Never Marry a Viscount

by Anne Stuart

  A man had needs. Hell, he had needs, strong needs, and his months-long period of celibacy had made him twitchy. The last time he’d been able to indulge himself had been at Mrs. Lefton’s discreet, elegant town house with its absolute richness of female flesh, and he’d taken full advantage of it. The problem was, he hated London, and he was hardly going to travel all that distance simply to scratch an itch.

  He had no intention of trifling with anyone in the village of Basking Wells; he refused to touch the servants, and while there were usually a number of interested widows, this place was too damned small to get involved. Besides, the two possibilities didn’t appeal to him—Mrs. Richards had a laugh like a screeching bird and Mrs. Densey was too thin. He liked curves on a woman. Something to hold on to, to lose himself in.

  Importing a mistress from London seemed only logical, even if it was sight unseen. Mrs. Lefton was a brilliant entrepreneur, and she knew his tastes very well—he’d put his complete faith in her ability to send a pliable female with a willingness for experimentation, a woman of enough years that she’d have ideas of her own without showing the wear such a life takes on a woman. Though indeed, most of Mrs. Lefton’s employees did very well for themselves, retiring at an early age with a comfortable income and their health intact. Some married, some ended up in a private relationship. But then, Mrs. Lefton knew the value of the commodity she sold.

  She’d made a huge mistake this time. That . . . that girl couldn’t have been plying her trade for more than a year or two. At least, he certainly hoped not. The ones who’d been at it from childhood had a certain emptiness in their eyes, for all their agreeable smiles and willing bodies, that left him feeling empty as well. No, this one was new at her game, not what he’d requested.

  She was also small, when he liked a tall woman, and far too beautiful. He’d wanted a bed partner who was both enthusiastic and pleasant to look at, not a woman who struck a room dumb even in ugly clothes and with her hair a mess beneath her restrictive cap. Beauties were tedious—they expected too much and drew too much attention to themselves. He wanted discretion and no demands. Not much chance of that with the young stunner he’d suddenly acquired.

  She was rude, which was a shock as well. How dare she refuse to come to him tonight? Oh, Dickens had phrased it tactfully enough, but Alexander could read between the lines. She’d simply said no, and thought she could get away with it.

  She’d been astonishingly pert in the stable yard as well, and she’d watched him out of her magnificent blue eyes with wariness and something else that he couldn’t quite define. In the dining hall tonight he’d been intensely aware of her attention beneath her unreadable expression. It had been almost physical, and if the very sight of her hadn’t already made him hard beneath the table, that connection would have done it.

  He took another sip, letting the whisky burn his tongue and slide down his throat like rough silk, and then he laughed. He knew what his gorgeous little cook’s problem was.

  She was as attracted to him as he was to her, and it unnerved her. He could sense it, that raw pulse of connection running between them, and as vain as it made him feel, he had no doubt he was right. He’d been in this game long enough to recognize the signs, even if she herself didn’t.

  She was young, the blush of innocence barely off her cheeks, so new at this that she expected it to be simply a job, to lie on her back and make the right sounds and the right smiles and then be done with it, but she’d looked at him and something had shaken her. The same thing that had shaken him. He knew it with every instinct he trusted.

  And so she was rude, and she was running.

  His bad temper began to evaporate as he considered this. He knew women tended to find him pleasing—even without the title and the fortune, they had flocked to him, and he had only to beckon to have them wind up in his bed. It was simply the luck of the draw—nothing he could be proud of. In fact, his face would have been the better for a few scars, perhaps a broken nose, something to mar the prettiness that his brother had always teased him about.

  But he didn’t want to think about his lost brother, someone who had troubled him as much as he’d loved him. He took another sip. He wanted to think about the beautiful bundle of contradictions who was supposed to fill his bed and his erotic fantasies, not his kitchen and his stepmother’s appetites. She was supposed to distract him from the unanswered questions that had plagued his relationship with his adoring younger brother.

  Indeed, a woman who could cook like that had no need to earn her living on her back, and so he would tell her once he was finished with her. He could even help her get a decent job. The Lefton wouldn’t thank him for that, but tant pis. He was generous with the women who’d shared their favors, and he would be generous with this one.

  Once he got her past her skittishness. Indeed, she was like a beautiful, unbroken colt, uncertain of the reins and halter, but knowing the man had sugar and carrots and other lovely things to tempt her.

  And he would tempt her. He would tame her, he would ride her, and he might even introduce her to variations he kept for rare occasions when he and his partner were feeling particularly adventurous.

  He had things to teach her, and he found he enjoyed the idea. He might be wrong, of course, and her intense regard could come from a profound, instant dislike, but he didn’t think so. He recognized all the signs of sexual interest, even if a so-called professional didn’t.

  Or perhaps she was afraid of it. Life as a prostitute was probably easier if you didn’t feel anything for the client.

  He frowned. Prostitute was an ugly word—it made him think of back alleyways and disease-riddled women, and this girl was so young, so fresh, so beautiful. She had a gloriously untouched quality about her. Mrs. Lefton would charge him a fortune, unless . . .

  It was always possible that the girl was never particularly amenable to the path she’d chosen. Lefton might have sent her to him to break her. If so, Lefton was in for a surprise. Alexander had no interest in breaking a woman’s spirit, in crushing her rebellion. In fact, he intended to enjoy it.

  If he were a decent man he’d find a house full of women who needed a brilliant cook—anywhere else and she’d have the men on her the moment she dropped her guard. But even in a convent there’d be trouble, and he knew it. She was better off with him. He liked only willing females, and if there was anything she didn’t like, he wouldn’t insist.

  He’d give her this night to get settled. He hadn’t even figured out how he was going to arrange things—he was hardly going to creep down into the kitchens like some predatory old man. Nor could she come to his rooms—while he was as far away as he could be from his despised stepmother, she was still under the same roof, and he’d rather not have to think of her at all when he was deep between his not-French cook’s legs.

  There were certainly enough bedrooms in this place to suffice. He’d have her put in one of the bedrooms where the daughters of the criminal shipbuilder had slept. They were innocent rooms, made for pretty girls, and she’d like them. He could even give her her pick. The idea of taking her in such a bastion of innocence would have made him hard if he weren’t already sporting a painful erection. He’d like to take her in every room in this huge house—stretched across that scarred table in the kitchen, the desk across the room from him, in the straw in the stable yards, in the attics. The thought of her straddling him on this comfortable chair almost finished him off, and he laughed ruefully.

  In the end, Mrs. Lefton was quite brilliant. She’d sent him the unexpected, and he had the worst case of blue balls since he was a randy stripling. This was going to be a game of cat and mouse, just what he needed to take his mind off the loss of his worrisome brother.

  Because Rufus was gone, drowned off the coast of France, and life had to go on.

  CHAPTER SIX

  SOPHIE ALWAYS WOKE UP slowly, needing time to lie abed and face the demands of the upcoming day. She was sleeping so peacefully that when the rapping on her do
or threatened her slumber she simply turned over in the comfortable bed and pulled a feather pillow over her head.

  Her respite didn’t last long. The next thing she knew the pillow was pulled from her head and someone was shaking her shoulder. “You need to get up now, miss,” came an unknown and unwanted voice. “We’re already at work on the breakfast trays and the bread’s started, but you need to get up to oversee things.”

  Oversee what? Who is this woman and what is she talking about? All Sophie wanted to do was sleep, and sleep she would, damn it, and the strange woman could go . . .

  She bolted upright, trying to focus her sleep-filled eyes as memory came back with an unwelcome rush. She was at Renwick, albeit in the basement, and she had work to do.

  “I’ve brought you both tea and coffee, miss,” said the woman, whom Sophie recognized as her ally, Prunella. “And sweet rolls from yesterday. But you must get up.”

  “I’ll take the coffee,” she said, swinging her legs around to the side of the bed. Thank heavens she’d bathed the night before, or she would be unable to face the day. “I’ll be out in five minutes.” She yawned hugely. “Are the breakfast trays ready?”

  “Not yet, miss. It’s only just past six, and even if the Forresters are leaving today, I expect they won’t call for them until eight at least.”

  “Six?” Sophie, an inveterate late sleeper, echoed in horror. “In the morning?”

  “Yes, miss. I don’t think anyone begrudges you sleeping so late, but there are decisions to be made, and I think the viscount will wish to see you.”

  Of course he would, she thought with a grimace. She had her work cut out for her in that area.

  She was no innocent—she’d been kissed, a number of times, and found it pleasant. She’d been the toast of London; she recognized the signs of male interest. She could comfort herself with Prunella’s assurance that he never touched the female servants, but there was still that look in his dark, mocking eyes that she found so unsettling.

  What would she have done if she’d met him in London, she thought as she hastily began donning the layers of clothing. He would have been one of the many men seeking her attention, wanting her hand in marriage and a piece of her father’s fortune. She would have ignored him, of course. She liked simple, shallow men whom she could move around like figures on a chessboard.

  Or would she? Would it have made all the difference if she’d met him a year ago, when she was the beautiful Miss Sophia Russell, the toast of the season? Would she have . . . ?

  It was all moot at this point. She laced up her corset, loosely. It was hot, hard work in the kitchen, and she wasn’t about to tie herself in so she couldn’t breathe. At least the basement kitchen stayed cooler than the upper floors.

  It must have been closer to ten minutes before she sailed out of her rooms and into the kitchen, fortified by the hastily downed coffee and sweet rolls. Everyone was busy in the early morning light, but each person she passed smiled at her and said, “Good morning, miss,” in such a friendly way that by the time she reached the long table, she was feeling a bit bemused. They’d been polite enough yesterday, but wary. For some reason this morning they were on her side.

  The two footmen leapt to their feet as she approached. “Good morning, miss,” they parroted, and she wondered if she ought to correct them, remind them that she was “madame.” No, it was easier this way, and she was used to being called “miss.” That one bit of familiarity would make this masquerade a little easier.

  “Good morning, staff,” she said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “We’ve got a busy day ahead of us. I need to learn your schedule and you need to learn mine. Has everyone had breakfast already?”

  “No, miss,” replied one of the maids by the stove. “Gracie and me usually wait till after the trays go up.”

  “And you are?”

  “Maude, miss. The trays are ready—once they ring for them, Gracie makes the tea while I take care of the toast and fruit. If someone wants something more filling they come down to breakfast.” She colored. “But you know that, miss.”

  For a moment Sophie felt uneasy. Why would they think she’d know such a thing if she’d never been a guest? But then, a cook should be aware of details like that, shouldn’t she?

  “Then the two of you sit and eat something. I overslept and I’ve already had my breakfast, and I can handle things if anyone rings.”

  “Oh, but miss . . . !” Gracie squeaked a protest.

  “Don’t worry. It hasn’t been that long since I was the one doing trays first thing in the morning,” she said cheerfully, pouring herself another cup of coffee from the pot on the massive range. In fact, it hadn’t been that long since she herself had received breakfast trays. She just had to start thinking of things backwards-to. Arsey-versey, her father would have said, though never when he was out in public.

  She could do it. She would do it. Failure simply wasn’t a possibility.

  No one rang for a tray for a full hour, while Sophie thought bitterly of the sleep she could have had. The girl who had made the dough for the day’s bread had done a good job—it was silky and elastic to the touch, even after the second rising. The morning toast was best made from yesterday’s bread, so there was no need to panic if the loaves weren’t formed yet.

  She set Maude to work once she’d finished eating her meal of porridge and milk. While the footmen scattered with the trays and the scullery maids began the washing, Sophie surveyed her army of three: Prunella, head kitchen maid, who had tried to fill in, Gracie, a sturdy young girl most likely shy of twenty, and her friend Maude. They were city girls, all of them, imported by the Griffithses to run the kitchens of Renwick. There’d been a bit of umbrage in the village over it, but her father had also brought his own servants when he came to stay, and the people of the prosperous little village had no need of jobs.

  “I should check the larder,” she said, when they were at last alone. “I need to come up with menus for his lordship, and quickly, and I need to know what we have and what we’ll need. And how we’ll get it,” she added. Such details were totally foreign to her—Bryony knew how to organize a household, but Sophie had never bothered learning such mundane details. She’d always expected she’d marry and have a housekeeper to handle such chores.

  “I’m sorry, miss,” Prunella said. “It’s my job to keep the inventory up to date, but what with having to take over the cooking I’ve been that busy . . . Normally you wouldn’t have to bother with looking into the larder and the pantries.”

  Good to know, Sophie thought. The cook doesn’t take inventory. She covered herself. “In a new house I always like to inspect the food storage anyway. To make sure the grains are properly preserved from mice, that the meats and dairy are kept cool.” She had a sudden, horrifying thought. “Do they have their main meal in the evening when there are no guests, or in the middle of the day?” If she had to come up with a full seven- or eight-course meal in the next four hours, she was going to be frantic.

  “Oh, things will be much simpler when the Forresters are gone,” Prunella said. “Mrs. Griffiths has been taking a tray in her room for the last few weeks, ever since word came about Mr. Griffiths.”

  Sophie remembered the gossip in the village. “That would be the viscount’s brother who recently died?”

  “His half brother, miss. He was lost at sea, or so we’ve heard, and Mrs. Griffiths is that upset. She doesn’t like her stepson one tiny bit, so I think she’s using the excuse to avoid him, but it makes things simpler for us all. Though she does like a heavy tray.”

  A real cook would stop her staff from gossiping, but Sophie had no intention of doing so. She needed to find out everything she could about the Dark Viscount. So his stepmother hated him, and his half brother had died. Could Alexander Griffiths have anything to do with his own brother’s death? If he was the murderous criminal they had suspected, then it wouldn’t be beyond him. First his wife, then her father, then his brother? It seemed inconceivable,
but evil could come in beautiful packages. She pushed the thought away for the moment.

  “And the viscount?” she asked. “He must dine in the hall.”

  “No, miss. The new viscount ain’t much for ceremony. He’ll have us bring a tray in the library, but half the time he doesn’t touch it but goes off riding instead, at all hours of the day and night. As for luncheon, it’s trays again. Mrs. Griffiths is the one we’ve got to please, and sooner or later she’ll start coming back downstairs to eat.”

  “And does her stepson join her then?” It was an innocent enough question.

  “If he has to. He don’t like her much; that’s for sure.”

  It was impossible to tell from Prunella’s voice which side of the battle she preferred. Despite Sophie’s very real misgivings about the Dark Viscount, the memory of his stepmother was disconcerting. There’d been too much arguing for her to get more than a quick glimpse at the older woman, but Sophie’s impression had been full of misgivings.

  “Well, then, we’d better get to work.” At the last minute she remembered something Bryony had said, and she offered it with an air of triumph. “A good servant needs to be prepared for everything.”

  Prunella looked at her for a moment, her eyebrow raised, and Sophie felt another trickle of unease. “Indeed, yes, miss,” Prunella said eventually. “I’ll just get my inventory and then we can update it while you look things over.”

  The pantry wasn’t bad, though Sophie rearranged things to her liking. The bins of flour and sugar were well filled and shielded in tin to keep vermin out; there were dried apples and pears, aging cheeses and bottles of oil and vinegar, jars and jars of preserves and honey, and several dozen eggs.

  “Lamb with rosemary for luncheon, starting with a crisp chestnut soup, followed by smoked trout and finished off with a round of roasted asparagus and an apple charlotte,” she said decisively. “Where’s the larder?”

  “This way, miss,” Gracie, who had followed along with Maude, announced, and started for the door, only to hear Dickens’s calm voice sounding oddly panicked.