Never Marry a Viscount (Scandal at the House of Russell 3)

He moved into the ancient study that smelled of books and leather and generations of wood smoke, the one room he refused to let Adelia work her hideous taste on, and was about to close the door when a small, slim hand reached out and caught it. Looking down at his new mistress in surprise, he saw that she was neither out of breath nor flushed. Since the women of his acquaintance earned their living in bed, they were usually fairly indolent with their clothes on, but Madame Camille, or whatever she was calling herself, seemed ridiculously fit.

He stepped back, into the room, but she made no effort to follow, standing there with her back stiff. “Did you change your mind, my lord?” she asked, just slightly caustic. “I can always return to the kitchen—I have a great deal to do there and . . .”

“Sit down,” he said mildly enough.

“I’d rather stand.”

For a moment he was speechless, not quite as amused. “I don’t give a fuck what you’d rather do,” he said, and if he hadn’t been watching her so closely he wouldn’t have noticed the slight wince at his crude word. What kind of whore was she, to be uncomfortable with the word best suited to her chosen profession?

She came into the room, taking her own sweet time about it, as if to make sure he realized that he didn’t cow her. It was a waste of time on her part—he knew just how much he did and didn’t intimidate her. She glanced around the room, then went directly to the most comfortable chair in the place, the ancient green leather chair he usually sat in to read. The girl had taste as well as temerity.

He moved around to the far side of the desk and sat. Having a piece of furniture between them kept their positions clear—master and servant, no matter how good a chair she’d chosen. “Do you wish to remain in my employ, Miss . . . ? What the hell should I call you?”

This time she flinched, and he knew that no matter how standoffish she was being, she wanted to be here. “I am known as Madame Camille.”

“You don’t strike me as a Frenchwoman.”

“My mother was French. Madame will suffice.”

He’d been trying to intimidate her, but at that he laughed. “I don’t think so. What’s your name? Your real name

?”

He’d taken her off guard, and he could see her mentally scrambling. He snapped at her. “Now!”

“S-Sophie.”

“You don’t look like a Sophie,” he said. He’d be damned if that was her real name—it was too innocent. “But it will do. I must say, my dear Sophie, that I question your interest in the role you’ve been sent to fill.”

“You’re wrong.” And then she added, “my lord,” as if she realized how abrupt she sounded. “I am most determined to provide satisfaction.”

He leaned back, letting his mouth curve in a mocking smile. “Now why have I been doubting that?”

“I don’t know, my lord. I never undertake something without throwing myself into it completely, and I promise you that you will have absolutely no complaints about my . . . my cooking.” She stammered over the words. So they were going to speak in code, were they?

“Oh, I expect you’re an excellent . . . ah . . . cook. Mrs. Lefton would never have sent me a candidate who was unqualified. But there seems to be a certain lack of enthusiasm for some of the duties the job entails.”

“Oh, no, my lord.” She was putting energy into it, her eyes wide and guileless, and yet he was still having his doubts. Oh, he wanted her, quite badly. But she wasn’t the comfortable, undemanding creature he’d requested. “You will find that your faith in Mrs. Lefton’s judgment is not misplaced,” she continued. “I will stop at nothing in my efforts to please you. I am very creative, and I promise to astonish your senses with delights you haven’t even dreamed of.”

She was so earnest, and his problem had always been his imagination. He could already guess just how she could astonish his senses, and it was a good thing he was sitting behind the desk as he felt himself begin to stir. That was odd. He was no randy boy to sport a hard-on from nothing more than a mild sexual innuendo, but here he was, wanting nothing more than to leap across the surface of his desk and drag her down onto the floor. He raised an eyebrow. “Indeed?”

She didn’t blush—clearly she was more brazen than she had first appeared. “I will stop at nothing in my efforts to please you, my lord.”

His grin was wry. “Mrs. Lefton would expect nothing less.”

She nodded vigorously, showing more enthusiasm. “Her employees have to meet her exacting standards, and I know she has always been most impressed with my work.”

He considered this for a moment. He’d always wondered how women of the night received their training, and just assumed it was from experience, starting with their first lovers. The thought that Mrs. Lefton might have had firsthand knowledge of his new mistress gave him an odd feeling. While in general he found the idea of women pleasuring each other to be perfectly acceptable and even exciting, he didn’t like the thought of that raddled old hag touching Sophie.

Sophie. Maybe that was a good name for her after all.

“I really want this position,” she added.

He couldn’t repress a grin. “Which one?” He could think of half a dozen positions without even trying.

Sophie didn’t appear to share his extremely vulgar sense of humor. “The position for which I was hired,” she said with great dignity.

“I was thinking of more than one.”