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 as
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.
No, this watcher was farther away. His first thought had been logical—one of his many enemies, looking for a chance to finish him off.
It wasn’t until he was well into his third glass of Scots whisky that he remembered that his enemies, though virulent, were simply not that numerous. His late wife’s extended family, holding the firm conviction that he’d murdered Jessamine, comprised most of them. Much as he’d longed to strangle his wife on numerous occasions, he had had nothing to do with her precipitous fall from the top floor of the decrepit old manor house that had been his previous residence. Thank God for his brother, who’d stood beside him and kept him sane through that hideous period.
And now his brother was presumed dead. Everyone was gone, with the dubious exception of Adelia, his stepmother.