by Anne Stuart
ALSO BY ANNE STUART
HISTORICALS
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SCANDAL AT THE HOUSE OF RUSSELL
Never Kiss a Rake
Never Trust a Pirate
THE HOUSE OF ROHAN
The Wicked House of Rohan
Ruthless
Reckless
Breathless
Shameless
STAND-ALONE TITLES
The Devil’s Waltz
Hidden Honor
Lady Fortune
Prince of Magic
Lord of Danger
Prince of Swords
To Love a Dark Lord
Shadow Dance
A Rose at Midnight
The Houseparty
The Spinster and the Rake
Lord Satan’s Bride
ROMANTIC SUSPENSE
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THE ICE SERIES
Black Ice
Cold As Ice
Ice Blue
Ice Storm
Fire and Ice
On Thin Ice
STAND-ALONE TITLES
Silver Falls
Into the Fire
Still Lake
The Widow
Shadows at Sunset
Shadow Lover
Ritual Sins
Moonrise
Nightfall
Seen and Not Heard
At the Edge of the Sun
Darkness Before Dawn
Escape Out of Darkness
The Demon Count’s Daughter
The Demon Count
Demonwood
Cameron’s Landing
Barrett’s Hill
COLLABORATIONS
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Dogs & Goddesses
The Unfortunate Miss Fortunes
ANTHOLOGIES
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Burning Bright
Date with a Devil
What Lies Beneath
Night and Day
Valentine Babies
My Secret Admirer
Sisters and Secrets
Summer Love
New Year’s Resolution: Baby
New Year’s Resolution: Husband
One Night with a Rogue
Strangers in the Night
Highland Fling
To Love and to Honor
My Valentine
Silhouette Shadows
CATEGORY ROMANCE
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Wild Thing
The Right Man
A Dark and Stormy Night
The Soldier and the Baby
Cinderman
Falling Angel
One More Valentine
Rafe’s Revenge
Heat Lightning
Chasing Trouble
Night of the Phantom
Lazarus Rising / reprinted as Here Come the Grooms
Angel’s Wings
Rancho Diablo / reprinted as Western Lovers: Once a Cowboy
Crazy Like a Fox / reprinted as Born in the USA
Glass Houses / reprinted as Men at Work
Cry for the Moon
Partners in Crime
Blue Sage / reprinted as Western Lovers: Ranch Rogues
Bewitching Hour
Rocky Road / reprinted in Men Made in America #19
Banish Misfortune
Housebound
Museum Piece
Heart’s Ease
Chain of Love
The Fall of Maggie Brown
Winter’s Edge
Catspaw II
Hand in Glove
Catspaw
Tangled Lies / reprinted in Men Made in America #11
Now You See Him
Special Gifts
Break the Night
Against the Wind
NOVELLAS
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The Wicked House of Rohan
Risk the Night
Married to It (prequel to Fire and Ice)
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2014 Anne Kristine Stuart Ohlrogge
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle
www.apub.com
ISBN-13: 9781477824092
ISBN-10: 147782409X
Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014903119
To the fabulous editors at Montlake—JoVon Sotak, Charlotte Herscher, and Elizabeth Ridley
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
Renwick, 1869
SOPHIA EULALIE RUSSELL SLIPPED silently out the back door of Nanny Gruen’s tiny cottage. She had bread and cheese wrapped in a cloth—her own bread, and a magnificent loaf, if she should say so herself—and for the next few hours she could do exactly what she wanted. Nanny Gruen had settled herself for what she called “a little lay-down,” and the old woman fondly assumed that her one-time charge would obey the rules.
Nanny had forgotten that Sophie never obeyed rules when she deemed them ridiculous, or inconvenient, and today she had every intention of giving in to temptation. After all, it wasn’t as if anyone would notice, or even care.
Nanny Gruen’s cottage was on the very edge of the massive estate of Renwick, not far from the town of Basking Wells. The ancestral home of the Griffiths family, it had come into the hands of Sophie’s father, Eustace Russell, shipping magnate, in a card game. The wastrel heir, the second Viscount Griffiths, wasn’t able to deed the land over legally, but Russell had won life rights to the place, and it was there he’d brought his bride, raised his three daughters, and lived most of his life. When the girls’ old nanny retired he gave her a cottage and a small living on the edge of the estate.
That, of course, was before he’d been murdered, Sophie thought grimly, making her way through the thick bushes toward the path that led up Beekman’s Tor, the high ledge overlooking the valley and the estate of Renwick that had once been theirs. They’d lost it when their father died, as well as the house in London, and the three sisters had been tossed out on their own, their father’s reputation in disgrace. Not only had he died in a suspicious carriage accident out on Dartmoor, where he never should have been in the first place, but he’d embezzled every penny he could from Russell Shipping, the business he’d started and made thrive.
The sisters had huddled together in a miserable flat on the edge of the slums in London, until her eldest sister, Bryony, had come up with a brilliant i
dea. They would each enter the household of one of the men they suspected of destroying their father. Well, in truth, Bryony had thought she might be the one to enter each household, but Sophie’s bossy middle sister, Maddy, put a stop to that. Bryony became housekeeper to one of their father’s major investors, Adrian Bruton, the Earl of Kilmartyn. Maddy, losing patience, crossed the countryside to become a maid in the household of a former pirate and sea captain who’d once served their father.
And Sophie had been left behind while her sisters had adventures. She had absolutely no interest in changing beds or counting linens. She’d forgotten how very boring it could be, left as a social pariah on the edge of the estate. The Griffithses weren’t even aware of her presence, and Nanny wanted to keep it that way. Not that Sophie could blame her. The Griffithses had no obligation to honor Eustace Russell’s bequest, and they could have turfed the old woman out at any time.
So Sophie crept through the bushes and kept a sharp eye out for anyone who might interfere with her secret indulgence.
It was a rough climb to the top of the tor, and Sophie’s sturdy black shoes slipped on the rocks again and again, but she was used to it and knew the best footholds and places to stop and rest. By the time she reached the top she could see all over the fertile valley that had once been theirs. She could see the crystalline blue pool of water in what used to be the rose garden. In a few moments, with luck, she’d see the man who swam in that cool, clear water, back and forth.
It had been a sheer accident when she’d first spied him. Bryony had just written that she had married her suspect, Kilmartyn, and she was presently somewhere on the Continent, keeping abreast of the overzealous police inquiry into the death of Kilmartyn’s first wife. Maddy was incommunicado, presumably still dealing with their ancient suspect. There was one more name on their short list of suspects, and that man was about to come into view.
Alexander Griffiths, the new viscount, had a reputation that was far from stellar. His first wife had died under mysterious circumstances more than a decade before, and he’d lived far to the north, never venturing into society, presumably haunted by guilt. He was certainly haunted by something, Sophie thought, dropping down to her favorite spot of grass on the ledge and taking out her cheese and bread. The one thing no one had ever told her was how exquisitely beautiful he was.
She’d had one season in London; she’d seen any number of handsome young men, been pursued by them. She’d been blessed by a combination of physical perfection that had left her the toast of London for a brief, glorious period, but unfortunately she had found all of those handsome young men shallow and boring. And then her father had died and everything had changed.
Alexander Griffiths was a far cry from the pretty young men of London, though he was physically quite stunning. She’d always thought of him as the Dark Viscount, a man of mystery, of deep secrets, perfectly in line with the gothic romances she devoured. She had a great fondness for maniacs in dungeons, and until she’d seen Alexander Griffiths she’d had every hope he’d kept a madman or a reanimated corpse in a laboratory.
But no one who looked like that was likely to be a brooding maniac, though she still persisted in thinking of him as the Dark Viscount. After all, his coloring was dark, and he still had a mysterious background.
She’d never been very close to the man, but she had excellent eyesight as well as the spyglass she’d managed to sneak out of her house when they were confiscating everything. She could see him quite clearly—the high cheekbones, the overlong dark hair, the sharp blade of a nose, and strong chin. And she could see the shadows in his eyes.
Sophie congratulated herself that he had no idea he was being watched. Ever since she’d stumbled onto this ledge during one of her more restless walks, she’d been drawn back to the place, back to him. If she could have convinced Nanny that walking for several hours in the rain was her idea of fun she would have gone out in inclement weather. She was certain the Dark Viscount wouldn’t let a little rain stop him.
But today was a clear spring day, warmer than usual, and he would be there; she knew he would.
He swam in his smalls, something that both relieved and annoyed Sophie. She was curious—that was what brought her out to the tor every day. Curious about their neighbor, who might have killed both his wife and her own father, curious how such evil could reside in such a glorious form. She was undeniably curious about the male form itself, something she’d never seen in such scantily dressed, glorious condition.
The first time she’d spotted him she’d been frozen, motionless, staring at the figure in the distance as he plowed through the water with an almost desperate intensity, back and forth, back and forth.
The second time, she’d brought the spyglass, lying prone in the grass and watching with fascination as he pulled himself from the water.
His skin was darker than what she was used to, possibly from exposure to the sun during his swimming. His body was lean, hard, and she could see the flat stomach, the delineation of muscles, the water dripping off his golden flesh.
He shoved his wet hair back from his face, pushing away the water that clung to him. She had almost been afraid to peer more closely, in case he wore nothing at all, but Sophie, in general, was afraid of very little, and she’d looked, following the thin line of hair downward.
The linen of his underdrawers clung to him, outlining that part that a proper young lady was supposed to pretend didn’t exist until it got slammed into her on her wedding night. Her friends had told her the most unpleasant stories about it, and sooner or later she was going to have to face one herself. She was going to marry someone young, handsome, and manageable, with pots of money—and a title wouldn’t hurt—but she planned to be reasonable about it. A plain “Mr.” might be more easily handled than a lord.
The Dark Viscount did happen to fit a few of her criteria, but he might have killed her father, and if he was truly in the habit of doing away with his wives then the less she had to do with him, the better.
But still, it wouldn’t hurt to look. She and her sisters had stared at the sketches of the Elgin Marbles with avid fascination, none of the girls evincing any particular fondness for that foreign part of the male anatomy.
The wet underclothing was plastered against something larger than what she’d observed on statues, but nevertheless nothing so very terrifying, and through the thin cloth she could see dark hair surrounding the small bulge in front of him. She hadn’t noticed that on the statues—perhaps the ancient Greeks were hairless down there.
Did they shave? Such a bizarre notion! Nonetheless, the hair made perfect sense—her own, more hidden parts were protected by soft golden curls. His legs were very long, and the hair on them was flattened by the water. He must be tall. She didn’t like men looming over her—she preferred shorter, paler men. But still she watched, every day when she could escape Nanny’s careful eye.
Sometime, she was sure of it, he would dispense with his underdrawers, and she would get a clear view of what would loom so large, so to speak, in her married life. Once he did that, she promised herself, her questions would be answered and she would come no more.
She stretched out on the grass, spyglass beside her in case this was the day, waiting for one of the French doors to open and the Dark Viscount, the usurper who had taken her beloved family home from her, to walk out on the terrace where she’d once played with her dolls.
He would come out, fully clothed, and strip in the full light of day. Sophie could imagine the housemaids peeping from the windows and giggling.
Of course, housemaids tended to be foolish creatures, easily seduced by their masters, and someone like Viscount Griffiths would be able to take his pick.
It was a good thing she wasn’t so easily enamored.
He was late. She rolled onto her back, staring at the bright sky in frustration. He was a man who adhered strictly to his own schedule—had something disrupted it? The day was fine; surely he wouldn’t be so selfish and annoying a
s to skip his swim, not after she’d had to endure such an arduous climb. Why, if he failed her this time she might refuse to ever come again.
She laughed at herself. It was a good thing he didn’t know he had an audience, or he probably would never come out at all. That, or send his footman to scour the countryside looking for the trespasser.
Which might call attention to Nanny Gruen and threaten her comfortable retirement. Sophie was being selfish and she knew it, risking so much out of simple curiosity. She needed to head straight back to the cottage and stay within its environs. If she wanted to go for a walk, the village wasn’t far away.
She began to climb to her feet, when a flash of reflected sunlight hit her and she realized the door was opening at last. She immediately dropped back down again, picked up her spyglass, and began to focus.
Alexander Montgomery Griffiths, Viscount Griffiths, stepped into the sunlight of the West Terrace, Lady Christabel Forrester on his arm. He wished to Christ the stupid female wasn’t still here, particularly in their current state of mourning, but his stepmother had invited her, and he’d been too weary to try to thwart Adelia again. He was wearing his blacks, and Lady Christabel had donned a black lace ribbon around her sleeve as a sign of respect, even though she’d never met the recently departed, and her high-pitched voice was subdued enough that he could usually ignore her, as he’d managed to do for the three days she’d already been there.
Alexander still couldn’t believe he was gone. His charming, troubled, scapegrace brother, lost forever.
He glanced longingly at the pool of clear water dappled with sunlight on this spring afternoon, the first clear day in almost a week. What would the boring and proper Lady Christabel do if he suddenly shucked off his clothes and dove into it? It was tempting. He needed to do something to drive the grief from his mind. He needed to get away from her.
He doubted she’d have the calm, dedicated curiosity of the woman on the tor. Oh, he was sure from almost the first day that he was being spied on. The servants knew well enough to stay away from the west side of the house when he went for one of his punishing swims—Dickens saw to it.
