by Anne Stuart
“What was that, Miss Sophie?” Dickens said as she let out an unbidden curse.
“Nothing, Mr. Dickens,” she murmured, mentally kicking herself. “I just remembered that I wanted to make a tarte au l’onion tonight and I have to check the egg supply.”
“Our chickens, quails, and ducks lay far more than we can use, Miss Sophie.”
“That’s a relief.” But Sophie wasn’t relieved at all. She’d been so caught up in the pleasure of having her own limitless kitchen, not to mention being distracted by the bewitching, nerve-racking presence of the Dark Viscount, that she had forgotten why she was here. Not to cook, not to find shelter when she’d lost her temporary home, though both of those were lovely. She was here to find out whether Alexander Griffiths, Viscount Griffiths, had had anything to do with her father’s disgrace and death. Where had all his money come from?
And if the man was gone for a number of days, now was the time to find out.
She didn’t want to. She wanted to go back to her wonderful kitchen and her helpers and create masterpieces, even if the only audience was that horrid old woman on the third floor. At least Mrs. Griffiths’s silent companion would enjoy them as well. She’d make enough for her kitchen staff, rather than feed them something cheaper and plainer. At least for as long as she remained here, they would eat like peers of the realm.
“Do you have any idea where his lordship went, or how long he’ll be gone?” Sophie asked in what she hoped was a casual voice. “Shall I expect him for dinner?”
“It’s unlikely,” Dickens replied. “He goes into town fairly regularly and stays away a night or two. I imagine this is one of those . . . er . . . occasions.”
“Really? Where does he go?” She didn’t bother pretending to be uninterested. Where would the viscount disappear to without telling his stepmother?
“He . . . that is . . . his lordship . . . er . . .” Dickens was looking uneasy. “A man has certain needs, miss, and he . . .”
“Oh,” Sophie said, finally understanding. “You mean he goes out and finds a whore for a couple of nights?”
Dickens cleared his throat. “He doesn’t wish to . . . er . . . mingle with anyone in the area. He says it’s soiling his own nest.”
More proof that she was safe from his advances. Which made the fact that he’d kissed her, twice, all the more puzzling. Perhaps his stepmother hadn’t lied, that he preferred men, and the companionship he found in town was of the male gender. But still, why had he kissed her?
It wouldn’t happen again. She wasn’t going anywhere near him without Dickens in tow.
Clearly she was living on borrowed time. Either Alexander Griffiths would return, refuse to take no for an answer, and she’d have to run away, or his evil stepmother would find some excuse to dismiss her. If he was gone for two nights then now was the time to act, whether she wanted to or not.
Sophie could feel his hands on her face, her neck. They were smooth, cool, slightly calloused, not the soft, pampered hands of the men she had danced with. He slid his hands over her breasts, his fingers dancing across her hardened nipples, and she wanted to reach up and pull the chemise down to her waist, exposing herself to the feel of his skin against hers. He leaned over and put his mouth against hers, and she knew he was wet from the pool with cool water on his golden skin, and she wanted to taste the water, to drink it, and she opened her mouth for his tongue, reaching up for him . . .
The chair beneath her creaked, and she awoke with a start. She was alone in the kitchen, sitting by the fire in her ridiculously comfortable chair. Dinner was finished, everything put away, and only one tray was set for the morning. Which meant he wasn’t expected to return that night. Sophie shook the last remnants of the dream from her brain and rose, wandering around the dimly lit, deserted kitchen, making a last-minute inspection. She was delighted that he’d gone out to find more agreeable companionship, she told herself. If the man had to pay for physical affection, then it only served him right if it was cold and heartless.
Except she knew very well he wouldn’t have to pay. The majority of the women on staff, and possibly a number of the men, would have gladly accepted his advances, not to mention the married women and widows in the surrounding areas. Wealthy, handsome viscounts were not in abundance—despite suspicions surrounding his first wife’s death, she imagined that most young women of proper upbringing and lineage would leap at the chance to marry him.
She didn’t like the idea. In fact, it put her in an extremely bad mood, whether she pictured him in the arms of a painted courtesan or kissing the hand of some simpering young lady. God knew there were plenty of girls who simpered. Blushed and stammered oh so prettily while they hid behind their fans. They weren’t as beautiful as she was—that wasn’t vanity but simply a fact. But they were much more compliant.
Sophie had never simpered in her life, except in moments of extreme sarcasm. For all that she was planning a traditional life with a wealthy, titled husband, she had no intention of being a shadow. Her sisters had always been strong, and Sophie liked to think of herself as the strongest.
Of course, a wicked thought came creeping into her mind—Alexander Griffiths was rich and titled, and he fit the criteria for husband material. Not to mention divinely, dangerously attractive. Dangerous was the word—she was being distracted by the nice gothic air of brooding and mystery that went with his gorgeous face and even more gorgeous body.
She was attracted to the danger he represented, even as she was horrified by it. She couldn’t stop thinking about him. She dreamed of him at night. She kept expecting him to stride into the kitchen. Her nipples were still hard from her dream, and she thought she could taste his cool mouth on hers.
She needed to get away from here.
Of course, that was the difficulty. She had a small amount of money—Maddy had given it to her with strict instructions before she took off in search of her pirate. It would be enough for a ride on the public coach to London, though she had no idea what she’d do when she got there. She could follow Maddy to Devonport, just outside of Plymouth, but if Maddy was working as a housemaid she could scarcely bring her sister in. Besides, Sophie had absolutely no intention of scrubbing and sweeping and making beds. Cooking was one thing—it was a glorious task for the senses. Any tedium could be passed along to Prunella or one of the kitchen maids, though in truth nothing felt tedious in the kitchen. The cutting of vegetables, the kneading of dough—they were among the many routines that were balm for the soul.
Perhaps Mrs. Griffiths would be interested in bribing her to leave. For some reason the old woman didn’t want her here, and for the proper financial remuneration Sophie should be able to go. She wasn’t equipped to sort through papers and discover some heinous plot. She was a creature of emotion and passion, given to listening to her instincts when it came to people. She wasn’t made to fathom complicated plots and obscure motives. There was no reason for Alexander to kill her father. To be sure, he gained ownership of this house, but it was an expensive house to maintain, and the previous viscount had gambled away all the money before he finally parted with the place.
And yet the new viscount, coming from an obscure background to the north, somehow managed to support this grand house and more servants than her father had ever hired, plus pay for unnecessary refurbishing. Not to mention the fact that rooting up the rose garden and putting in a reflecting pool would have been an absurd expense.
Unless, of course, he’d wound up with the majority of the assets of Russell Shipping, assets that had disappeared without a trace.
She closed her eyes, trying to picture him with a sardonic smile on his face, but instead she saw him as she’d first seen him, in his smalls as he’d climbed from the pool, water dripping off every inch of bronzed, muscled skin, glinting in the afternoon sunlight like some kind of golden god.
The sudden, distressed noise startled her, even though it had come from her own mouth. This was not good, not good at all. She had always prided he
rself on being a pragmatic creature, and first of all she had to protect herself. If he kissed her again she might not be able to stop him from doing more, and she knew full well what “more” would be. She knew, because for the first time in her life she felt the same kind of longing, in her chest, her belly, between her legs. She wanted to touch and taste that skin, and self-discipline had never been her strong suit. She needed to get out of there, fast.
There was no need to panic—he was gone for at least the night. Plenty of time to take off in the morning. She stretched her kinked muscles and removed the starched cap and apron. She’d already dispensed with her shoes the moment she’d sat down in the chair, much to Dickens’s shock and disapproval, but after a day on her feet in front of a hot stove she needed to be barefoot.
In fact, she needed to be outside. She’d discovered an unexpected love for the outdoors once she’d moved in with Nanny. In the past she’d always remained in the country house, playing card games or charades or amateur theatricals with her sisters. The other two tended to ride and walk, but Sophie preferred to keep her porcelain complexion unblemished by the sun.
But once in the cramped quarters of Nanny’s cottage she’d had no choice but to escape, and she’d discovered there was nothing she liked better than hiking up the hills that surrounded Renwick.
If she’d stayed put in the cottage she never would have seen Alexander Griffiths swimming, and much as she’d like to believe otherwise, she knew that was a major reason she’d chosen to come to Renwick.
Then again, her sisters had distrusted him as one of the three major suspects in their father’s death. But Bryony had married the first of the suspects, presumably exonerating him, and Maddy had been off investigating Eustace Russell’s privateer captain for so long Sophie suspected she’d not only decided the ancient mariner was innocent, but she’d probably fallen in love with someone as well.
Not for one moment did she consider that Maddy might be in trouble herself. Maddy was indomitable—she let nothing get in her way. If the old sea dog turned out to be nefarious then Maddy would simply deal with it, Maddy-style. The fact that she hadn’t returned, hadn’t been heard of in almost a month, didn’t bother Sophie. If there was one person who could take care of herself it was Maddy.
It wasn’t fair. Her sisters were off, having adventures, falling in love, and Sophie was . . .
Doing the same thing. Oh, not the love part, absolutely not. Not ever. She wasn’t going to make the mistake of falling in love—women did very foolish things for love. No, she was going to be completely ruthless, marry whomever made the most advantageous offer, and live like a queen in the very best part of London. The Dark Viscount could marry a simpering female and stay out here and she’d never think of him again.
Oh, well, maybe she would. When she was on her back, doing her duty for Queen and Country, with some anonymous, pleasant gentleman laboring away, she might just close her eyes and dwell on the very wicked thought of Alexander Griffiths doing such shameful things to her, and no one need ever know.
Bugger! She was doing it again. She had to leave here before she became totally besotted. She was falling in love with him, and it made no sense. It wasn’t simply the undeniable attraction of his face and body; it wasn’t just his decadent kisses. He was cynical, inexplicable, and he was all she could think about. She could only hope that once away from him she could forget all about him and the unnerving way he made her feel.
At times his odd conversation convinced her he was half-mad. It didn’t matter. She knew, deep in her heart, that she was falling in love with him, emotions rampaging through her that she’d never felt before. She had to get out of here before it was too late.
Loving someone was a dire mistake. She’d seen what happened to Maddy, and Sophie’s heart had broken for her, despite their constant bickering. She never wanted that to happen to her, and the only way to avoid it was to never fall in love. Men were too powerful as it was. If she were so weak as to fall in love, she’d have no defenses left. The wolves would eat her alive.
No, Alexander wasn’t the man for her. Someday she’d look back on him as a temporary weakness, and she’d wonder, what if . . . ? But that was as close as she was getting to his bed, no matter how much fear and desire were warring within her. She needed someone amenable, someone she could control. Not a wild heart like the one she knew beat beneath Alexander’s cool exterior.
She started up the winding stairs to the ground floor of the house, her bare feet silent on the wooden treads. She would have had a hard time seeing if it weren’t for the brightness of the full moon sending mullioned shadows through the uncurtained windows. A delicious little shiver ran through her. People did foolish things on the night of the full moon. They danced around bonfires and celebrated pagan rituals. She paused to look out the French doors that led onto the terrace and the pool beyond. The water glimmered in the bright moonlight, and she was tempted, so tempted to go out, to dance barefoot in the moonlight, to slip into the cool, silken water. What harm would it do? She wasn’t going to find out a thing from shuffling through Alexander’s books, and he’d probably notice someone had been snooping. And she certainly wasn’t about to search his bedroom. The very last place she wanted to go was near his bed. She was better off not knowing which room it was in.
She looked up into the sky. The moon was so bright she could barely see the stars, though a few clouds reflected the silvery light. She would be leaving this beautiful place, back to the city where you never looked at the sky, presuming you could even see it through the smoke and haze, and she felt a sudden clarity settle over her. She had to leave, much as she hated to, leave before Alexander could return and tempt her once more. But for her last night she would go out and enjoy herself in the night air.
The door was locked, which amused her. They’d never locked the doors when they’d lived here. There were enough strong servants around to repel any intruder, and besides, this was the country, safe and peaceful.
She unlocked it and slipped outside, then stood still, breathing in the night air. And it was warm, unusually so, with a soft breeze that carried with it the scent of apple blossoms and newly turned earth, and Sophie let out a soft laugh of pure joy as she turned her face up to the moon. Tonight, with no one to watch her, she’d be a pagan. Tomorrow she’d be on her way to London and find her way from there.
She moved into the first part of the complex garden layout. The pool was just beyond, gleaming in the moonlight, but she took an abrupt turn to the right, still distressed about the destruction of Bryony’s roses. A familiar scent drifted to her, and she walked ahead into what had once been a cutting garden, and stopped, momentarily stunned by her discovery.
There were the roses, everywhere, the early ones blooming and adding a delicious flavor to the night air, the masses of later varieties leafing out and getting ready to bud. They had all been carefully transplanted, thriving in their new setting instead of lost forever.
Sophie felt tears sting her eyes, and she fought them back. She never cried. Never ever ever, not when word came that their father had died, not when they’d been evicted with only the clothes on their backs. Not when Bryony had come up with this harebrained scheme to become servants to find out what had happened to their father and she’d sent them off to stay with Nanny Gruen. Not when Maddy had left her as well.
But the scent of roses on the warm night air ripped away her last defenses, and she wanted to weep with the sheer beauty of it, and the loss of so much.
It only lasted a moment. She rubbed her eyes with stern hands, then reached back and released her hair from its tight coils, stuffing the tortoiseshell pins in her pocket. She shook the mass free, and another weight lifted from her as it rippled down her back. She plucked a fragrant pink rose—one of her favorites, though she forgot the fancy name Bryony had given it—carefully picked off its thorns, and stuck it behind her ear, letting the scent surround her. This was her last night here. Tomorrow she would take her carefull
y hoarded money and leave this place, questions unanswered, heart intact.
It had been so long since she’d danced. She began to hum, the Strauss waltz that had been the very last thing she had danced to, the night before their world had collapsed. She couldn’t even remember her partner, but she remembered the waltz, and she moved through the garden, her eyes half-closed, reliving that dance, her imaginary partner bending over her, tall, commanding, with devilish eyebrows and mocking eyes . . .
She stopped immediately. She was not going to indulge in any more fantasies—they had become too dangerous. She would not pretend she was dancing with Alexander Griffiths. She was never going to see him again, thank God; she’d be gone before he returned from his nights of debauchery. She needed to let go.
Still humming, she moved through the gardens, touching a leaf here, a blossom there. She had never appreciated these when she’d lived here, and now they were lost to her. But not tonight. Tonight they were hers alone.
She hummed, and moved, a graceful half dance, circling the carefully laid-out gardens until she ended, to her surprise, at the long, shallow pool. The moonlight was mirrored on the glassy water, and somewhere in the back of her mind she remembered the term moonling. Hadn’t it come from a fool who saw the moon reflected in a pool of water and drowned trying to catch it?
She was a moonling, all right. Reaching for what she could not have, almost drowning in the process. She stood at the far end of the pool, not even glancing up at the darkened house. Everyone would be asleep by now. She couldn’t catch the moon, but she could swim with it. Let the cool water that had caressed the Dark Viscount’s skin caress hers as well. She didn’t know why that was important, but it was. Illogical as it was, she wanted some kind of imprint on her flesh to take with her, even as the rest of her was forced to forget.