He didn’t even want to open his eyes. He could smell her. Smell the tangled perfume of sex and Sophie on the sheets beneath him, the air around him, and in his morning thickheadedness he remembered something was wrong, but he couldn’t remember what. His body was humming pleasantly, still happy from the bone-shattering release of last night, so powerful that it had knocked him out and he hadn’t been able to continue with all the things he’d wanted. But it was morning, and he was going to have to say something to her and not growl.
He was hard as a rock, of course, and not just his early morning erection. Maybe he could just take her first before any unpleasant memories fought their way through. He opened his eyes to the dim morning light. It had to be only a bit past seven. Very carefully he rolled over onto his back, ready to take her in his arms.
He was alone in the bed. Suddenly he was wide awake, as if he’d been up for hours with half a pot of coffee inside him. He sat up, looking around the room. His trousers and smalls were in a heap on the floor, but there was no sign of her shift, or of Sophie at all. She’d run off, the coward, and there was nothing he could do but roll out of bed.
He yanked open the heavy curtains, letting in such a flood of light that it assaulted his eyes and his head. He’d had too much to drink last night before he made the fatal mistake of finding Sophie almost naked, dancing in the moonlight.
Fatal, he thought. Why the hell did it feel fatal? He was just taking what was bought and paid for, and he’d gone out of his way to make certain she’d been willing, which on the face of it had been absurd.
It hadn’t felt like a transaction. It had felt as if he were in bed with someone he cared about, not a hired companion. Part of her damned games, and even in the heat of everything, she hadn’t dropped that mask. He glanced over at the bed in frustration, and froze.
There was a dark stain on the sheets. He shut his eyes. He wasn’t going any closer—the maids would strip the bed and the whole thing was none of his business. But he knew he couldn’t ignore it. Opening his eyes, he moved back to the bed and looked down.
The smear of dried blood where he had taken her was unmistakable. He could tell himself she’d had her monthly courses, yes, that was the reason she’d been standoffish, but he knew that was a lie. He remembered the blessed tightness of her, her cry of pain when he’d pushed through, and the impossible, damnable truth was staring him in the eyes.
He heard Dickens rap softly on the door and without thinking Alexander slid back in bed, pulling the discarded covers up over the telltale sign.
“Good morning, your lordship,” Dickens said in a quiet voice used to keep a wild animal at bay, carrying his breakfast tray. He came over to the far side of the bed and set it down, right over the spot that was burning a hole in Alexander’s brain. Dickens poured him a cup of coffee from the heavy silver pot, and Alexander grabbed for it, amazed that his hand was steady as a rock.
“I’m afraid breakfast is a bit below expectations, but I regret to tell you our cook has disappeared. When Prunella went to wake her, there was no sign of her, her bed hasn’t been slept in, and all her belongings are missing.”
Alexander met his butler’s eyes angrily. There’d been just the faintest bit of accusation in the man’s voice, and Alexander’s guilt bit at him. He took a deep gulp of coffee and burned his tongue, but he swallowed it anyway. “So what the hell do I have to do with it?” he demanded.
“Indeed, sir,” Dickens said smoothly. “I wondered the same myself.”
No one but Dickens would
have dared to say something like that to him. Alexander ignored him. “Draw me a bath. I’ve got work to do today. And you’d best see about finding us a new cook, one who won’t flit off in the middle of the night. Have you checked to see whether she ran off with any of the silver?”
Dickens’s disapproval deepened. “No, sir. I’ll get right on it.”
A servant, even one of Dickens’s tenure, wasn’t supposed to be sarcastic, but Alexander ignored it. Dickens got away with a lot more than a regular servant. Alexander lifted the silver cover and then dropped it back on the unappetizing meal. “And take this rubbish away. Tell Prunella if she can’t manage a decent breakfast then she can take herself off as well.”
Dickens stiffened. “Yes, my lord. Would you prefer I send her to you so you may inform her yourself?”
“Go to hell, Dickens.”
“Yes, sir.”
By the time he was bathed and dressed and Dickens had shaved him without cutting his throat, Alexander’s head had cleared. It was a relief she was gone, he told himself as he settled behind his desk. She’d been a distraction instead of a convenience, the exact opposite of what he’d told Lefton he’d wanted, and he was well rid of her. He was going to have a word with Mrs. Lefton, and never make the mistake of trusting even a professional like that overpainted harridan to choose a bed partner for him.
By the time it was late morning he’d been doing an excellent job of not thinking about Sophie more than once or twice every few minutes. When Dickens knocked on the door he felt an unaccustomed relief in the distraction.
“You have a visitor, my lord,” Dickens said in austere tones.
Alexander raised his eyebrows, waiting.
“I’ve put her in the small front parlor. Do you wish to see her there or shall I bring her to you?”
“Her?” he echoed, puzzled. “Do you mean a lady?”
“No, sir,” Dickens said in a stiff voice. “A female.”
“A servant?”
“No, sir.”
“Damn it, Dickens, I’m in no mood for guessing games!” he snapped.