had been no loss to him. Whether Jessamine had fallen or jumped from the roof at the manor house had ceased to matter, any more than the approval of a group of gossiping, overbred idiots. They had judged and condemned him already—seducing and abandoning one semi-respectable virgin would hardly matter.
Semi-respectable. He felt like a fool, to be gulled like that. He’d known something was off with her, but each time he’d questioned her she’d assured him that Lydia Lefton had sent her. She wouldn’t even know who Lydia Lefton was.
Damn the lying little bitch! He ought to wring her neck. It would be nothing more than she deserved if he simply forgot about her, let her go wherever she wanted, to find some other man to gull. She’d learned how to do the deed, after all. She’d already done it to get him to marry her—it was a short step from blackmail to doing it for money, and she’d been a quick learner.
And goddamn him. He turned on Dickens, coming up to him. “If you want to hit me, go right ahead,” he said in a quiet voice.
“I want to thrash the hell out of you as you deserve,” Dickens said, the threat almost comical in his gentrified voice. “But I’m too worried about Miss Russell. I can wait until we’ve found her.”
“You and what army?” Alexander shot back.
“I’m still man enough to give you a beating when you deserve one,” Dickens growled, sounding more like the prizefighter he’d once been and less like the proper butler he’d turned into.
Alexander glared at him. “Go ahead and find her, then. I’ll be waiting.”
“And when we do? What next?”
“How the hell should I know?” Alexander snapped.
“It might be a good thing for you to decide by the time we bring her back,” Dickens said severely, turning his back on his employer and stomping off.
Alexander let him go. Dickens was always punctilious about proper etiquette between a servant and his master, even in a relationship as long-term and intimate as theirs. He had to be greatly moved to let the veneer of decorum drop.
Alexander turned and faced the garden once more, cursing beneath his breath. He knew what he had to do, whether he was ready to admit it to Dickens or not. All he wanted was to strip off his clothes and wash everything away in the coolness of the water. Instead he was saddled with this impossible mess.
He looked up then, at the tor that towered above the grounds of Renwick, at the spot
where he’d felt the spying eyes, and suddenly he knew, without question, who had watched him all those weeks. And he knew where Miss Sophia Russell, recently despoiled, proper young lady, was.
He went down the steps and started across the lawn.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SOPHIE DROPPED TO THE grass, exhausted. The fitful sun had burned off the heavy morning dew, but her bare feet were still cold, and she tugged her skirts down to wrap around her toes. She’d dressed in the woods, doing the best she could, but the corset had defeated her and she’d simply shoved it in the valise. She was going to have to do something about shoes. She’d only had the one pair, and she’d been too panicked to do a thorough search. Maybe she could get word to Prunella and she’d find them. After all, she could hardly take the train to London with no shoes on her feet.
She had absolutely no idea what she was going to do once she got to London. None of their extended family resided in the city, so she couldn’t look for help in that direction, but there were a number of old friends who might not turn their backs on her. Not all of them could refuse to help her.
Unless, of course, their parents knew she’d found herself in a man’s bed without the countenance of marriage. But with luck it would take time for her destroyed reputation to follow her, and it might even remain a secret. None of the servants had wished her ill, and God knew the Dark Viscount probably wouldn’t want to repeat the experience. She hadn’t known what to do, and certainly men preferred an experienced partner in such things. Alexander wouldn’t think twice that his unsatisfactory lover had run off, and if by some horrible chance he found out who she really was, he’d be even more certain to keep quiet about it. Not that he struck her as the sort of man who’d let society force him to do the honorable thing.
Six months ago it would have been simple. He’d compromised her; he would marry her. But she was probably no longer considered a proper young lady, and the gossips would probably say she was no better than her father, curse them. Father hadn’t been amoral; he’d been set up. Though in truth she couldn’t say the same thing about herself.
She lay down in the grass and looked up at the shadowy sky. There was a storm coming in, and she’d brought no umbrella with her. She was going to be soaked by the time she reached the coaching inn, and she would still have to deal with the matter of shoes.
She had just enough money for a ride on the public coach to either Plymouth or London. London seemed the better choice. While Maddy might still be in Plymouth and was undoubtedly the person she most wanted to run to, if Maddy had already left there’d be no one to turn to. In London there were dozens of old friends, and surely at least one of them would give her shelter. Surely.
She closed her eyes with a soft moan. She could still feel his hands on her body, his mouth at her breasts. She could feel him inside her—she was still uncomfortable down there. Bringing up her arm, she mashed it against her breasts, trying to give herself some sort of relief. She wasn’t going to be able to forget last night until her body stopped giving her reminders. The rough red burn on her skin that had come from his whiskers. The bruising on her thighs where he’d held her as he’d thrust into her, over and over again. The constant tightening inside whenever she thought of him, pushing into that place, taking her, claiming her, loving her, making her wild.
Ruining her.
Well, in truth, she was already ruined. First her father’s disgrace, then her masquerading as a cook and living under the same roof with someone as notorious as the Dark Viscount, degenerate, recluse, wife-murderer.
Not that he’d been particularly degenerate with her, at least as far as she knew. She imagined women would consider him a very good lover. She was certainly in no position to judge—it all seemed dreamlike to her in retrospect. Perhaps, after a long enough time, she might be able to forget it ever happened. It didn’t even need to put a damper on her practical plans for the future. She’d had so many men flocking around her during her season that it should be simple enough to choose one of them with enough money and position to bring her back to where she belonged. To be sure, the fortune hunters might fall by the wayside, and the high sticklers might consider her tainted by the lies that had been told about her father. But that still left more than a few to choose from, and her maid had told her there were ways to fake virginity. In fact, said Doris, few men had the wit to notice anything at the time. Clearly Alexander hadn’t.
Had Doris known she was going to fall from grace, known that her mistress was a helpless wanton? Or was Doris just being helpful on the off chance that something happened?
Sophie groaned, rolling over on her stomach and putting her face in the grass. She missed her kitchen, the smell of food and the freedom to create anything she wanted. She missed her small rooms in the basement; she missed Prunella and Dickens. Most of all she missed . . . no, she didn’t! She was well rid of Alexander Griffiths.
The ground beneath her pressed against her tender breasts, pushed against that soft spot between her legs. She rolled back with a groan, staring up at the darkening sky. Sooner or later she was going to have to move.
But maybe she’d wait just long enough to watch him swim, one more time. There was no denying he was a beautiful sight. Maybe this time he’d finally divest himself of his smalls.
She could feel heat burn her face. She might not know what the man looked like without his clothes, but she had a far more intimate acquaintance with his body. In her less than pristine condition she would probably have to settle for a less than stellar husband, and in truth, she couldn’t remember a single man from her social whirl in London who was half as bewitching as the Dark Viscount. Somehow with his gray eyes, his high cheekbones and strong nose, his devastating mouth that could be so hard and so soft, somehow he had managed to be the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, and she was well and truly ruined, not just in terms of her body and her reputation. She was ruined for another man. She hadn’t just given him her virginity; she’d given her heart and soul to a cynic.
Oh, there would be a good man, sooner or later—she had no doubt of it. She was still pretty, and the sins were laid upon her father, not her. She could probably have either a good-looking younger man without title or a great deal of money, and they could live on love, or she would marry an older man, less attractive but more endowed with worldly goods, and she could enjoy herself in the style she was used to. But either way, they wouldn’t be him.
The dark clouds were scudding across the sky, mirroring her mood. She had to come up with a plan, and she would. She closed her eyes as thoughts danced round in her head, and she tried to catch one, to focus, but it slipped away, and she was asleep.
She didn’t dream, but she felt the sun begin to warm her bones, and she settled in deeper, shifting on the hard ground. Time passed, and suddenly she was cold again, something was blocking the sun, and she opened her eyes to see a dark monolith standing over her. She blinked, trying to focus, and she struggled to sit up.
She looked straight into the Dark Viscount’s stormy eyes and everything inside her turned to stone.
“Oh, bloody Christ,” she said.
“Watch your mouth, Miss Russell,” he said coolly. “Anyone would think you were a lowly tart with language like that, instead of a proper young lady. Or perhaps proper is the wrong word for it. A spying, cheating, lying trollop might be a better description.”
She stared up at him in instant fury. “Trollop!” she echoed, unable to argue with the lying or spying bit. “I was a virgin until last night.”
“So I noticed. I’m assuming that was part of your plan. Sneak into Renwick under false pretenses and seduce the master of the house so he has no choice but to marry you.”
Her outrage grew, and she managed to scramble to her feet without a complete loss of dignity. “Seduce you?” she snapped, furious. “You idiot clodpole, in case you didn’t notice, you seduced me. And I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on earth. I just needed a place to stay while Nanny was
in hospital.” She certainly wasn’t about to tell him she suspected him of destroying her father. Somehow he knew her name, but he might not know her connection . . .
“You sound so very self-righteous, Miss Russell, for the daughter of an embezzler. I’m sure you could have found better pickings than me for this little game. Why not go for a royal duke? I’m assuming this blasted estate must have something to do with it. You’re willing to barter your virginity to own it again?”
He was so damned big, towering over her, and the difference was even worse with her lack of shoes. “You’re a bully,” she said. “I . . . I was wrong.” It devastated her to admit it. “I shouldn’t have come, but I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go at the time, and then things got complicated.”
“And you fell madly in love with me,” he said with heavy irony. “So that you couldn’t bear to leave my side.”
She jerked her head up at his words, and she was filled with a horrific thought. He was mocking her, of course, but did he have any idea that he might be far too close to the truth?
She pulled herself together. She’d had lots of experience arguing with her sisters, particularly Maddy, and she never gave in without a fight. “I have no interest in you,” she said icily, pleased with herself. “You’re a deluded popinjay, to think you were ever part of my plans.”
“So you admit you have a plan then. Did that include watching me swim day after day? Were you disappointed I didn’t strip down completely?”
The truth of that was unmistakable, and she could feel the heat flush her face. There was no way he could know that, no way she was admitting that. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Then why were you up here, watching me?”
“How did you know . . . ?” she began, and then could have kicked herself.
He didn’t look gratified. “I could feel your eyes on me, even from a distance.”
She wasn’t ready to give up. “Oh, so that’s why you preened and strutted like a peacock?”