by Anne Stuart
She didn’t blush—clearly she was more brazen than she had first appeared. “I will stop at nothing in my efforts to please you, my lord.”
His grin was wry. “Mrs. Lefton would expect nothing less.”
She nodded vigorously, showing more enthusiasm. “Her employees have to meet her exacting standards, and I know she has always been most impressed with my work.”
He considered this for a moment. He’d always wondered how women of the night received their training, and just assumed it was from experience, starting with their first lovers. The thought that Mrs. Lefton might have had firsthand knowledge of his new mistress gave him an odd feeling. While in general he found the idea of women pleasuring each other to be perfectly acceptable and even exciting, he didn’t like the thought of that raddled old hag touching Sophie.
Sophie. Maybe that was a good name for her after all.
“I really want this position,” she added.
He couldn’t repress a grin. “Which one?” He could think of half a dozen positions without even trying.
Sophie didn’t appear to share his extremely vulgar sense of humor. “The position for which I was hired,” she said with great dignity.
“I was thinking of more than one.”
She looked at him blankly, and his amusement began to turn to irritation again. He wasn’t used to having to work for a woman—that was the point in paying for it. No misconceptions, no polite lies or even the necessity of charm, though he’d been told he had his own, barbed brand of charm.
Unfortunately it was already too late—he wanted her, he wanted her now, and she was watching him with a cool expression that suggested half his innuendoes were going right over her head, when he knew that was impossible.
“I have very strong appetites,” he said slowly. “It takes a great deal to leave me sated, and I bore easily.”
“I promise my efforts won’t leave you bored,” she said.
He let his eyes drift down over her body. He could tell that the dress she was wearing had once been very good quality, and it had survived a hurried trip to a dye bath to turn it a rusty shade between black and brown. He certainly hoped she had something more becoming in her trunks, because this masquerade, while amusing, was most definitely finite. The only one in this household who cared about food was Adelia, and he’d just as soon poison the bitch as she had once tried to poison him. With Rufus gone there was no longer any reason to tolerate her. He’d promised his father he’d look after her, and deathbed promises weren’t to be broken lightly, but Adelia was someone who could be bought off quite easily. As long as he kept funneling money in her direction, he wouldn’t have to see the vicious cow.
In the meantime he had more pleasant things to think about, such as the gorgeous, prickling creature in front of him. “I could be up all night,” he murmured, thinking of his unruly member, “and do nothing but eat.”
She didn’t even blush. For all her seemingly untouched appearance, she must have seen and heard a great deal in her young life not to react to his salacious comments. Once again he wondered if she’d been a child whore, and the thought sickened him.
But no, she didn’t have that dead expression in her eyes. “How long have you been doing this?” he said abruptly.
“Long enough, my lord. I promise you will find me more than competent for anything your appetites desire.” Again she looked at him with that absolute earnestness that many of the most unblushing whores couldn’t carry off.
“Competent, eh?” he echoed. Lord knows one wanted a competent whore, he thought wryly.
“More than competent,” she corrected him. “In fact, you might even call me inspired when the occasion merits it.”
He laughed. “Well, I shall simply have to see that the occasion merits it. You’re dismissed, Sophie.” To his surprise he found himself rising, as if a lady were leaving the room. While he tended to treat his mistresses with absolute courtesy outside the bedroom, it would look extremely odd if he started rising for his cook. But sitting back down would be too awkward, so he skirted the desk as she rose, wanting to get closer to her. He wanted a taste of that lovely mouth of hers; he wanted to bite and lick her. He moved swiftly, before she had time to back away, and the chair was behind her legs, trapping her there.
She was suddenly breathing deeply, as if she were actually nervous, when up till now she’d been ridiculously calm. And she smelled . . . different. She smelled of soap, rather than scent, with a touch of vanilla sugar about her that suddenly reminded him of his childhood days in the kitchen, begging Cook for a taste of the sweet dough, when he was young and nothing bad had happened.
Of course, Cook had never looked like Sophie.
He bent down, because she was shorter than he’d ordered, ready to take her mouth, when there came a sharp rapping at the door.
He should have ignored it, but it startled him enough that she was able to back away and open the door before he could stop her.
It was good, reliable Dickens, and Alexander wished him to the devil and back again. But he’d already taken a step toward his desk, and Alexander had no intention of having his butler and old friend think he’d caught the master in flagrante delicto with the new cook.
“I beg your pardon, your lordship,” Dickens said, looking disturbed. “But we’ve received word from the man you hired to look into your brother’s death.”
“Of course,” he said, mentally dismissing Sophie. Temporarily. “Is he here?”
“No, my lord. But there’s correspondence.”
He’d been so distracted he hadn’t noticed Dickens was holding a silver salver with the morning post on it. “You may go, Madame Camille,” he said carelessly as he reached for the letter. “But I’ll most definitely have need of your talents later on.”
She bobbed a curtsey, something she clearly didn’t have much practice in, and whisked herself out the door. And then he thought of nothing else but the private detective’s neatly penned words.
CHAPTER EIGHT
FORTUNATELY DICKENS DIDN’T SEEM determined to race through the corridors of Renwick like his master, and Sophie had no trouble following in his wake, her mind reeling. She had to be imagining what had just happened in the Dark Viscount’s library. She’d been frozen, looking up at him, and she’d had the sudden thought that he was going to kiss her, that he was going to put that hard, mocking mouth against hers, and the very thought made her feel hot inside, and she wasn’t sure why. It was almost as if she’d wanted him to kiss her.
But that was impossible. He’d asked her all the right questions; he’d seemed much more interested in her qualifications as a cook than last evening’s meal had suggested, though heaven knows his guests might have put a damper on his appetite. Strong appetites, he’d said, and she wondered why that felt unnerving. There were men in society who had little interest in anything but food, but they tended to be corpulent, and the viscount was, if anything, a little too lean. She only wished she’d had a closer look at him when he swam. From the distance he’d seemed fit, muscled and strong, but up close there was a whipcord energy about him that was too hard, too unforgiving. God help the woman who drew his attentions, she thought piously, a little shiver of longing running down her spine.
Dickens had stopped in front of the baize door that led to the servants’ staircase, and she halted her headlong pace, almost running into him as he stood waiting for her. “Miss Russell . . .” he began.
“You shouldn’t call me that,” she said hastily. “Someone might hear you. Like an idiot I just told his lordship that my real name was Sophie, so you may as well call me that, unless you prefer Madame Camille . . .”
“Miss Sophie,” Dickens said, clearly determined to be formal. “Might I suggest you keep your distance from the viscount? While he has never once interfered with any of the staff under my protection, you are obviously not in the usual way. I have complete faith in his honor in this matter, but it might be prudent to keep temptation out of his reach.”
She blinked. “Do you think he has . . . er . . . designs on me?”
“It’s difficult to say, but it never hurts to err on the side of caution. I’ll speak to Prunella—she’ll come up with excuses if he asks for you. As I said, it would be completely unlike him, but I feel responsible for you. I should send you on your way, but we at Renwick are well aware of the difficult position you are in. I would never forgive myself if something happened to you.”
She smiled up at him gratefully. “I think you’re mistaken. The Dark . . . the viscount is far too proud to be interested in me. I’ve been the object of men’s flirtations since I was fifteen years old, and I assure you Viscount Griffiths is showing none of the signs.” It was true; that heavy, intense gaze was something totally unfamiliar.
“He doesn’t wish to court you, Miss Sophie. I’m concerned that he wishes to bed you. Pardon my plain speaking, but you’re on the other side now, and gentlemen do not always behave with perfect propriety. To my knowledge the master has never lowered himself to interfere with the servants, but I merely wished to caution you.”
He had to be wrong, but Sophie felt a rush of gratitude. People were looking out for her, caring for her well-being. She was no longer so alone. “Thank you, Mr. Dickens. I’ll be very careful.”
He gave a slight bow. “I also need to inform you that you are to stay away from the east aspect of the house in the afternoons. This is a rule for all the members of the household. His lordship swims in the reflecting pool in what I gather used to be the rose garden, and he insists on no witnesses.”
The loss of Bryony’s roses still rankled. “Why?” she said, trying to damp down her anger. “Does he swim in the altogether?”
Dickens looked faintly shocked. “Certainly not, miss! He just doesn’t wish to be spied upon.”
“I couldn’t care less about spying on the man,” she said airily, for the moment forgetting that she’d spent the last month going to a great deal of effort to do just that.
“Of course, miss. And when you come up with a few days’ worth of menus, I’ll be the one to take them to his lordship, to spare you.”
“His lordship, not his mother?”
“Mrs. Griffiths is his stepmother, and there’s no love lost between the two of them. She has a much more avid interest in food, and the viscount prefers to thwart her.”
“Childish of him.”
“We do not criticize our . . .” Dickens stopped as he realized what he was about to say. He sighed. “It’s best not to discuss those abovestairs. I beg your pardon, miss, but I worry about you.”
It was pure instinct on her part. She reached up and gave him a kiss on his rough cheek, and he flushed in embarrassment. “You’re very—”
“Do I interrupt?” The viscount’s soft voice did just that, and Sophie and the butler sprang apart, suddenly guilty.
Sophie recovered her composure faster. “I was thanking Mr. Dickens for his excellent guidance, my lord.” She was quite proud of herself for remembering the “my lord” part. “He was informing me that everyone avoids the east aspect of the house in the afternoons while you partake of your improving exercises.” She was hoping to goad him, just the tiniest bit, not for her sake but to pay him back for startling Dickens.
But Alexander Griffiths simply gave her that wicked smile. “Oh, they’re hardly improving. They’re more a matter of . . . maintenance. My temper is far more sanguine when I’m able to get a bit of exercise. Otherwise I’m an absolute bear, aren’t I, Dickens?”
“Good heavens, no, my lord!” Dickens managed to protest.
“Why don’t you ride, as most gentlemen do?” Sophie said curiously, then realized her mistake as both of the men turned to stare at her, Dickens with horrified eyes, the viscount with wry amusement.
“I do appreciate your concern, but I ride when I wish to go someplace. I happen to have a particular affinity for water. My mother used to say I was part seal.”
Sophie blinked, picturing the mean-looking dowager she’d seen the night before, then reminded herself that the woman was his stepmother. “I thought seals preferred the ocean to freshwater.” She heard Dickens’s shocked intake of breath, but it was too late to do anything about it.
“You should come with me, Madame Camille,” the butler said hastily, clamping a hand on her arm.
It was removed a second later by the viscount. “I’m afraid Cook and I hadn’t quite finished our conversation when you interrupted us, Dickens,” the viscount said in a silken voice. “I’ll send her along in a moment.”
Dickens was looking distressed. “I don’t mind waiting, my lord. Madame Camille is new to the house and she might not be able to find her way . . .”
“This staircase leads directly down to the kitchens. You know better than I how dim-witted she might be, but I imagine it would be fairly difficult to lose her way in such a short distance.”
Dickens cast a worried glance at Sophie’s fulminating countenance. “Yes, my lord,” he said helplessly, and slipped behind the baize door.
“Dim-witted?” Sophie echoed, her voice deceptively dulcet. “Have I given you any particular reason to suspect I’m devoid of my full complement of wits?”
That half smile again. “I knew it would annoy you. How do you like being called ‘Cook’?”
She barely managed to control her glare—she hadn’t liked it at all and he knew it. “Do you always bully your servants the way you did Dickens?”
“Oh, you give him too little credit. Dickens has been looking after me since I was fourteen years old and he’s used to my ways. He’s wise enough to know when to keep his mouth shut. A trick you could learn.”
“Why should I keep my mouth shut?” she said recklessly. “I’m your employee, not your slave, and you’re paying a very great deal for my wisdom and experience, not to mention my creativity.” At least she assumed he was. Too bad she was unlikely to see any of it. Since the mysterious Mrs. Lefton seemed to have made the arrangements for the viscount’s new chef, then most likely the money went to her first. Even if it did trickle down to Sophie, she would probably be gone well before her first month’s wages were due.
“So you are,” he murmured thoughtfully, letting those stormy gray eyes run down her body, and that familiar unease and anticipation swept through her.
He wouldn’t touch her, she reminded herself. Dickens had sworn he never touched the female staff. It was a blessed relief, she reminded herself for not the first time. “So what else did you wish to say to me, your lordship?” She didn’t bother disguising the note of impatience that crept into her voice. Even knowing she was perfectly safe from importunate advances still didn’t quiet her uneasiness in his presence, the strange restlessness that she couldn’t understand.
“Just this,” he said in a lazy voice, and before she had any idea what he intended he reached out and pulled her up against him, his other arm coming round her waist.
It was almost as if she’d been slammed against a hard object, though in fact he was only flesh and blood. Extremely firm, well-muscled flesh and blood, and there was no way her breath could have been knocked out of her by his unexpected move, and yet suddenly she couldn’t breathe.
She’d managed to raise her arms, to push against him, but it did no good. He was very strong, and she was trapped.
She looked up, way up into his eyes, steeling herself not to react to the stark, elegant beauty of his face. She knew her own eyes were cool, her expression undaunted, but she could feel her lower lip tremble slightly, the one part of her she couldn’t control, and she bit down hard on it to try to still the telltale sign.
She couldn’t read his expression—he was adept at being enigmatic, and he simply stared down at her for a long moment, as if he could read her soul beyond the determined, bland expression she was trying so hard to master.
“Yes, my lord?” she prompted impatiently, hoping her cool words would bring him to his senses and he’d release her. She’d made a fatal miscalculatio
n.
He caught her chin in one large, hard hand, holding her still, and when he put his mouth over hers, she froze in shock.
This kiss wasn’t like any other she’d ever experienced. His lips weren’t soft, tentative, worshipful. His mouth was hard, damp, covering hers as he tipped her head back, and she let out an involuntary gasp of shock. This wasn’t right. He didn’t touch his servants; she was perfectly safe.
He lifted his head, and she let out her pent-up breath in a whoosh. He was looking down at her critically, critically, as if she’d just presented him with an undercooked capon. “Surely you can kiss better than that,” he said with a hint of asperity. “Open your mouth.”
He still had her trapped against him, and the heat of his body through the too-few layers of clothes was calling to her. She needed to put a stop to this immediately, she reminded herself. “Why?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Why?” he echoed, almost nonplussed. “Are you really asking me why you should open your mouth when I kiss you?”
“You are correct, my lord”—she put an ironic emphasis on his title—“although it’s of little importance, since I have no intention of letting you kiss me again, and I am most certainly not going to kiss you. Please release me.”
For a moment he seemed almost baffled. “You’re not going to kiss me?”
“Absolutely not. Ever.” Her voice was firm. “Now if we’re finished here I need to return to the kitchens to begin preparing dinner.”
“Not quite finished, my dear Sophie,” he said in an amused tone that sent shivers of alarm down her spine. “Were you or were you not sent here by Mrs. Lefton?”
She’d already told him that she had been—she could hardly take it back. Maybe the mysterious Mrs. Lefton specialized in cooks who kissed their masters. “Mrs. Lefton sent me.” She didn’t even blink at the blatant untruth.
“And did she, or did she not, send you here for a specific reason?” His soft voice was almost dangerous, but his hold on her had gentled slightly. Not that she made the mistake of thinking she could tear herself out of his arms. If she tried, those arms would tighten once again. She was going nowhere until he was ready to release her.