“Immeasurably,” said Dickens. “I’ll go and give your reply to his lordship, though perhaps I’ll be more diplomatic. My rooms are on this floor as well, though at the far end past the stillroom, the plate room, and the cheese room. If you need anything you have only to ask.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dickens. You’ve been very kind. And please don’t blame Prunella for looking out for me. She was only being kind.”
It was a mere guess, but Dickens’s expression verified it. There was something rather sweet going on between the cook’s right hand and the burly butler. “Miss Prunella is a very kind woman.”
“She is indeed. Good night, Mr. Dickens.”
“Good night, madame.”
She watched him go, then took her dishes to the scullery and washed them. She didn’t need to—most kitchen workers would have left them for the scullery maids to deal with in the morning, but they’d all worked so hard, Sophie had no intention of leaving them with any more work.
It had been the longest, most eventful day of her life. Tomorrow couldn’t help but be easier.
The cook’s quarters were luxurious by servants’ standards. There was a small sitting room with cast-off furniture, a bedroom with a nice, large bed, and even a bathing room and water closet. She remembered something about Bryony insisting the servants needed bathing facilities and their father protesting it was a waste of money in a house they didn’t even own, but right now she could bless Bryony’s stubbornness. The tub was deep and the hot water abundant, and she slipped into it with a sigh of relief as every muscle in her body began to relax and her mind ran past the events of the day. She would need to get word to Nanny, somehow, without the interfering Miss Crowell becoming involved. She also needed to understand the Dark Viscount’s cryptic statements about the employment agent, Mrs. Lefton, and what was expected from her. She should have gone with Dickens to meet with the viscount. After all, he was her employer, and normally she would work on menus with whomever was in charge—usually the housekeeper and lady of the house.
But there was no housekeeper, and the mistress, Alexander Griffiths’s stepmother, was apparently prostrate with grief, though not so prostrate she couldn’t devour an astonishing number of vol-au-vent swans. A midnight meeting with his lordship was therefore logical.
But she didn’t want to do it. She leaned back in the tub and closed her eyes. Seeing him close up had been a shock. The man was mesmerizing, with his dark gray eyes lit with just a trace of wicked humor, the high cheekbones and narrow nose and, oh my God, his mouth. She was obsessed with his mouth, with its faintly mocking curve. And she didn’t even want to think about the lean, powerful body up close.
She slid lower into the tub with a moan. What was wrong with her? There’d been a score of men falling at her feet, plain men, handsome men, even a couple of too-exquisitely beautiful men who could have made her life a complete misery. She hadn’t wanted any of them—they’d been playthings to tease and set against each other.
Now that she could no longer have any man she wanted, she suddenly wanted one. It was a shocking thought, and she wished she could deny it, but the more she tried to talk herself out of it, the worse it got, and she finally gave up.
“So he’s pretty,” she said out loud. “So you’re obsessed with him, and have been for weeks. What else have you got to be obsessed with? He’s the first good-looking man of quality you’ve been around in months, and he has all that romantic, broody stuff going on, with the long hair and the fascinating eyes. You’re just bored. In London you wouldn’t look twice.”
But she would, and she knew it. He was the kind of man who drew the eye, and that secret twist of humor kept her attention focused. So what? During the long hours of dinner preparations Prunella had talked, of course, answering her questions about the household and its ways with a low voice. Apparently the viscount didn’t touch the staff, even the prettiest, youngest ones, and he made certain no one else did. Which meant she was safe from importunate male attention, particularly from the master of the house.
Such a relief, she thought, grimacing. It would certainly keep things simpler, knowing he had no intention of pressing advances on her. Knowing he’d never touch her with the long, elegant hands she’d noticed at the dinner table
while the argument railed around her. Knowing she’d never feel all that golden skin against hers, nor the touch of his mouth. She wouldn’t wipe the cynicism from his eyes and the sarcastic bent from his speech. She would cook for him, and discover just where all this money had come from, and whether he’d been in London or had any confederates connected to Russell Shipping. And then she’d leave. Once she had a place to go.
Right now Nanny Gruen’s cottage was empty, her sisters were God knew where, and she was on her own. She pulled on the lace nightdress she’d managed to sneak out under her petticoats when they’d been summarily evicted from their town house, and climbed into the cool, clean-smelling sheets. She could probably thank Prunella for that. It wasn’t a warm night, but there were plenty of quilts and blankets on the bed, and she moved to open one of the high-set windows just a bit, to let the scent of the night air into the room. Odd, but she’d always thought she’d hated being outdoors. It turned out she simply disliked parading around in a crowded public park. She loved the wild expanses around this house, and she’d spent years not realizing it.
She slid into bed with a sigh of relief. Renwick had never been Sophie’s favorite place in the world, though her sisters had adored it. She’d preferred the excitement of town life. But now, being in London was the very last thing she wanted, not because of the shame her father had brought down on them all, but simply because she’d feel stifled. She breathed in the smell of the countryside, slowly, evenly, as she drifted into sleep. And if the last thing she thought of was Alexander Griffiths’s beautiful hands, no one had to know.
Alexander leaned back in the leather chair, a glass of Scots whisky cradled in his hands, and controlled his urge to strangle someone. What the hell was going on in his household? These matters were supposed to be very simple, and instead it was growing more and more complicated.
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.