She looked at him blankly, and his amusement began to turn to irritation again. He wasn’t used to having to work for a woman—that was the point in paying for it. No misconceptions, no polite lies or even the necessity of charm, though he’d been told he had his own, barbed brand of charm.
Unfortunately it was already too late—he wanted her, he wanted her now, and she was watching him with a cool expression that suggested half his innuendoes were going right over her head, when he knew that was impossible.
“I have very strong appetites,” he said slowly. “It takes a great deal to leave me sated, and I bore easily.”
“I promise my efforts won’t leave you bored,” she said.
He let his eyes drift down over her body. He could tell that the dress she was wearing had once been very good quality, and it had survived a hurried trip to a dye bath to turn it a rusty shade between black and brown. He certainly hoped she had something more becoming in her trunks, because this masquerade, while amusing, was most definitely finite. The only one in this household who cared about food was Adelia, and he’d just as soon poison the bitch as she had once tried to poison him. With Rufus gone there was no longer any reason to tolerate her. He’d promised his father he’d look after her, and deathbed promises weren’t to be broken lightly, but Adelia was someone who could be bought off quite easily. As long as he kept funneling money in her direction, he wouldn’t have to see the vicious cow.
In the meantime he had more pleasant things to think about, such as the gorgeous, prickling creature in front of him. “I could be up all night,” he murmured, thinking of his unruly member, “and do nothing but eat.”
She didn’t even blush. For all her seemingly untouched appearance, she must have seen and heard a great deal in her young life not to react to his salacious comments. Once again he wondered if she’d been a child whore, and the thought sickened him.
But no, she didn’t have that dead expression in her eyes. “How long have you been doing this?” he said abruptly.
“Long enough, my lord. I promise you will find me more than competent for anything your appetites desire.” Again she looked at him with that absolute earnestness that many of the most unblushing whores couldn’t carry off.
“Competent, eh?” he echoed. Lord knows one wanted a competent whore, he thought wryly.
“More than competent,” she corrected him. “In fact, you might even call me inspired when the occasion merits it.”
He laughed. “Well, I shall simply have to see that the occasion merits it. You’re dismissed, Sophie.” To his surprise he found himself rising, as if a lady were leaving the room. While he tended to treat his mistresses with absolute courtesy outside the bedroom, it would look extremely odd if he started rising for his cook. But sitting back down would be too awkward, so he skirted the desk as she rose, wanting to get closer to her. He wanted a taste of that lovely mouth of hers; he wanted to bite and lick her. He moved swiftly, before she had time to back away, and the chair was behind her legs, trapping her there.
She was suddenly breathing deeply, as if she were actually nervous, when up till now she’d been ridiculously calm. And she smelled . . . different. She smelled of soap, rather than scent, with a touch of vanilla sugar about her that suddenly reminded him of his childhood days in the kitchen, begging Cook for a taste of the sweet dough, when he was young and nothing bad had happened.
Of course, Cook had never looked like Sophie.
He bent down, because she was shorter than he’d ordered, ready to take her mouth, when there came a sharp rapping at the door.
He should have ignored it, but it startled him enough that she was able to back away and open the door before he could stop her.
It was good, reliable Dickens, and Alexander wished him to the devil and back again. But he’d already taken a step toward his desk, and Alexander had no intention of having his butler and old friend think he’d caught the master in flagrante delicto with the new cook.
“I beg your pardon, your lordship,” Dickens said, looking disturbed. “But we’ve received word from the man you hired to look into your brother’s death.”
“Of course,” he said, mentally dismissing Sophie. Temporarily. “Is he here?”
“No, my lord. But there’s correspondence.”
He’d been so distracted he hadn’t noticed Dickens was holding a silver salver with the morning post on it. “You may go, Madame Camille,” he said carelessly as he reached for the letter. “But I’ll most definitely have need of your talents later on.”
She bobbed a curtsey, something she clearly didn’t have much practice in, and whisked herself out the door. And then he thought of nothing else but the private detective’s neatly penned words.
CHAPTER EIGHT
FORTUNATELY DICKENS DIDN’T SEEM determined to race through the corridors of Renwick like his master, and Sophie had no trouble following in his wake, her mind reeling. She had to be imagining what had just happened in the Dark Viscount’s library. She’d been frozen, looking up at him, and she’d had the sudden thought that he was going to kiss her, that he was going to put that hard, mocking mouth against hers, and the very thought made her feel hot inside, and she wasn’t sure why. It was almost as if she’d wanted him to kiss her.
But that was impossible. He’d asked her all the right questions; he’d seemed much more interested in her qualifications as a cook than last evening’s meal had suggested, though heaven knows his guests might have put a damper on his appetite. Strong appetites, he’d said, and she wondered why that felt unnerving. There were men in society who had little interest in anything but food, but they tended to be corpulent, and the viscount was, if anything, a little too lean. She only wished she’d had a closer look at him when he swam. From the distance he’d seemed fit, muscled and strong, but up close there was a whipcord energy about him that was too hard, too unforgiving. God help the woman who drew his attentions, she thought piously, a little shiver of longing running down her spine.
Dickens had stopped in front of the baize door that led to the servants’ staircase, and she halted her headlong pace, almost running into him as he stood waiting for her. “Miss Russell . . .” he began.
“You shouldn’t call me that,” she said hastily. “Someone might hear you. Like an idiot I just told his lordship that my real name was Sophie, so you may as well call me that, unless you prefer Madame Camille . . .”
“Miss Sophie,” Dickens said, clearly determined to be formal. “Might I suggest you keep your distance from the viscount? While he has never once interfered with any of the staff under my protection, you are obviously not in the usual way. I have complete faith in his honor in this matter, but it might be prudent to keep temptation out of his reach.”
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She blinked. “Do you think he has . . . er . . . designs on me?”