A trace of amusement lightened a bit of the anger in his eyes. “No, you little hellion, I’m just that glorious. Why were you watching me?”
She went for a bit of the truth. She glowered at him. “This was always my favorite place to walk to, and I always went out while Nanny napped. Is it my fault that her naps and your public disrobing happened to coincide?”
“It was hardly public—I had an audience of one,” he drawled. “So tell me your plans, Miss Russell. I admit I’m mildly curious. I’d like to know what they are before I throw you to the curb.”
“There aren’t any curbs in the countryside,” she said, a pathetic triumph. “And my plans are simple. I’ve been trying to find a way to get back to London. I have dozens of friends I could stay with”—a rash exaggeration—“and I’ll have you know I was quite the sought-after young lady last year. I could have had my pick of a dozen men.”
“That was when you were an heiress.”
Bastard, she thought grimly. “I was hardly a wallflower with only my fortune to recommend me,” she said. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m beautiful.” Saying the words out loud felt odd, but it was simply the truth.
“Oh, I noticed,” he said softly, and a chill went down her spine.
“And what were you going to do when you got your lovely, deceitful self to London?”
If she’d had shoes on she’d have kicked him. She could hardly pull his hair as she and Maddy had done with their big go-rounds—even though he wore his long, he was too tall for her to reach it. “I was going to find someone rich and handsome and titled and marry him!” she shot back, not caring how venal she sounded. And then the simple truth of what she’d said hit her, and she wanted to disappear.
“But luckily for you, you found someone rich and handsome and titled right in your former backyard,” he said, his voice dripping sarcasm.
She had no argument but a weak one. “What makes you think you’re handsome?”
“What makes you think you’re beautiful? We’d make a lovely couple if I ever planned to take you to London, but since I hate the place, I’m afraid you’ll be staying right here.”
“I’m not staying anywhere. I’m leaving.”
He shook his head. “You’re the one who started this game, Miss Russell. You have to play by the rules. You managed to get me to despoil you, and I have to do the honorable thing. We’re getting married, immediately, much as the thought galls me.”
“I’m not marrying you!” Her voice rose in sudden panic. This was all wrong; the sweet pleasure of last night had become something ugly and twisted. “And what do you mean, I got you to despoil me? I tried to stop you.”
“Not very hard. I’ve never taken an unwilling woman in my life. Admit it—this is what you planned.”
“It was not!” She needed to get away from him before she cried. She was very near to tears now, and that would only complete her shame. “If I wanted to marry a lord, I’d hardly pick one who murdered his first wife.”
The moment the words were out of her mouth she froze, horrified. What had she done?
He didn’t move, didn’t even blink at the horrid accusation. “That’s the good thing about being saddled with an unwanted wife. I can always toss you from the battlements as well.”
“I’m sorry . . .” she began, feeling wretched.
“Oh, don’t be sorry, Miss Russell. You’re only saying what everyone has been thinking. In truth, I’m sure we’ll have a lifetime of connubial bliss.”
Why did that sound like a threat? “I’m not marrying you. I don’t care if you . . . if you . . .”
“Fucked you is the term, I believe.”
She glared at him. “If you deflowered me,” she said firmly. “No one need know. I won’t marry you.”
He let out a derisive laugh. “Deflowered? What books have you been reading, Miss Russell? Whatever they are, they aren’t in touch with reality. My reputation is already shit, and I have my own reasons not to seek out a new disgrace. You’re marrying me, whether you like it or not. And don’t think I’m one of your besotted suitors. I already know how bad you are in bed. I’m doing my duty and nothing more, and you’re going to have to pay the price for your indiscretions.”
The rest of his words faded in the distance. How bad she was in bed? What did that mean? That he didn’t want her? That last night had been a disappointment, not the transcendent experience it had come close to being for her? That she had wasted herself on someone who had found her wanting?
He was watching her in silence. She set her mouth in a tight line, refusing to look up. If she did he might see the sudden sheen of tears in her eyes, which were simply tears of exhaustion, she reminded herself. They had nothing to do with his cruel, hateful words.
He moved closer, too close, and she tried to back up but he caught her arm in his hard grip. “Come along, Miss Russell. I have a wedding to arrange, and you need a warm bath and a change of clothes.”
She didn’t listen to him. She couldn’t fight him—his grip was unrelenting. “My . . . my valise,” she said, unable to argue anymore.
It was in reach, and he caught it up. Without another word he started down the path that had been hers alone, the track to her sanctuary, and she stumbled after him, wincing as the stray stones and twigs bit into her feet. When she’d come up here, she’d come at a slow pace, avoiding the sharp bits on the path, but he was pulling her so fast that she had no choice.
There were halfway down the track when a particularly sharp stone dug into her instep, and she staggered, falling against him. “Watch yourself,” he snapped, and then paused. “What the hell are you wearing on your feet?”
She was hardly going to lift her skirts to show him. “I . . . I couldn’t find my shoes.”
He had no such qualms. He reached down and caught her skirts, pulling them up high, and even as she tried to slap his hands away she could see that one foot was bleeding. “You are such an idiot,” he muttered, and picked her up in his arms.
It happened so fast she had no chance to avoid him. She struggled for a moment, until his harsh words sank in.
“If you don’t stop that I’ll spank you, and under these circumstances I don’t think you’d enjoy that at all.”
She immediately stopped struggling. “I can’t imagine any circumstances under which I’d think I’d enjoy it.”
For some reason that brought a sardonic grin from him. “I forgot you’re not a whore. I think that’s one of the first ways I’ll educate you.”
“What are you talking about? I don’t need any education.”
“Let’s end this discussion, shall we?” he said as he continued down the path, for all as if she weighed nothing. She remembered the previous night, when he’d carried her up the broad staircase in Renwick, and her insides began to warm, until she heard him continue. “It’s making me hard, and my only choice would be to disgrace myself in front of Dickens or take you for a quick shag in the woods. And I can think of better ways to spend my time.”
She kept her face averted, refusing to flinch at his casual cruelty. “The sooner I get back to the house, the sooner I can be on my way,” she said icily. “And if you have a problem, think of capons. And castrati.”
His laugh sounded almost devoid of anger. “Even if you’re a dead bore in bed you’ll be entertaining out of it,” he said, continuing down the path.
He was being a right bastard, Alexander thought, the delicious bundle in his arms stiff with anger, and he didn’t know why. To be sure, he had every right to be furious. She’d lied to him, time and time again, trapping him into marriage whether it had been her intent or not. He was furious with her and with himself—he’d known there was something off about her, but every time he questioned her about Lefton she’d insisted the old abbess had sent her for his pleasure.
He still didn’t need to be quite so vicious to her. He didn’t need to pretend that the night before hadn’t been . . . memorable in more ways than one. Perhaps it was simply that it had bee
n too long since he’d had a woman, but he knew he was fooling himself. He could still taste her, feel her body clench around his, and he was going to have to dunk them both in the pool to deal with his erection if he didn’t stop thinking about it.
He had more important things on his mind. To marry her locally would require the calling of the banns for three weeks, and he wasn’t in the mood to wait, or to deal with her arguments for that long.
The arguments had to be as specious as her connection to Lefton. She’d admitted her goal was to marry a rich and titled man, and she’d managed to get herself compromised by one. Of course she’d done everything she could to put him off, but he had no idea whether that was simply part of her game or a real aversion to him. It could simply be the natural reticence of a properly reared young lady—he hadn’t been around one in a while.
Damn her, he thought, speeding up as he approached the house. And damn him. This was a right holy mess, one that could have been avoided if she’d simply told him who she was. Better yet, if she’d never come near him in the first place. Now it was up to him to clean it up, as quickly and discreetly as possible.
One of the footmen was waiting at the door, opening it for him as he swept her inside and dropped her valise. He paused a moment, trying to decide where to take her, when she spoke in a stiff little voice.
“I’d like to go back to my rooms by the kitchen. And I’m capable of walking,” she added pointedly.
“I’d rather not have you tracking blood all over my carpets,” he said.
“Then Tim can carry me.”
Alexander jerked his head up to give the footman a piercing glare. They had all probably known who she was, and he ought to sack the lot of them. “I think I can manage,” he said dryly. He started for the servants’ stairway. He had no intention of leaving her down there, but for the time being it was easier, and someone needed to look after her feet. She wouldn’t be walking far on them, and that would give him time to sort things out.
Everyone froze as he descended into the kitchen, and the guilt on every face he happened to notice assured him that they were all intimately aware of his cook’s real identity and his damned infatuation with her. “Her feet need bandaging,” he announced in a gruff voice. “Where are her rooms?” He had a general idea of how the kitchens were laid out, but the sleeping arrangements of the servants had been Adelia’s purview until she’d collapsed in histrionic grief over her precious son.
Dickens stepped forward, all dignity, as if he hadn’t been lying to his master for days now. “This way, my lord. And Prunella, if you would join us with bandages and carbolic. Agnes, continue with the preparation for dinner—Prunella will rejoin you in a moment.”
Sophie stirred in his arms, ignoring him as if he were nothing more than a carriage transporting her. “What are you working on for dinner?”
“Just what you wrote down, miss,” Prunella replied. “Everything’s going well, and I’m planning to do the sauce just as you showed me.”
“If I’m stuck here for the night I may as well help you.”
He wanted to growl, like an angry bear. “You’re stuck here for a lot longer, and you’ll stay in bed. Your feet are in worse shape than you realize.” He followed Dickens into a set of plain rooms, the front door paneled in glass. Her bed was indeed narrow, and all sorts of wicked thoughts entered his mind as he dropped her down.
She glared up at him. “Go away.”
If she heard Dickens’s shocked intake of breath she didn’t react.
“I’m going. I’ve had my fill of scrambling in the woods looking for you. I have better things to do.”
She wanted to snap some kind of comeback to that, but she kept her mouth shut. Smart girl.
There was one obvious silver lining to this particular cloud. Adelia was going to be livid when he told her he planned to marry again.
With that to look forward to, the day wasn’t so bad after all.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“OH, MISS!” PRUNELLA SAID, fluttering around her. “Whatever did you do to your poor feet?”
Sophie sent up a silent thank-you that she hadn’t asked a more pertinent question. There were other parts of her body that were almost as uncomfortable. “I couldn’t find my shoes,” she mumbled, suddenly feeling guilty.
“Never you mind, Prunella.” Dickens’s reproof was gentle. “She’s had a rough time of it. You just take good care of her and I’ll have a talk with his lordship. I expect you’d like a cup of tea and something to eat, Miss Russell.”
There was no need to stop him from using her last name now. “That would be lovely, Mr. Dickens.”
“Just Dickens, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll have someone see to it, and I’ll send Tim to look for your shoes.”
Once he’d left she could pull her skirts up to her knees. Her feet weren’t that bad—a bit bruised and a little bloody, as far as she could tell beneath the dirt and mud.
“I’ll draw you a nice hot bath, Miss Russell, and then we’ll see about bandaging those feet.”
The bath was the closest thing to heaven Sophie could imagine. Her feet stung when she first stepped into the steaming water, but sinking into it was like being wrapped in warmth. She slid down, up to her chin, letting the hot water reach the soreness between her legs, and she breathed a sigh of pure pleasure. Until she saw Prunella looking at her in shock.
“Whatever did he do to you, miss?”
Sophie could feel her face flame, and she glanced down at her body beneath the clear water. There were marks, definite marks, on her breasts, her chest, and probably more places. Her pale skin always bruised easily, not to mention the redness from his unshaven stubble, or the fact that her lips felt swollen. “I . . . uh . . .”
But Prunella had already turned away. “Begging your pardon, Miss Russell,” she said.
For the first time Sophie felt ashamed. “I’m sorry, Prunella,” she said helplessly.
Prunella turned back. “Oh, no, miss! It’s not your fault. Men are the very devil, and resisting one who’s caught your eye is well-nigh impossible. I just hope he didn’t hurt you.”
Sophie remembered that sudden sharp pain when he thrust inside her. And then she remembered the burgeoning of feeling that had come over her despite the pain, and her insides clenched as she remembered his mouth on her breasts, and she felt her nipples contract in the warm water, which shouldn’t be right. She tried to sink lower, but if she went much farther she’d end up with a mouthful of water.
“Of course not,” she muttered, wishing Prunella would go away.
Prunella must have been a mind reader. “I’ll leave you be, then, miss, unless you’d like some help washing?”
Sophie tried not to look too relieved. “I’ll be fine. I’d just like to soak a bit.”
“A good idea, miss. It’ll help the aches and pains.”
Sophie had the strong suspicion she wasn’t talking about her feet.
An hour later she was bandaged, dressed, and hobbling around in a pair of slippers two sizes too big for her. Dickens had even found her an entirely unnecessary cane, which she used anyway to favor her right foot, which seemed to have suffered a turned ankle as well as the cuts. She was sitting at a stool in the kitchen, working on the evening’s pastry, an elaborate tart made from dried apples and fresh ginger. They still hadn’t found her shoes, and the viscount was right—she wouldn’t be doing much walking for at least a day. That didn’t mean she could afford to sit around waiting. There was no way she could be near a kitchen and not be involved, and working with the pastry had calmed her shattered nerves just a tiny bit, and enabled her to plan. Clearly she had to find a way out of there, and fast. She was hardly going to spend the rest of her life married to a man who despised her, particularly one capable of such casual cruelty. Not that she cared what he thought of her, but she was hardly going to stay around someone who thought she had manipulated him into marriage, someone he had tried and found wanting.
Not that last nigh
t had felt casual. She’d been caught up in a storm of emotion and desire, and she could have sworn he was too. Otherwise why had he bothered?
“Miss Russell, you’ll be taking dinner with his lordship.” Dickens had just descended the stairs, and while his words were proper, his eyes were troubled. “And he’s directed me to move your things to one of the guest bedrooms.”
“No,” she said flatly.
“I’m afraid you have no choice in the matter. He said to tell you that if you don’t cooperate you won’t get your shoes back.”
“He has them?” she said angrily. “Blast the man! So I’m supposed to whore myself out for a pair of shoes?”
Dead silence in the kitchen, and Sophie could have kicked herself. It wasn’t as if they all didn’t know what she’d been doing last night, but they’d studiously ignored the fact, treating her with the kind deference they had from the very beginning.
Prunella was the first to speak. “I don’t believe the master had any such idea in mind. He’s a reasonable man if you just speak to him.”
“Are we talking about the same man?” Sophie shot back bitterly. “The one who won’t let me leave here?”
“He’s looking out for you, miss,” Dickens said.
Sophie made a rude noise of disbelief. The more time passed the more the astonishing pleasure of last night faded, and her regret was so strong she wanted to weep with it. If she were the type to weep, that was.
“Do you need Tim to carry you upstairs, miss?” Dickens continued, obviously not about to let her escape.
She made one last adjustment to the pastry, then slid down from the stool. “I can manage.” She didn’t bother to disguise her annoyance. It wasn’t his fault, of course, but she had no doubt at all he’d instruct Tim to haul her upstairs kicking and screaming, if she kept being stubborn.
She was in a miserable situation, she thought, leaning on the cane as she slowly made her way up the winding stairs to the ground level, but fussing about it wouldn’t help. She needed to be calm, patient, and look for her best chance of escape.