He still didn’t need to be quite so vicious to her. He didn’t need to pretend that the night before hadn’t been . . . memorable in more ways than one. Perhaps it was simply that it had bee
n too long since he’d had a woman, but he knew he was fooling himself. He could still taste her, feel her body clench around his, and he was going to have to dunk them both in the pool to deal with his erection if he didn’t stop thinking about it.
He had more important things on his mind. To marry her locally would require the calling of the banns for three weeks, and he wasn’t in the mood to wait, or to deal with her arguments for that long.
The arguments had to be as specious as her connection to Lefton. She’d admitted her goal was to marry a rich and titled man, and she’d managed to get herself compromised by one. Of course she’d done everything she could to put him off, but he had no idea whether that was simply part of her game or a real aversion to him. It could simply be the natural reticence of a properly reared young lady—he hadn’t been around one in a while.
Damn her, he thought, speeding up as he approached the house. And damn him. This was a right holy mess, one that could have been avoided if she’d simply told him who she was. Better yet, if she’d never come near him in the first place. Now it was up to him to clean it up, as quickly and discreetly as possible.
One of the footmen was waiting at the door, opening it for him as he swept her inside and dropped her valise. He paused a moment, trying to decide where to take her, when she spoke in a stiff little voice.
“I’d like to go back to my rooms by the kitchen. And I’m capable of walking,” she added pointedly.
“I’d rather not have you tracking blood all over my carpets,” he said.
“Then Tim can carry me.”
Alexander jerked his head up to give the footman a piercing glare. They had all probably known who she was, and he ought to sack the lot of them. “I think I can manage,” he said dryly. He started for the servants’ stairway. He had no intention of leaving her down there, but for the time being it was easier, and someone needed to look after her feet. She wouldn’t be walking far on them, and that would give him time to sort things out.
Everyone froze as he descended into the kitchen, and the guilt on every face he happened to notice assured him that they were all intimately aware of his cook’s real identity and his damned infatuation with her. “Her feet need bandaging,” he announced in a gruff voice. “Where are her rooms?” He had a general idea of how the kitchens were laid out, but the sleeping arrangements of the servants had been Adelia’s purview until she’d collapsed in histrionic grief over her precious son.
Dickens stepped forward, all dignity, as if he hadn’t been lying to his master for days now. “This way, my lord. And Prunella, if you would join us with bandages and carbolic. Agnes, continue with the preparation for dinner—Prunella will rejoin you in a moment.”
Sophie stirred in his arms, ignoring him as if he were nothing more than a carriage transporting her. “What are you working on for dinner?”
“Just what you wrote down, miss,” Prunella replied. “Everything’s going well, and I’m planning to do the sauce just as you showed me.”
“If I’m stuck here for the night I may as well help you.”
He wanted to growl, like an angry bear. “You’re stuck here for a lot longer, and you’ll stay in bed. Your feet are in worse shape than you realize.” He followed Dickens into a set of plain rooms, the front door paneled in glass. Her bed was indeed narrow, and all sorts of wicked thoughts entered his mind as he dropped her down.
She glared up at him. “Go away.”
If she heard Dickens’s shocked intake of breath she didn’t react.
“I’m going. I’ve had my fill of scrambling in the woods looking for you. I have better things to do.”
She wanted to snap some kind of comeback to that, but she kept her mouth shut. Smart girl.
There was one obvious silver lining to this particular cloud. Adelia was going to be livid when he told her he planned to marry again.
With that to look forward to, the day wasn’t so bad after all.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“OH, MISS!” PRUNELLA SAID, fluttering around her. “Whatever did you do to your poor feet?”
Sophie sent up a silent thank-you that she hadn’t asked a more pertinent question. There were other parts of her body that were almost as uncomfortable. “I couldn’t find my shoes,” she mumbled, suddenly feeling guilty.
“Never you mind, Prunella.” Dickens’s reproof was gentle. “She’s had a rough time of it. You just take good care of her and I’ll have a talk with his lordship. I expect you’d like a cup of tea and something to eat, Miss Russell.”
There was no need to stop him from using her last name now. “That would be lovely, Mr. Dickens.”
“Just Dickens, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll have someone see to it, and I’ll send Tim to look for your shoes.”
Once he’d left she could pull her skirts up to her knees. Her feet weren’t that bad—a bit bruised and a little bloody, as far as she could tell beneath the dirt and mud.
“I’ll draw you a nice hot bath, Miss Russell, and then we’ll see about bandaging those feet.”