He marched her out past the stone walls, onto the paths leading to the gardens, saying nothing until they were well out of earshot. And then he stopped so abruptly she barreled into him, unable to slow her momentum.
She was a gorgeous handful. She smelled like spring—fresh grass and wild roses, and her golden blond hair was a haphazard mop of curls that was about to tumble down around her perfect face.
Well, nothing was truly perfect, but she was absolutely enchanting. Her eyes were a brilliant dark blue, her lips adorably kissable, her nose small and pert. In truth, she was the loveliest thing he’d seen since he could remember, and that in itself presented a problem. When he’d talked to Mrs. Lefton he thought he’d made things clear.
He caught the girl by the arms, but not before she slammed up against him with her light weight, and he enjoyed the feel of her breasts against him for a brief moment, the soft sound of surprise from that lovely mouth. He wanted to drink that sound from her, cover her mouth with his, but he needed to be absolutely certain his suspicions were correct.
“Did Mrs. Lefton send you?” he demanded abruptly, reluctantly releasing her.
She took a step back, rubbing her arms as if he’d left a mark. She looked up at him fearlessly, so unlike anyone in the servant class. There was only a moment’s hesitation. “Of course,” she said.
He looked her up and down, slowly, circling her like a panther about to attack its prey. She was too young, too short, too pretty. He’d told Mrs. Lefton he wanted someone older, who’d spent enough time on her back to know what was expected of her. He’d said tall—he hated bending over women all the time. Besides, there were some sexual variations he had in mind that required someone tall enough, though no woman was going to reach his six foot three inches. He’d stated that he wanted someone appealing to look at, but no great beauty with aspirations. And here he was, left with a mistress who not only was everything he hadn’t asked for, but who also appeared to think she could pass herself off as his cook.
He’d had every intention of setting her up in her own cottage on the estate to make visits easier—in fact, he’d promised Mrs. Lefton that as part of their financial arrangement. So what the hell was she doing in his house, among his servants?
“You aren’t what I expected,” he said eventually.
“No?” she questioned brightly. “What did you expect?”
Jesus, she was saucy. Mistresses were supposed to be subtle and almost invisible when they had their clothes on. He ought to send her back.
“How old are you?” he demanded abruptly.
“Twenty.”
Better than he would have thought, though a good twelve years younger than he was. She should have said, “Twenty, my lord,” but then he hated the damned title anyway. It was just interesting how lacking in etiquette she was.
“I’m not sure you’ll do. You’re pretty enough, but I’m concerned about this cooking business. Can you even cook?”
A series of unreadable expressions flashed across her face, and if he didn’t know that it was almost impossible, he would have thought she was angry with him. Mistresses don’t get angry with their keepers, at least not in the early days. Later on in a settled relationship they would throw little fits that could only be calmed with an expensive piece of jewelry, but most had the sense not to light into their lovers before they’d even gone to their bed.
This one clearly had enough sense; he could tell she swallowed her instinctive retort to give him an icy smile. “I am a most excellent cook, my lord.” The words were bitten off, but it didn’t matter. He was used to women fawning over him. He had no illusions about his looks—he was by all accounts a very handsome man with a strong, fit body. Add to that his recent inheritance of both title and fortune, and women were ready to lie down for him at the snap of the fingers. In fact, Christabel had made several hints.
But he was no fool. Once you bedded a well-bred virgin you were trapped into marriage, and he had no interest in repeating that particular mistake. He’d yet to see a successful one—his parents had disliked each other, though in truth he could barely remember his real mother, only the sound of his parents’ fights. Mason Griffiths’s second marriage, to Adelia Casoby, hadn’t been any better, with only the arrival of his younger brother improving things for a bit. Until Adelia decided Alexander was some sort of threat to his younger brother’s well-being and had tried to do something about it. Dickens had been his father’s answer to that, companion and bodyguard, and he’d been with Alexander ever since, even accompanying him to Oxford.
Despite the fact that it would please his stepmother, Alexander had had every intention of dying without issue, leaving all this to his brother. They both would have loved it far more than he did, and Adelia would have adored being the mother of a young viscount. Of course, that was presuming Alexander died early, which Adelia had been doing her best to see to. But now his brother was dead, and everything had changed.
“Will I do?”
He was shocked out of his abstraction by the sweet, soft voice of the creature in front of him. He gave her his most haughty stare. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said, ‘Will I do?’?” she repeated in a slightly aggrieved tone. “My lord,” she added as an afterthought.
“That remains to be seen.” He wasn’t going to make this easy for her, but the more she startled him, annoyed him, the more interested he became. Perhaps he’d been wrong in asking for an experienced courtesan to set in place as his mistress. This young thing could scarcely have much experience—she still carried a bewitching innocence about her that he realized had to be completely spurious. He could feel his blood stirring in his veins.
“I assure you, I’m a very good cook,” she said, a trace of uncertainty in her voice.
“That’s really the least of my worries. I had planned to set you up in a small house on my estate, but I don’t think that will do.”
There was a sudden, surprising flash of anger in those dulcet eyes. “If you think you’re going to turf out some old retainer and stuff me into her cottage then you’ll find . . .”
He stopped her with a lift of his hand and a cool smile. “Hardly. There are a number of small houses connected to this estate, which, frankly, is too damned big. There’s a small dower house to which my stepmother refuses to retire, but that’s neither here nor there. She’s not the dowager viscountess, much as it grieves her, and I don’t trust her out of my sight. I suppose for the time being you may stay in the cook’s quarters until we see if you can carry off this charade.”
She looked at him, dumbstruck. “Charade?” she echoed.
He shook his head. “Never mind. You’re here now. It remains to be seen whether you’ll be staying. Fortunately for you my stepmother does not keep country hours. She prefers to dine at nine o’clock precisely, and her companion sees to her substantial teas in the afternoon. But if I were you, I’d get moving. It’s already late afternoon.”
“I believe it was your idea to take me away from my work,” she pointed out.