Never Marry a Viscount

by Anne Stuart

  The wineglass was close enough that she could have thrown it at him. It was so tempting. “I had a number of very flattering offers,” she said, unable to hide her irritation. “I turned them down.”

  “You were right to hold out for marriage.” His voice was dulcet.

  She reached for the wineglass, considering it. “Offers of marriage,” she corrected in a tone as sweet as his. “As for my skills, I learned the basics in the kitchens of this very house, and then my finishing school in Switzerland honed my skills. It was felt that anyone who ran a great household—and that’s what we were being groomed to do—should be able to accomplish what she hired other people to do.”

  “You went to a school for housekeepers? I didn’t know they even had such things.”

  She toyed with the crystal stem, thoughtful. “Finishing school,” she corrected him calmly, not reacting. “And might I be allowed a question?” It was that or fling her wine at him, she thought.

  He leaned back, that smile lurking at the corner of his mouth, and she was suddenly drawn to it, remembering the sweet softness of his lips, and then the fierce tug against her breasts, and she felt such an odd, aching warmth fill her that she took the wineglass and drained it. So much for using it as a weapon—she’d simply have to throw the crystal itself instead of the missing wine.

  “Of course,” he said. “What is it you’d like to know? Our arrangement should be relatively straightforward. We won’t be living in London—I despise the place. I’m not sure how many nights I’ll require you in my bed—it will depend if I have another arrangement in place. I’ll settle a generous allowance on you as my viscountess, but not generous enough to enable you to leave at any point. And I’ll have people watching, not just Dickens.”

  If any of this mattered she’d be furious, but she’d be long gone before he could institute such draconian measures. “No, my lord,” she said. “I was curious about another matter entirely.”

  “Call me Alexander,” he said amiably. “Given our previous intimacy I think it’s appropriate.”

  She would call him Alexander when hell froze over, even if that’s how she had started thinking of him in her mind. “I wanted to know why you decided I was fair game as a bed partner when every member of the house assured me you never . . . what delightful term did they use? Oh, yes, soil your own nest. Prunella and Dickens insisted you would never touch me.”

  “Clearly they were wrong. And if you’re going to start preening, thinking your exquisite self made me lose all control, then you’ve failed to take into account your absolute insistence that Mrs. Lefton sent you.”

  Now the feeling inside her wasn’t a pleasant longing; it was dread and guilt. She needed more wine; she needed something to focus on rather than his face. “I’m sorry I lied, but I could scarcely say I simply turned up for the job.”

  “Did I not, over and over again, ask you if you came from Mrs. Lefton?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “And did you not answer, most emphatically, yes?”

  “You know I did. So I lied about the employment agency. It’s hardly the greatest crime in the world, and it doesn’t absolve you of . . . of . . .” If she accused him of ruining her it would merely make him more determined to put her through a hellish sham of a marriage.

  “Of what, my precious?” His voice was silken.

  “Of taking advantage of someone in your employ,” she finished.

  “But you’re failing to take into account a major factor. Mrs. Lefton does not run an employment agency for domestic servants. She runs a very elegant cathouse in London, and everyone who works for her is a whore.”

  Sophie sat there, stunned. “You mean you sent away for a prostitute, like ordering a delivery of coal? Sight unseen? You simply asked for someone to fill your bed?”

  He was unabashed. “Well, actually, I had another bed planned for her, in a cottage on the estate, but then you arrived, took over the kitchen, and insisted that Mrs. Lefton had sent you. I assumed your coy, missish ways were simply part of a sexual game you liked to play. Many people enjoy them, and I went along with it reluctantly. Every time you were too believable, I checked on whether Lefton sent you, and you always said she did. Your double entendres were quite lascivious, though I guess they were single entendres after all, and when you were talking about making me melt with delight you really were talking about pastries.”

  Coy? Missish? She was just ready to fling her wineglass at him and see the fragile crystal shatter against the strong bones of his face, when Tim entered with the next course, pheasant with truffles, and there was nothing she could do except fume.

  “I told her to put toads in it,” she said grumpily.

  “How delightful of you,” he murmured. “I think from now on you can be my official taster. If you or anyone else decides to poison me, you’ll go first.”

  “Such a kind gentleman,” she cooed.

  “Always, my love,” he said, taking her reluctant hand that rested on the white tablecloth. Before she realized what he was doing he’d placed a soft kiss on the back, and she snatched it away.

  “You’d best watch it, my lord,” she said with the syrupy tones she’d used before. He called her coy and missish? She’d live up to his demoralizing words. “I might fall madly in love with you, and just think how inconvenient that would be. Not to mention unfashionable.”

  “Oh, we needn’t worry about fashion,” he replied. “We won’t be going into town. In fact, you won’t be going anywhere, so no one will notice as you fawn over me.”

  If only she’d learned how to shoot, she thought wistfully. She knew just where they kept the guns, and while murder, no matter how tempting, might be a bit extreme, she could always shoot off a toe or something. There was something about the Dark Viscount that made her feel extremely violent.

  But she’d never bothered with guns, unlike Bryony, who’d regularly gone hunting with their father and hit her target far more often than he did. Sophie had spent her time with her laces and ribbons and powders, too busy being a girl to learn how to protect herself or get revenge.

  “I will endeavor not to embarrass you with my excess of devotion,” she said between clenched teeth.

  Picking up his wineglass, he leaned back in his chair to survey her. “Oh, I might not mind. Devotion is always so flattering, and you’re halfway to being in love with me already. Don’t bother fighting it. Some men are simply irresistible.”

  She reached for her own empty wineglass to throw but Tim managed to whisk it out of her reach, refilling the glass, and by the time he set it down again she’d thought better of it. She needed Alexander to trust her. It was the only way she’d escape.

  Tim disappeared into the butler’s pantry, leaving them discreetly alone for a few minutes, and Sophie turned a patently false smile on Alexander. “My heart’s delight,” she said sweetly, “have you talked with the vicar about the calling of the banns?”

  His response was equally florid. “Oh, my passion flower, I have not. Indeed, I doubt I can wait three weeks to make you my own, and I have decided a special license is just the thing.”

  Sophie’s artificial smile faltered. “A special license?”

  “My solicitor can see to it, I imagine. I find that the prospect of you sleeping in a separate bed is less than appealing.”

  All artifice fled in the face of such imminent disaster. “No.”

  He sighed. “Do we have to go over this again, my pet? You’re making a fuss over nothing. Considering that you’ve been watching me, nearly naked, for weeks, including today, I can only conclude you find my body interesting. You enjoyed yourself in my bed, for all your protestations. I’m experienced enough that I know when a woman reaches her peak, experienced enough to make certain she does.”

  She tried to control her panic. “But not experienced enough to recognize when a woman is a virgin,” she shot back.

  “It was outside the realm of possibility. Lefton charges good money for virgins—she wo
uldn’t have sent me one without securing a very large sum in advance.”

  “You’re disgusting.”

  He shrugged. “Not particularly. I have no interest in the frightened, untried efforts of a novice. Did you know that some men used to believe that taking a virgin would cure them of the clap? Bad luck for both of them.”

  “Would you stop talking about prostitutes and . . . disease?”

  “Of course, my love. I had no idea you were so squeamish.” He was enjoying this, she thought, though his motives eluded her.

  “You don’t really want to marry me,” she said. “Why are you insisting?”

  “Perhaps it’s because you dislike the idea so intensely, and I’m a contrary man. Perhaps I simply want to fill my bed. Perhaps I don’t want society to think I’m without honor.”

  “Society thinks you murdered your wife. Seducing and then marrying someone who’s already beyond the pale will hardly redeem you.”

  “So tactfully put,” he said softly. “I have my own reasons, and you don’t need to know all of them. Are you going to throw that wine at me?”

  The last question was added so smoothly that it took her a moment to react. “What?”

  “You’ve been considering it most of the evening. The only question is whether you’ll toss the contents or the entire glass.”

  “The only question,” she said, “is whether I’ll sit here for one more moment and let you toy with me like a cat with a mouse.”

  He threw back his head and laughed, free of his usual mockery. “I have yet to see someone less like a shy little mouse than you, my pet. And I’m hardly a tame pussycat.”

  She felt as if she couldn’t breathe, as if life were closing around her like some evil cocoon and it would either smother her or release her as an entirely new, unrecognizable person. She needed to get away from him, from his long, elegant hands, his stormy gray eyes, the way he watched her. She needed to remember who she was, Miss Sophia Eulalie Russell, the toast of London. Before everything had fallen apart, she thought.

  She knocked over her wineglass as she stood abruptly, but fortunately it was empty. She’d lost track of how much she’d had to drink; she knew only it was too much, given her stressful circumstances right now.

  He’d risen when she did, polite for a change, and if he felt any concern for her he didn’t show it. “I didn’t . . .” he began.

  The door to the dining room slammed open, shutting off his words, and Mrs. Griffiths stood there, trembling with strong emotion. “How dare you!”

  Sophie had startled at the abrupt entrance, but Alexander didn’t betray any reaction. “Good evening, Adelia. I hadn’t realized you wished to join us.”

  “I don’t wish to join you, you philandering reprobate!” she snapped. “I was told you plan to marry this creature.”

  Alexander’s faint smile didn’t falter, but there was a sudden coolness in his eyes. “Miss Russell and I plan to marry as soon as I can arrange it, yes. Did you wish to offer your felicitations?”

  “I wish to tell you I won’t have it!” The woman’s face was flushed with anger, and her massive chest heaved. “You cannot marry a cook. It would make me the laughingstock of my friends. This . . . this trollop needs to be sent about her business. Since you can’t keep your hands off her you can set her up in town or something. I refuse to have her on the estate. You will get rid of her immediately.”

  Alexander dropped back into his chair, reaching for his wineglass. He barely glanced up at his stepmother. “Sit, Sophie,” he said without inflection.

  Sophie wasn’t fooled into thinking this was a casual request. She sat, even though it went against a lifetime of training to sit in front of an older woman.

  He glanced up at his stepmother from beneath heavy lids. “First off, my dearest Adelia, you don’t have any friends. And how would marriage to a chef make you the laughingstock of these putative friends, considering you yourself are the daughter of a butcher?”

  The woman’s color went from dark pink to purple, and she made spluttering noises of protest as Alexander sailed on, unperturbed by her reaction. “Secondly, you have absolutely no say in whom I have in residence, who I marry, or who I fuck.”

  “How dare you—?” she raged again, but Alexander overrode her.

  “Thirdly, if you call my wife a trollop, if you treat her with anything but complete respect, I’ll kick you out of this house. You’re here on sufferance, and because I promised my father I’d look after you. You gambled away your widow’s jointure, you lost your house in a game of whist, for God’s sake, and you’ve thrown yourself on my hospitality and sense of duty. But deathbed promises and duty carry me only so far. Do not annoy me in this matter, Adelia, or it will be the worse for you.”

  The woman seemed to have her emotions in check, but there was a dark, calculating expression on her features. “You seem to forget we’re a household in deep mourning, Alexander. A wedding is out of the question.”

  “We’re not having a wedding, Adelia, but a small ceremony. And God knows my reputation is always in shambles. No one will blame you.”

  The woman took a deep breath. “Very well, Alexander. As you wish. I presume you are traveling to London to obtain a special license, before this . . . fiancée of yours begins to breed. When do you leave?”

  Sophie said nothing, watching all this with interest. Her father had once passed on a saying—the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Adelia Griffiths seemed dead set against the marriage, though Sophie had no idea why. It didn’t matter—Adelia might be called upon for help if Sophie needed to make her escape.

  Alexander was eyeing his stepmother with seeming indolence, leaning back in his chair. “Tomorrow, in fact. Just a quick trip to secure the license, and then I’ll return.”

  The stony gaze in the woman’s eyes was pure hatred, so deep that Sophie felt slightly ill at the rancorous emotion in the room. Alexander looked as if he didn’t give a damn, as usual, but she could feel his malice as well.

  “As you wish,” Mrs. Griffiths said, smoothing her skirts with an unconscious gesture. “Of course I will bow to your wishes, and if you don’t wish to listen to my words of caution . . .”

  “I don’t.”

  Mrs. Griffiths didn’t let the mask slip from her countenance again. “Then you must allow me to arrange for the ceremony. Even though it will be small, there will still need to be some kind of organization. A wedding breakfast, for instance. If only Rufus were still with us . . .” She let the words trail off with a sigh. “But that wasn’t to be. Not to worry, Alexander. Your fiancée and I will plan a lovely little ceremony while you’re gone . . .”

  “I’m afraid she’s coming with me.”

  Sophie jerked her head up at those words. “I am?”

  Adelia screeched, “She is?” at the same moment.

  He gave Sophie his doting smile, the one that made her hands curl into fists beneath the table. “I couldn’t bear to leave you even for one night, my precious.”

  “But you weren’t—” Sophie began.

  “I wasn’t going to tell you about the trip—I thought it would be a lovely surprise for you. We can get you properly outfitted.”

  She already was properly outfitted, if she wasn’t in mourning. Granted, her lost wardrobe was six months out of date, but some of those dresses hadn’t even been worn before the disaster, and fortunately the fashions hadn’t changed that much this season. Sophie had managed to find a copy of the latest fashion magazine to ascertain what was de rigueur while she was living with Nanny, even though she’d known that part of her life was gone.

  “I’m in mourning,” she said again in a low voice meant only as a reminder to Alexander.

  It caught Mrs. Griffiths’s attention anyway. “In mourning?” she echoed. “And yet you’ve been lifting your skirts—”

  “Adelia.” Alexander didn’t raise his voice, but the chill in his words stopped the old woman mid-spate. She tried to plaster a pleasant expression on her face.


  “Ah, poor lamb,” she said, and no one missed the effort the words cost her, the faint tinge of sarcasm.

  The woman was a menace, Sophie thought, and the very notion of staying alone with her in this big old place made her uneasy. Besides, getting to London had always been the problem—escaping there would certainly be much easier than getting anywhere from the middle of the countryside.

  “When can we expect the two of you back?” Mrs. Griffiths said, sounding positively jovial, making Sophie even more uneasy.

  “When you see us. I’ve explained this to you before, Adelia. I need to look into Rufus’s death. It’s possible a mistake was made.”

  “I assumed you were lying to me to simply twist the knife in my heart over my lost boy,” Adelia declaimed. “If there was truly any hope you would have left for London immediately. You may not value your stepmother, but you’ve always had a soft spot for your brother.”

  “Half brother,” he corrected, which struck Sophie, a fascinated witness, as odd. If he loved his brother, why did he choose words to distance him?

  “Your half brother,” Adelia said acidly.

  “I only received word recently and I’ve been busy.”

  “Busy forn—” Adelia wisely stopped speaking. “I trust you will send word the moment you hear anything?”

  “I will.”

  “And I presume you won’t allow me to accompany you? You need a chaperone. Shouldn’t your soiled dove have at least the pretense of virtue?”

  Alexander shuddered dramatically. “I would rather eat poison, Stepmama.”

  For some reason Adelia’s flush face paled. “As you wish,” she said again. She glanced over at Sophie. “I wish you joy of this . . . this monster.”