“You and what army?” Alexander shot back.
“I’m still man enough to give you a beating when you deserve one,” Dickens growled, sounding more like the prizefighter he’d once been and less like the proper butler he’d turned into.
Alexander glared at him. “Go ahead and find her, then. I’ll be waiting.”
“And when we do? What next?”
“How the hell should I know?” Alexander snapped.
“It might be a good thing for you to decide by the time we bring her back,” Dickens said severely, turning his back on his employer and stomping off.
Alexander let him go. Dickens was always punctilious about proper etiquette between a servant and his master, even in a relationship as long-term and intimate as theirs. He had to be greatly moved to let the veneer of decorum drop.
Alexander turned and faced the garden once more, cursing beneath his breath. He knew what he had to do, whether he was ready to admit it to Dickens or not. All he wanted was to strip off his clothes and wash everything away in the coolness of the water. Instead he was saddled with this impossible mess.
He looked up then, at the tor that towered above the grounds of Renwick, at the spot
where he’d felt the spying eyes, and suddenly he knew, without question, who had watched him all those weeks. And he knew where Miss Sophia Russell, recently despoiled, proper young lady, was.
He went down the steps and started across the lawn.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SOPHIE DROPPED TO THE grass, exhausted. The fitful sun had burned off the heavy morning dew, but her bare feet were still cold, and she tugged her skirts down to wrap around her toes. She’d dressed in the woods, doing the best she could, but the corset had defeated her and she’d simply shoved it in the valise. She was going to have to do something about shoes. She’d only had the one pair, and she’d been too panicked to do a thorough search. Maybe she could get word to Prunella and she’d find them. After all, she could hardly take the train to London with no shoes on her feet.
She had absolutely no idea what she was going to do once she got to London. None of their extended family resided in the city, so she couldn’t look for help in that direction, but there were a number of old friends who might not turn their backs on her. Not all of them could refuse to help her.
Unless, of course, their parents knew she’d found herself in a man’s bed without the countenance of marriage. But with luck it would take time for her destroyed reputation to follow her, and it might even remain a secret. None of the servants had wished her ill, and God knew the Dark Viscount probably wouldn’t want to repeat the experience. She hadn’t known what to do, and certainly men preferred an experienced partner in such things. Alexander wouldn’t think twice that his unsatisfactory lover had run off, and if by some horrible chance he found out who she really was, he’d be even more certain to keep quiet about it. Not that he struck her as the sort of man who’d let society force him to do the honorable thing.
Six months ago it would have been simple. He’d compromised her; he would marry her. But she was probably no longer considered a proper young lady, and the gossips would probably say she was no better than her father, curse them. Father hadn’t been amoral; he’d been set up. Though in truth she couldn’t say the same thing about herself.
She lay down in the grass and looked up at the shadowy sky. There was a storm coming in, and she’d brought no umbrella with her. She was going to be soaked by the time she reached the coaching inn, and she would still have to deal with the matter of shoes.
She had just enough money for a ride on the public coach to either Plymouth or London. London seemed the better choice. While Maddy might still be in Plymouth and was undoubtedly the person she most wanted to run to, if Maddy had already left there’d be no one to turn to. In London there were dozens of old friends, and surely at least one of them would give her shelter. Surely.
She closed her eyes with a soft moan. She could still feel his hands on her body, his mouth at her breasts. She could feel him inside her—she was still uncomfortable down there. Bringing up her arm, she mashed it against her breasts, trying to give herself some sort of relief. She wasn’t going to be able to forget last night until her body stopped giving her reminders. The rough red burn on her skin that had come from his whiskers. The bruising on her thighs where he’d held her as he’d thrust into her, over and over again. The constant tightening inside whenever she thought of him, pushing into that place, taking her, claiming her, loving her, making her wild.
Ruining her.
Well, in truth, she was already ruined. First her father’s disgrace, then her masquerading as a cook and living under the same roof with someone as notorious as the Dark Viscount, degenerate, recluse, wife-murderer.
Not that he’d been particularly degenerate with her, at least as far as she knew. She imagined women would consider him a very good lover. She was certainly in no position to judge—it all seemed dreamlike to her in retrospect. Perhaps, after a long enough time, she might be able to forget it ever happened. It didn’t even need to put a damper on her practical plans for the future. She’d had so many men flocking around her during her season that it should be simple enough to choose one of them with enough money and position to bring her back to where she belonged. To be sure, the fortune hunters might fall by the wayside, and the high sticklers might consider her tainted by the lies that had been told about her father. But that still left more than a few to choose from, and her maid had told her there were ways to fake virginity. In fact, said Doris, few men had the wit to notice anything at the time. Clearly Alexander hadn’t.
Had Doris known she was going to fall from grace, known that her mistress was a helpless wanton? Or was Doris just being helpful on the off chance that something happened?
Sophie groaned, rolling over on her stomach and putting her face in the grass. She missed her kitchen, the smell of food and the freedom to create anything she wanted. She missed her small rooms in the basement; she missed Prunella and Dickens. Most of all she missed . . . no, she didn’t! She was well rid of Alexander Griffiths.
The ground beneath her pressed against her tender breasts, pushed against that soft spot between her legs. She rolled back with a groan, staring up at the darkening sky. Sooner or later she was going to have to move.
But maybe she’d wait just long enough to watch him swim, one more time. There was no denying he was a beautiful sight. Maybe this time he’d finally divest himself of his smalls.
She could feel heat burn her face. She might not know what the man looked like without his clothes, but she had a far more intimate acquaintance with his body. In her less than pristine condition she would probably have to settle for a less than stellar husband, and in truth, she couldn’t remember a single man from her social whirl in London who was half as bewitching as the Dark Viscount. Somehow with his gray eyes, his high cheekbones and strong nose, his devastating mouth that could be so hard and so soft, somehow he had managed to be the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, and she was well and truly ruined, not just in terms of her body and her reputation. She was ruined for another man. She hadn’t just given him her virginity; she’d given her heart and soul to a cynic.
Oh, there would be a good man, sooner or later—she had no doubt of it. She was still pretty, and the sins were laid upon her father, not her. She could probably have either a good-looking younger man without title or a great deal of money, and they could live on love, or she would marry an older man, less attractive but more endowed with worldly goods, and she could enjoy herself in the style she was used to. But either way, they wouldn’t be him.
The dark clouds were scudding across the sky, mirroring her mood. She had to come up with a plan, and she would. She closed her eyes as thoughts danced round in her head, and she tried to catch one, to focus, but it slipped away, and she was asleep.
She didn’t dream, but she felt the sun begin to warm her bones, and she settled in deeper, shifting on the hard ground. Time passed, and suddenly she was cold again, something was blocking the sun, and she opened her eyes to see a dark monolith standing over her. She blinked, trying to focus, and she struggled to sit up.