a man half a head shorter than he was. He strode through the halls at a leisurely pace, dispensing of his coat and his jacket, unknotting his cravat and tossing that as well. One of the efficient maids would make his mess disappear long before anyone else awoke, though Dickens would give him a wounded look.
A glass of brandy and a good cigar would end the night to perfection. The door to his office was open, and he sat down behind his desk, pulling off his boots with a grunt. Sitting back, he stared at his moonlit office, at the sofa where he’d had Sophie beneath him for too short a time. In fact, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. He needed to get rid of her, before this entire thing got out of hand.
Getting up, he went over and poured himself a generous snifter of brandy, not giving a damn that he was ruining the bouquet of it by overfilling the glass. He needed alcohol if he was going to sleep tonight, enough alcohol that he wouldn’t dream about Sophie. He tossed the contents back with a disrespectful shudder, then refilled the glass, repeating the action. The third was a reasonable amount, one he could savor, his offering to Bacchus as appreciation for the nectar of the gods.
He glanced out the French windows that overlooked the terrace leading down to the pool, and froze. There had been a flash, almost a suggestion of something white out there, something pale and ghostly, and immediately his mind went to Rufus. As difficult as it was to believe he was dead, the thought that he’d return to haunt Renwick was even more ridiculous. But then, if anyone would turn into a mischievous, vengeful ghost it would be his half brother, Rufus.
For a moment he stopped to consider why he would think Rufus would want revenge. As far as Alexander knew, his half brother adored him—he’d have no reason to wish him ill.
He moved closer to the window, looking out. He wouldn’t be seen—there was no light behind him and the brightness of the moon was blinding. He could see that almost formless white shape flit through his gardens like a hummingbird. A white, pure hummingbird, with long, golden hair halfway down her back.
She’d turned that lovely back on him. She was wearing only a shift and it clung to her body like a glove. She’d tilted her head upward, spreading her arms as if calling to the moon, her lover, to come to her. He was frozen, mesmerized, watching her. It was as if he’d happened across a fawn in the woods, a shy woodland creature. Or more likely a unicorn. She looked so silvery white in the moonlight, more like a goddess than the girl he knew she was.
She turned, not even glancing toward the house. She was practically naked—he supposed the dark heap at her feet was the rest of her clothes. She was standing at the head of the pool, watching as it shimmered in front of her, and he held his breath as he realized she was wet. The water made her shift cling to her body, outlining every curve, every valley and shadow. She’d been in his pool, and his entire body grew painfully hard at the thought. She’d been in the water, and he hadn’t been with her.
He slipped out the door silently, into the shadows before she could realize anything had changed. She jerked her head back toward the house, her eyes searching, her body tense, and then she relaxed, seeing nothing.
She was thinner than he’d realized, though still rounded in the prettiest places. He couldn’t quite reconcile the tart-tongued whore with the innocent schoolgirl act, and now the moon goddess had joined her roles. Who else could she play?
She was humming beneath her breath, so softly he couldn’t make it out. She was moving, swaying, and the song got just a little bit louder, until he could make out one of Johann Strauss’s new waltzes. She hummed, took a few steps and then turned, dipped, and moved on. She was dancing, he realized, dancing alone in his gardens, her body damp from his pool, and he wondered if she knew he was watching her. She’d know soon enough.
He kept to the shadows along the complicated system of terraces, out of her sight as her pretty voice moved on to another waltz, something slow and almost sexual. He wanted to stay in the shadows, watching her, he wanted to take her and . . . he just wanted to take her. He recognized the waltz now, and some odd, quixotic part of him made him suddenly move forward, into the moonlight, taking her in his arms and swinging her into the waltz and for a brief, unreal moment she danced with him, perfectly, like a London socialite.
And then she froze, her humming strangled in her voice as she stumbled against him, and they came to an abrupt halt. He kept hold of her, lightly, but he wasn’t about to let her go, particularly as she tried to push away from him. “You aren’t supposed to be here,” she said, sounding almost panicky.
The panic had to be feigned—it was ridiculous. “Why not?” he said in a low voice.
“You were supposed to be gone for at least two days.” She was calming down now, the tight edge gone from her voice.
“Where was I supposed to be?” he questioned lightly. He could smell the water on her skin, and he wanted to lick her shoulder, her neck, he wanted to pull down the wet shift and suckle her. Through the thin, damp cotton he could see nipples, dark against the sheer fabric, puckered against the cold. Waiting for his mouth.
“They told me you were off with your whores,” she said.
She sounded almost jealous, which was absurd, given that the women he would have been with were her sisters in the world’s oldest profession. “I decided I’d rather have you,” he said, holding her quite mercilessly, looking down into her dark blue eyes that shouldn’t have held so much intelligence. He put his other hand at the back of her neck, sliding it beneath her damp curtain of hair, and tilted her face up so that he could kiss her.
“Don’t you dare,” she said in a furious whisper.
He was so startled at her vehemence he almost loosened his hold on her. Almost. “Why not? You’re bought and paid for.”
If she wasn’t clamped against his body she probably would have slapped him. Her outrage was so complete that it was hard to believe it was feigned. She was so very good at this. “Bought and paid for?” she echoed furiously; her struggles, which had momentarily died down, began in earnest again. “You conceited jackass! Who do you think you are? I was told you kept your hands off the people in your employ. Clearly you think nothing of exerting that unfair advantage over me, but I have no intention of letting you get away with it. Let go of me.”
“Did Mrs. Lefton send you or did she not?” he demanded, growing weary of all this.
“Of course she did,” Sophie said instantly. “Why else would I be here?”
“Why indeed?” he murmured to the heavens. “And did she explain fully what your duties would require?”
She hesitated for a moment, and he knew exactly what was going through her head. She was deciding which of her complicated schemes she would play out. “Of course,” she said finally.
“In detail?”
“I’ve already told you, yes. In detail,” she snapped, but she was looking uneasy.
“So I’m tired of waiting. Take off your fucking clothes.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
SOPHIE STOPPED PUSHING AGAINST him. The more she fought, the tighter his grip, and he was a very strong man. He was also out of his mind. What kind of employment agency would send a woman out to . . . to . . . she wasn’t even going to think his crude word, but the idea was absurd.