by Anne Stuart
“Yes, my lord. And I promise to fill my position to the absolute best of my abilities.” She swallowed, then continued doggedly onward. “But I have my own ways of doing things. I promise you will have nothing to complain about with what I offer you.” She was feeling reckless—she hadn’t even cooked him a full sixteen-course meal, and yet she had complete faith in her abilities if he just gave her enough time to try. “I swear to you that by the time I’m finished, you will be struck silent with awe and admiration.”
He simply blinked in astonishment. And then he threw back his head and laughed, and for once the sound was different, clear and loud, with none of the irony and mockery that seemed to lace his speech and his humor. “My dear Sophie,” he bent down to murmur in her ear, “your promises whet my appetite to an alarming extent. If you’re able to fulfill them even half as well as you insist you can, then I imagine we’ll get along very well.”
If she let out a sigh of relief he’d feel it, so she simply nodded. She’d earned a reprieve, and once he tasted her Poulet à l’Ancienne with its cream sauce just lightly touched with lemon and capers, her place of honor would be assured for as long as she wished to stay.
“In the meantime you need to release me, your lordship. How would it look to the other servants if they happened to see me in such an odd position?”
He glanced down with a lazy expression at their bodies pressed close together. “I can think of many odder, more interesting positions,” he said, and the mocking humor was back. “And they’ll find out soon enough.”
She was too busy trying to wriggle out of his arms to pay attention to what he was saying, and this time he let her go, stepping back from her. “Do keep away from the east lawn,” he added affably. “Or you may not be able to wait until tonight.”
She had absolutely no idea what he was talking about, and she wondered for a moment if the man were slightly . . . eccentric was the polite term for it. Moon-mad might be closer.
“I intend to spend the rest of the day and night in the kitchen,” she said firmly, backing away from him, hoping she wasn’t going to trip. She wasn’t going to turn around and run—that was assured. Never turn your back on the enemy, Papa had always said, and whether the Dark Viscount had had anything to do with Papa’s death or not, he was most definitely the enemy.
“Not the entire night,” he said, and before she realized it he’d pushed her up against the baize door, caught her mouth with his, and his tongue was there, touching hers with an intimacy that astonished her. What strange perversions had the man come up with?
She’d never been kissed like this. It felt almost unbearably intimate, and she froze, wild thoughts careening through her brain. She should be furious, disgusted, outraged. Instead she felt an odd trickle of arousal begin to burn in her belly, and lower still. She could feel her body soften against his, as if she could mold herself against his hard frame, and she recognized, to her dismay, that she liked this. No, more than liked it. She wanted the kiss to last forever. This was what she’d been waiting for during her long, endless season in London, this rush of need, of emotion that was sweeping her off her feet, leaving her moon-mad herself.
He lifted his head, far too soon, pausing for a moment as he stared down at her, a quizzical expression on his face. As if he found the kiss as astonishing as she did.
Before she could shove him away, before she could close her eyes and drift into the strange, enticing promise of that indecent kind of kiss, he released her. “You’ll need to get used to it,” he said cryptically.
A moment later he was gone, leaving her standing alone in the hallway, unable to move.
Get used to what? What in the world had just happened? She felt confused, flushed, nervous, and excited, all from a strange kind of kiss that surely wasn’t even English. She realized she was trembling, and she quickly pulled herself together. She was no weak-minded miss to dissolve when a strange man kissed her. Except that the Dark Viscount wasn’t simply a stranger at all. Whether she liked it or not, he was someone who mattered to her, mattered a great deal.
She pushed open the green baize door and then leaned against the other side, trying to catch her breath and still her racing pulses. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been kissed before. She’d allowed a select few of her most devoted swains that privilege, and at night she’d talked to Maddy, comparing one against another in hopes of being able to choose a suitable husband. Life would have been so much simpler if she hadn’t been so choosy. A husband would have had no choice but to support her sisters as well as herself when their world had been destroyed, and since she had had no intention of marrying anyone without a fortune, a title, and a great deal of influence, both socially and politically, their problems would have been over before they’d started.
But no, she’d kept finding fault with each one of them, all for one thing or another that in retrospect seemed ridiculous. She hadn’t liked Reginald Grant’s protuberant Adam’s apple. Cecil Hargreaves had an annoying laugh, Nigel Pennysworth cleared his throat constantly, Sir Richard Thompson had been too dour, Lord Kindor smiled too much. While their attention had been flattering, she couldn’t imagine spending the rest of her life with any one, much less sharing the mysterious activities of the bedchamber with him.
Not that those activities were that mysterious. Both Bryony and Maddy had explained them to her, but neither of them had spoken from experience. Her maid had offered up a few shocking tidbits, such as the fact that some men and women actually put their mouths there, and derived great pleasure from it. As someone particularly interested in the taste of things, Sophie couldn’t help but be appalled by such a notion, but maybe if one washed down the flavor with wine or a sweet custard one might not notice.
And of course she had no idea what the actual member itself looked like, apart from the sisters’ surreptitious and intense study of the Elgin Marbles. If it were rather like a piece of liver in texture then it might do well with bacon.
That was when she realized the appalling absurdity of what she was doing, coming up with a menu for raw . . . raw cock, that’s what the stable lads had called it. There were other words too, but she didn’t want to think about it. She didn’t want to think about putting her mouth on a piece of raw liver; she didn’t want to think about naked bodies.
Except his . . .
She still hadn’t seen the Dark Viscount in the altogether, and she’d promised herself she would, sooner or later. Now that she’d put herself in such close proximity to him, it might not be such a wise idea, but she’d made a promise to herself the first day she’d gone tromping around on that outcropping and come across the view down in the valley, and a promise was a promise.
She probably ought to see what she could do to solve the mystery of her father’s fall from grace, to see whether Alexander Griffiths had anything to do with it. Once she’d determined his innocence, and only then, would she sneak out into the east garden, hide behind the few sad, remaining rose bushes and take in the full glory of his body.
It would make her eventual marriage to whomever was lucky enough to win her favors much easier to deal with. Knowledge was power, Bryony always used to say, and Maddy had seconded it. Who was she to go against her sisters’ wisdom?
She could hear the staff down in the kitchen, the quiet sounds of someone chopping on the wooden block, the slap and thump of dough being worked, the smell of chicken stock wafting up. She would make the Dark Viscount the most magnificent meal he’d ever enjoyed, and then she’d sleep the sleep of the just, knowing she’d lived up to her extravagant promises.
She reached up and touched her mouth, her fingertips soft against her lips. He’d kissed her. Deep, open-mouthed. How very odd. Not odd that he’d wanted to kiss her—most men did, and for no earthly reason besides her fortunate combination of face and figure. But that he would do so when he found his female staff to be beyond the pale, that he’d kissed her so intensely, shocked her. Presumably he thought too much of his own consequence to dabble w
ith the lower orders.
But that didn’t explain why he’d kissed her like that. It was no hastily snatched kiss and a pinch on the bottom. It felt like a lover’s kiss.
She’d find out eventually. One thing at a time. First, produce a meal to silence all his sly innuendoes and ill-advised flirtatiousness and ensure her job was secure. Secondly, see if she could figure out where the money had come from to refurbish an already well-ordered house with such bad taste. It didn’t appear as if any amount of money had been spared, though at least the kitchens were still as they had been. But money had come from somewhere, and the Griffiths family fortune had been decimated by the last viscount’s gambling and profligate ways. The current viscount, his nephew, had lived in much more modest circumstances somewhere up north, and as far as she knew the only thing of value that came with the title was Renwick.
She reached the bottom of the stairs, surveying her army of workers, and belatedly she put her hand to her mouth. It felt as if his kiss still lingered, and she scrubbed at her lips surreptitiously. It was time to sweep the Dark Viscount and his Dark Doings from her mind, at least for the next few hours. She had to create a magical meal to ensure her position here, and she was ready to begin.
Ten hours later Sophie had collapsed on the chair she’d had one of the footmen drag in from a storeroom, her stockinged feet propped up on the stool. She shouldn’t have removed her shoes in front of the few remaining staff, but it was that or die on the spot, and she preferred to live.
She had never worked so hard in her entire life. Compared to her first night here, this evening’s meal was a full-blown feast, despite Dickens’s contention that his Dark Lordship would be eating alone and could make do with a tray. She had something to prove, and prove it she would, with the very best of her art and abilities. Besides, there were twenty-seven servants belowstairs who would happily partake of the leftovers.
Twenty-seven other servants, she reminded herself. She was a servant too, at Alexander Griffiths’s beck and call. At least this sumptuous meal would leave no doubt as to her qualifications.
Everyone belowstairs had been wonderful. She could bless them all—they’d taken her directions, and when she’d made a mistake they’d helped her, all with a kind, odd protectiveness. She’d felt a little like a baby chick encircled by a crowd of hens and roosters, scaring off any predator.
She summoned up a weary sigh at the fanciful thought. The only predator in this household was abovestairs, and while she’d managed to keep the thought of him out of her mind during the intense, exhausting work, now she was too tired to fight it.
The man was attracted to her. That came as no surprise, having had most of London at her feet during her one season. He was a man who didn’t touch the women in his employ, but he’d touched her once already, kissed her, his hard mouth against her, kissed her with his . . . his tongue, and that strange, barbaric kiss had lingered, and nothing seemed to drive it away. No matter what she ate, what she drank, she could still feel his kiss in her mouth.
She would simply have to be firm with him, she told herself, closing her eyes as she leaned back in the chair. She could feel her hair escaping the white cap she’d worn, drifting around her shoulders, and she was finally beginning to cool off from her time spent huddled over the massive coal-fired range. The dinner had been a triumph, and she’d been summoned once more to the table, to be properly lauded.
The viscount would have been alone at that table, and she wasn’t going to spend another moment in his company if she could help it. It was bad enough that he’d wormed his way into her daydreams. Dickens had made her excuses, and she had complete faith that he’d come up with something plausible. He’d reported back that the viscount, who usually ate very little, had sampled everything and been gratifyingly amazed at the results. He’d closed his eyes and savored, said Tim, one of the footmen who’d served dinner, and Sophie could picture him with an almost erotic look of pleasure on his face.
Not that she was familiar with erotic looks of pleasure, she reminded herself. But it was easy to imagine it on Viscount Griffith’s cool, handsome face, with its high, aristocratic cheekbones and saturnine mouth. The mouth that had kissed her.
Damn, she was back to that again! She stirred, opening her eyes. She could hear quiet noises in the scullery as the maids finished up the final bits of their work. Dickens had already counted the silver and plate; the trays were laid out for the morning, the worktable scrubbed clean. No one would have thought they’d waged a massive culinary battle just a few short hours ago, and would again tomorrow.
She felt rather than saw Dickens approach her. She’d wanted to help, but Prunella had reminded her of the fierce hierarchy of the kitchen, and Sophie had sunk into her chair with blessed relief.
“You should retire, Miss Sophie,” Dickens said. “The majority of the staff have already gone up to their rooms, and I can oversee the last little bits of cleanup.”
“You’re a god among men, Mr. Dickens,” she murmured, “but frankly, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to move from this chair.”
Dickens made an odd, rusty sound that she rightly identified as a laugh. “I can call one of the footmen back and have you carried to your room.”
“A lovely idea, but I’ll forgo the offer.” The noise in the scullery had ceased, and the two maids headed for the narrow staircase that led directly to the servants’ quarters. The only access to the main house was through the kitchen stairs, which was something Bryony had set in place, Sophie remembered hazily. A gentleman houseguest of their father’s had taken advantage of one of the pretty maids, and Bryony had decided to limit their access. Perhaps tomorrow Sophie would see about sleeping up there as well. Not that she really had anything to fear from the Dark Viscount—he was just amusing himself, like a great, sleek cat baiting a poor mouse.
Except that she was far from mouselike, and she wasn’t going to be batted around for his entertainment. The next time he tried to kiss her, she was going to use her knee on his privates, and then he’d leave her alone.
Or discharge her, but she wasn’t going to worry about that. She was hardly going to trade her virtue for a chance to discover whether or not Alexander, Viscount Griffiths, was a criminal, and her sisters would kill her if she did. Her virginity, along with her beauty and her acceptable lineage, were her stock in trade, her bargaining chips. She couldn’t play them recklessly.
“You go on to bed, Mr. Dickens,” she continued, trying to put the idea of her virginity and Alexander’s dark, predatory eyes out of her mind. “I’ll be fine. I’ll just rest here a bit.”
“If that’s all,” he said. “Tim is on duty for the night if anyone needs anything, so don’t worry if one of the bells rings—he’ll take care of it.”
As if his words had set things in motion, the harsh sound of a bell broke through the late-night hush in the kitchen. Dickens turned to look at the board, and he made a face. “It’s his lordship. I’ll take care of it.” He started toward the stairs, when Tim appeared, looking slightly rattled.
“His lordship wants to see Miss Sophie,” he said breathlessly. “He says he wants what she promised him.”
Sophie sat up, suddenly alarmed. What was that annoying man demanding now? She’d given him everything she’d promised: a wonderful dinner to enrapture his senses. What else could the dratted creature want?
“Tell him I’ve gone to bed,” she said, not moving from her chair.
Tim cleared his throat. “Um, miss . . . I don’t think that’s going to do. He said I was to send you upstairs right and proper and no dawdling. He says he’s ready for the dessert you promised him.”
What the hell was he talking about? She’d already offered him dried apple tart, a blancmange, a lemon torte laced with cognac, and even an arrangement of spring berries and Chantilly cream. What else could he possibly be demanding?
She pushed herself up from the chair, groaning as her back ached and her feet hurt. How could women twice her age do this
three times a day without complaint?
Dickens was looking befuddled. “I fail to understand. I believe I personally carried a tray of exquisite sweets to the table. He should have no need for more food.”
“He told me he grew famished at all hours of the day and night,” Sophie said.
Dickens looked doubtful. “That’s news to me, miss, and I’ve been with his lordship since he was fourteen. It’s his stepmama who seems to have an unquenchable desire for sweetmeats and the like.” He turned and frowned at the footman. “Are you sure it wasn’t Mrs. Griffiths who asked for Miss Sophie?”
Tim shook his head. “No, sir, Mr. Dickens. And I will say his lordship looked hungry.”
Dickens shrugged. “Very well, I’ll assemble a tray and you can carry it up.”
“Begging your pardon, Mr. Dickens, but he specifically demanded Miss Sophie. He’s not going to be any too happy to see me return without her.”
“Well, then, you’ll just have to deal with it,” Dickens said reprovingly. “We do our best for those upstairs, but sooner or later we find ourselves disappointing them. You may as well get used to it.”
Sophie didn’t move. Her instincts, powerful enough to keep her still, warned her to run. To go into her rooms and lock and bar the door, which was ridiculous. As if the Dark Viscount would come prowling down to the basement in search of his errant cook!
Then again, he’d kissed her. The problem with Alexander Griffiths was that she wanted to kiss him. Wanted to kiss him the way he’d kissed her, that intimate, open-mouthed possession that seemed to reach throughout her entire body. Oh, to be sure, her previous adventures in the art had been willing. She’d hoped she could tell who would make the best husband, though Maddy had told her caustically that she was being absurd. Perhaps she was, but if she had to go through the mortification and discomfort of lying naked in a bed with a man, she ought to at least enjoy kissing him.