Never Marry a Viscount

by Anne Stuart

  She automatically started up the second flight of the servants’ staircase when Dickens stopped her. “No, Miss Russell. You need to use the main staircase.”

  She resisted her instinctive, long-suffering sigh and followed Dickens into the empty hallway where she and her sisters had once played hide-and-seek. “Do you think the viscount really means it?” she asked him.

  “Means what, Miss Russell?”

  “Means that he’s going to make me marry him,” she clarified. “Because I have no intention of letting him.”

  Dickens paused on the staircase, turning to look at her in shock. “Why not, miss? I’ve been with his lordship for more than twenty years, and I can tell you there’s not a finer gentleman in all of England.”

  And there wasn’t a more deluded butler in all of England, she thought, and then the arithmetic started to connect. “How old is he?”

  “Thirty-four, miss.”

  “Too old for me,” she said flatly. “And why did he need a butler when he was fourteen?”

  “I was hired more as a companion and a valet.” There was something odd in Dickens’s voice, some secret there.

  “Why does a fourteen-year-old need a valet? Was he extraordinarily messy?” She rather liked the thought of him covered in mud.

  “No, miss.” They’d reached the second floor and Dickens paused by her sister Maddy’s door. Sophie closed her eyes for a moment, wishing desperately that the last few months hadn’t happened, that the door would open and Maddy would be there, and they’d immediately fight, and make up, and fight again, and all these terrible things would disappear . . .

  Dickens opened the door for her. “The master thought this might be appropriate.”

  Maddy had always gone in for pretty things, and the room was decorated in soft shades of pink that had complemented her rich, dark hair and creamy complexion. It had always made Sophie slightly bilious, but suddenly it felt familiar and beloved. “It’s fine,” she said, limping inside and looking around.

  “He also wished me to tell you that there are appropriate garments in the dressing room, and that I should take your current dress and burn it,” Dickens said. “The bathing room is down the hall and . . .”

  “I know where everything is,” she said. “I lived here all of my life when we weren’t in London.”

  “Of course, Miss Russell. I beg your pardon—I forgot.”

  She gave him an absent smile as she looked around the pink room, then started with shock. “Humphries!” she cried.

  “Miss?”

  But she’d moved, a little too quickly for her protesting ankle, and scooped up that slightly battered-looking stuffed toy that was tucked into a corner of the room on its own small chair. She hugged him to her, and he smelled like her sister, like the rose perfume she favored, and Sophie wanted to cry.

  But Dickens was watching her, and while he wasn’t the enemy, he clearly sided with the viscount. She turned. “This is Humphries. He belonged to my sister when she was young.”

  Dickens was staring at the slightly battered creature with distaste. “Exactly what is it?”

  “A hedgehog. It always went well with Maddy’s personality,” she said. Hobbling over to the bed, she dropped down with a total lack of grace, then hid her wince as the soreness between her legs protested. “So how long do I have to be in this prison? Can I come back downstairs and oversee the cooking?”

  “Prunella and the girls have things well in hand. You should rest, and then change for dinner. I don’t know if Mrs. Griffiths will be joining you, but I expect the occasion will be semiformal since it is en famille.”

  “I’m not changing my clothes.”

  “I didn’t check to see if there were matching shoes . . .” Dickens’s voice trailed off suggestively.

  She gave him a grumpy look. “You’re as bad as he is.”

  There was just the glimmer of a smile in Dickens’s eyes. “Don’t worry, miss. I expect this will all work out quite well in the end.”

  “As long as I get away from here I’m sure you’re right.”

  Dickens said nothing, merely giving her a slight bow before leaving, and Sophie flopped back onto the bed. It was soft, luscious, and it felt like hers, and then she remembered when she’d last been in her own bed and let out a groan. She wasn’t going to think about it. Wasn’t going to think about him.

  She got to her feet, moving carefully across the thick Persian carpet that Maddy had adored, and walked to the window. The room was a little stuffy from having sat unused for so many months, and fresh spring air might help, but the moment she reached the casement she froze.

  It was the wrong time of day, but Alexander was swimming. She stared down at him as he surged through the water with an uncanny grace. She’d never been so close when he was in the water, and she could see his body quite clearly. Were there male mermaids? Mermen? If there were, they would look like Alexander. She leaned against the window dreamily, watching his strong shoulders and arms as he plowed through the water. There were all sorts of folktales about selkies, creatures who were seals in the water and humans on land, but Sophie had never been one to put much store in folktales or stories. Now she was beginning to wonder.

  There was something almost hypnotic about the way his body moved, and she couldn’t pull her eyes away. She still didn’t believe he’d felt her spying on him during the last few weeks—someone must have seen her climbing the tor every day and told him.

  His strong body drove through the water, and suddenly she remembered that body in her arms, driving into her, again and again and again, and her strange sort of joy in his possession. A joy he hadn’t shared, apparently. She was being ridiculous, watching him like some heartsick ninny. But she couldn’t pull herself away.

  He stopped abruptly at the far end of the pool, pulling himself up and shaking off some of the excess water from his hair, for all as if he were a spaniel, she thought, trying for mockery and failing. The sun gilded his skin, and the droplets of water sparkled like diamonds.

  He turned, reaching for a towel he’d dropped on the ground, and she took the time to admire his back. And then he turned and looked directly up into her window, directly at her.

  It was too far for their eyes to meet, and she immediately fell back into the shadows. There was no way he could know for sure, and he was probably just looking at the house. But she couldn’t rid herself of the suspicion that he’d been looking into her eyes, knowing she was watching him, just as he’d seemed to know she was watching him from the ledge far above Renwick.

  Arrogant, preening bastard, she thought, moving to the bed and climbing up into the middle of it. It was a warm day, and she was feeling suddenly overheated, so she unfastened the top buttons of her somber dress. Humphries sat on the bed, and she hugged him to her, breathing in the familiar smell of him, trying to shut out everything else. It was going to be all right in the end, wasn’t it?

  Maybe if the Dark Viscount drowned.

  Oddly enough she slept. She had nightmares, of course—she could see his body, the water glistening on his skin, in his hair. She’d never seen him from the back before, and it had been a revelation. She’d known the front of him was undeniably glorious, but his back was almost better, the contours of it, the way the wet, almost transparent, smallclothes clung to his . . . well, she’d better not think of that. And from the back she didn’t have to see his annoying, ironic smile. She could pretend he was someone else entirely, the handsome fairy-tale prince she’d been planning to find in London to solve all her family’s problems. Not this unlikely troll who’d invaded her garden and ruined her life.

  Then again, she didn’t believe in fairy tales, folk legends, or even trolls, though Alexander Griffiths came close.

  It was dark when she awoke, but someone had come in and lit the lamps, so she scrambled out of bed and turned them up. She was rumpled and frumpy and her feet hurt, and on the off chance there really were shoes in the dressing room she hobbled over to it.

>   She took one look at the myriad of dresses and slammed the door again, without even bothering to look for shoes. Half of those dresses would fit her, because half of those dresses had been made for her. They were still there, along with everything else they had left behind at Renwick, even including poor old Humphries—they’d been allowed nothing. She wondered for a moment if her favorite doll was still in residence, then knew that was a lost cause. He had taken her bedroom with its glorious view of the tor and the hills beyond it, and he would have had anything overtly feminine tossed out. She hadn’t had a good look at the room during her desperate exit—had it only been this morning? She didn’t have the sense that he’d changed it much, though he’d probably repainted the sunny yellow walls. His bloody lordship wasn’t much for sunshine and good cheer.

  There were no shoes in the room. Just as well—they wouldn’t fit over her bandages, and her feet were much happier with the warm woolen hose covering the thick wrappings. The only problem was they made her shorter, and the Dark Viscount had a tendency to loom. She’d deal with it.

  She heard the warning gong, and she knew she was supposed to present herself in one of the reception rooms to make polite conversation and flirt. At least, that was how it went at any house party.

  But this was no house party. This was disaster personified, and if she found any chance to get away from him she’d take it. For now she wasn’t going anywhere, not with bandaged feet and no shoes. And the staff, so protective and helpful while she was trying to hide her identity, seemed to think a forced marriage with their infuriating master was just the thing. No, she was on her own again.

  But a marriage couldn’t be accomplished that quickly. They had to call the banns—that gave her three weeks to find a way to leave. Time enough for her feet to heal, time enough for her to come up with a practical plan. If she’d had a little more time to figure out what to do after Miss Crowell whisked Nanny Gruen away she might not be in the mess she was now. Coming to Renwick had seemed like a good idea at the time. She must have been demented.

  At least she could be certain that he wouldn’t be taking liberties with her during the next three weeks. He’d made it clear that he’d found bedding her less than enthralling. No, she would be safe from him during the time she was forced to remain there. So why did that bother her so much? She had always had dozens of men at her feet—she didn’t need or want Alexander to be one of them.

  The bell rang again, a second warning, and she knew she had to stir, or the brute might storm up here and drag her down to dinner. Besides, she was interested to see how they managed without her. Not that she’d been in the kitchen long enough to effect much of a change, but Prunella had the basics—she just had to listen to her instincts.

  There was a beautiful gray shawl with lavender trim hanging in the dressing room. Sophie had always coveted that shawl, and of course Maddy had flaunted it. It was amazing the two of them loved each other, considering how much they fought. She wrapped it around her against the coming night chill. After all, the colors were suitable for demi-mourning, weren’t they? Not that she was going to return to colors any time soon. Not, at least, until she found answers about her father. She just wasn’t going to find the answers here. Alexander might be many horrid things, but he wasn’t a thief and a murderer. At least she could trust her instincts on that, even if they’d failed her every other way.

  She was descending the last few stairs when a harried Dickens headed for the gong in the hallway, prepared to summon her once more, but he looked up when he saw her and she could recognize the relief that flooded his body. He straightened his burly form. “Lord Griffiths awaits you in the blue parlor, Miss Russell.”

  She didn’t even wince. The blue parlor had been Bryony’s. She’d run the household, more efficiently than any housekeeper might, and her desk was there, presumably still with her books and her inkstand and pens. Sophie followed Dickens’s burly figure, trying not to limp.

  The room hadn’t changed much. A few of the more feminine adornments were gone, and the pretty watercolors had been replaced by hunting scenes, but it still felt like Bryony. God, she missed her sisters! What were they doing, who were they with, what had they found out? Anything at all?

  Dickens had been right—Alexander Griffiths had dressed for dinner, and he was a glorious sight. It didn’t seem fair that he should be quite so beautiful, and she paused to look at him objectively, searching for flaws.

  He was too tall, for one thing. She was the shortest of the three sisters and she was not pleased with that fact. She didn’t like men towering over her.

  He was clean-shaven when most men had some sort of facial hair, and the smoothly scraped skin highlighted his sharp cheekbones and strong, stubborn jaw.

  His mouth was too noticeable, always with that merest hint of wry amusement that drove her mad. His dark hair was far too long, his dark eyebrows slanted up in a way that could only be called satanic, and his gray eyes were too far-reaching. The mockery was in those eyes as well, and Sophie stiffened her back.

  As for his clothes, they were elegant, well tailored, and slightly worn, as if he couldn’t be bothered to replace his evening attire. Money certainly couldn’t be the reason, and he wore the slightly tired-looking jacket with a carelessness that made her judgment seem frivolous.

  Plus, his manners were appalling. He was leaning against the fireplace, his arms crossed over his chest, and he made no effort to stand up or come forward. He simply stayed there, watching her with deceptive laziness as she entered the room.

  “I told you to change your clothes. And don’t tell me they don’t fit—I gather at least some of those fripperies once belonged to you.”

  She fixed him with a steady eye. “Have you forgotten? I’m in mourning—it’s far too soon to discard my blacks.”

  He didn’t seem moved by her reproof, merely letting his eyes run down her body with slow, deliberate fascination. Then he spoke. “Turn around, would you?”

  She looked at him suspiciously. “Why?”

  He laughed. “Foolish little girl. I promise I won’t touch you.”

  Doesn’t want to touch me, she thought, slowly turning her back to him, continuing on around until she faced him again. “So?”

  “So I wanted to see if your backside was as pretty as it felt in my hands. It is.”

  As yet she’d been unable to control her instinctive blush at his outrageous words, but she simply ignored the heat that rushed to her face. “Ever the gentleman,” she murmured. “Will your mother be joining us for dinner?”

  His eyebrows drew together, his mockery vanishing for the moment. “She’s my stepmother.”

  Sophie smiled sweetly. “Oh, yes, I forgot. The two of you are so much alike that it’s easy to make a mistake.”

  It should have been an effective blow, but she’d overplayed her hand. He laughed. “I do try to pattern my behavior after hers at all times. But I’m afraid we’ll be dining à deux tonight. You can beguile me with tales of your larcenous father.”

  Before she could say anything, Dickens himself appeared in the door. “Madame est servie,” he announced, and Alexander pushed away from the wall, moving toward her with insolent grace and holding out his arm.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  SOPHIE DIDN’T WANT TO take his politely proffered arm. She didn’t want to touch him, feel the warmth of his skin beneath the fabric, the strength of his muscles, but refusing would only set her up for more trouble, and she suspected he would insist on the formality simply because it bothered her. She reached up and put her arm on his, as lightly as she could. She hadn’t thought to look for gloves, and of course he wasn’t wearing any, and their hands were skin to skin. She couldn’t control her tiny jerk, but he said nothing, leading her into the dining room.

  There were two places set, one at the head of the long table and one to his right. Exactly where she used to sit when there were no guests, at her father’s right hand and Maddy at his left. Bryony had sat at the opposite en
d. That should have made things easier, but as he pulled the chair out for her, she couldn’t rid herself of a strange feeling of unreality. Where were her sisters? Where was her father?

  At least Alexander didn’t insist on mealtime conversation. Instead he watched her, and she almost wished he would talk about the weather. In desperation she made a few attempts, but his replies were monosyllabic as his eyes focused on her, and if she hadn’t been so hungry she would have lost her appetite.

  Prunella had outdone herself. Course followed course, and each one was exquisite. Sophie might have put a little thyme in the fish bouillon, and the butter molds were not as precise as they could have been, but all in all it was delicious.

  Alexander ate sparingly, never taking his eyes away from her, and it became more and more difficult to concentrate on the food. Finally she set her fork down, very carefully, instead of throwing it at him, and met his inimical gaze. “Are you watching to make sure I have acceptable table manners in the unlikely case that I agree to marry you? I assure you, I had a governess until I was sixteen and I spent the next two years at a finishing school in Switzerland. I’m really quite civilized.”

  “Are you, indeed?” he said gravely. “In fact, I’m trying to make sense of you. And yes, you will marry me,” he added in a voice that brooked no opposition.

  She decided to ignore that part. “Make sense of me?” she echoed. “I’m perfectly average.”

  “That, you most decidedly are not. For one thing, you’re quite beautiful and we both know it. There’s no need to be coy and bashful about it.”

  She raised one eyebrow. “Have you ever seen me coy or bashful?”

  “Point taken. But you’re also very young, younger than I thought. Perhaps it’s your self-important way of carrying yourself, but you seem more like a woman in her late twenties.”

  “Ah, just what a woman wants to hear—that she looks old,” Sophie said blithely. “And if anyone is self-important, it’s you.”

  He laughed, clearly pleased to have goaded her. “So what makes a very young woman lie her way into a household and continue to come up with the most amazing untruths, no matter how harmful they were? And for that matter, where in the world did you learn to cook? Tonight’s meal was good, but nothing compared to the miracles you’ve created in my kitchen. Most young women don’t have such practical skills. If the men in London had known there was cooking behind that gorgeous face, you wouldn’t have ended the season without a husband.”