He stopped abruptly at the far end of the pool, pulling himself up and shaking off some of the excess water from his hair, for all as if he were a spaniel, she thought, trying for mockery and failing. The sun gilded his skin, and the droplets of water sparkled like diamonds.
He turned, reaching for a towel he’d dropped on the ground, and she took the time to admire his back. And then he turned and looked directly up into her window, directly at her.
It was too far for their eyes to meet, and she immediately fell back into the shadows. There was no way he could know for sure, and he was probably just looking at the house. But she couldn’t rid herself of the suspicion that he’d been looking into her eyes, knowing she was watching him, just as he’d seemed to know she was watching him from the ledge far above Renwick.
Arrogant, preening bastard, she thought, moving to the bed and climbing up into the middle of it. It was a warm day, and she was feeling suddenly overheated, so she unfastened the top buttons of her somber dress. Humphries sat on the bed, and she hugged him to her, breathing in the familiar smell of him, trying to shut out everything else. It was going to be all right in the end, wasn’t it?
Maybe if the Dark Viscount drowned.
Oddly enough she slept. She had nightmares, of course—she could see his body, the water glistening on his skin, in his hair. She’d never seen him from the back before, and it had been a revelation. She’d known the front of him was undeniably glorious, but his back was almost better, the contours of it, the way the wet, almost transparent, smallclothes clung to his . . . well, she’d better not think of that. And from the back she didn’t have to see his annoying, ironic smile. She could pretend he was someone else entirely, the handsome fairy-tale prince she’d been planning to find in London to solve all her family’s problems. Not this unlikely troll who’d invaded her garden and ruined her life.
Then again, she didn’t believe in fairy tales, folk legends, or even trolls, though Alexander Griffiths came close.
It was dark when she awoke, but someone had come in and lit the lamps, so she scrambled out of bed and turned them up. She was rumpled and frumpy and her feet hurt, and on the off chance there really were shoes in the dressing room she hobbled over to it.
> She took one look at the myriad of dresses and slammed the door again, without even bothering to look for shoes. Half of those dresses would fit her, because half of those dresses had been made for her. They were still there, along with everything else they had left behind at Renwick, even including poor old Humphries—they’d been allowed nothing. She wondered for a moment if her favorite doll was still in residence, then knew that was a lost cause. He had taken her bedroom with its glorious view of the tor and the hills beyond it, and he would have had anything overtly feminine tossed out. She hadn’t had a good look at the room during her desperate exit—had it only been this morning? She didn’t have the sense that he’d changed it much, though he’d probably repainted the sunny yellow walls. His bloody lordship wasn’t much for sunshine and good cheer.
There were no shoes in the room. Just as well—they wouldn’t fit over her bandages, and her feet were much happier with the warm woolen hose covering the thick wrappings. The only problem was they made her shorter, and the Dark Viscount had a tendency to loom. She’d deal with it.
She heard the warning gong, and she knew she was supposed to present herself in one of the reception rooms to make polite conversation and flirt. At least, that was how it went at any house party.
But this was no house party. This was disaster personified, and if she found any chance to get away from him she’d take it. For now she wasn’t going anywhere, not with bandaged feet and no shoes. And the staff, so protective and helpful while she was trying to hide her identity, seemed to think a forced marriage with their infuriating master was just the thing. No, she was on her own again.
But a marriage couldn’t be accomplished that quickly. They had to call the banns—that gave her three weeks to find a way to leave. Time enough for her feet to heal, time enough for her to come up with a practical plan. If she’d had a little more time to figure out what to do after Miss Crowell whisked Nanny Gruen away she might not be in the mess she was now. Coming to Renwick had seemed like a good idea at the time. She must have been demented.
At least she could be certain that he wouldn’t be taking liberties with her during the next three weeks. He’d made it clear that he’d found bedding her less than enthralling. No, she would be safe from him during the time she was forced to remain there. So why did that bother her so much? She had always had dozens of men at her feet—she didn’t need or want Alexander to be one of them.
The bell rang again, a second warning, and she knew she had to stir, or the brute might storm up here and drag her down to dinner. Besides, she was interested to see how they managed without her. Not that she’d been in the kitchen long enough to effect much of a change, but Prunella had the basics—she just had to listen to her instincts.
There was a beautiful gray shawl with lavender trim hanging in the dressing room. Sophie had always coveted that shawl, and of course Maddy had flaunted it. It was amazing the two of them loved each other, considering how much they fought. She wrapped it around her against the coming night chill. After all, the colors were suitable for demi-mourning, weren’t they? Not that she was going to return to colors any time soon. Not, at least, until she found answers about her father. She just wasn’t going to find the answers here. Alexander might be many horrid things, but he wasn’t a thief and a murderer. At least she could trust her instincts on that, even if they’d failed her every other way.
She was descending the last few stairs when a harried Dickens headed for the gong in the hallway, prepared to summon her once more, but he looked up when he saw her and she could recognize the relief that flooded his body. He straightened his burly form. “Lord Griffiths awaits you in the blue parlor, Miss Russell.”
She didn’t even wince. The blue parlor had been Bryony’s. She’d run the household, more efficiently than any housekeeper might, and her desk was there, presumably still with her books and her inkstand and pens. Sophie followed Dickens’s burly figure, trying not to limp.
The room hadn’t changed much. A few of the more feminine adornments were gone, and the pretty watercolors had been replaced by hunting scenes, but it still felt like Bryony. God, she missed her sisters! What were they doing, who were they with, what had they found out? Anything at all?
Dickens had been right—Alexander Griffiths had dressed for dinner, and he was a glorious sight. It didn’t seem fair that he should be quite so beautiful, and she paused to look at him objectively, searching for flaws.
He was too tall, for one thing. She was the shortest of the three sisters and she was not pleased with that fact. She didn’t like men towering over her.
He was clean-shaven when most men had some sort of facial hair, and the smoothly scraped skin highlighted his sharp cheekbones and strong, stubborn jaw.
His mouth was too noticeable, always with that merest hint of wry amusement that drove her mad. His dark hair was far too long, his dark eyebrows slanted up in a way that could only be called satanic, and his gray eyes were too far-reaching. The mockery was in those eyes as well, and Sophie stiffened her back.
As for his clothes, they were elegant, well tailored, and slightly worn, as if he couldn’t be bothered to replace his evening attire. Money certainly couldn’t be the reason, and he wore the slightly tired-looking jacket with a carelessness that made her judgment seem frivolous.
Plus, his manners were appalling. He was leaning against the fireplace, his arms crossed over his chest, and he made no effort to stand up or come forward. He simply stayed there, watching her with deceptive laziness as she entered the room.
“I told you to change your clothes. And don’t tell me they don’t fit—I gather at least some of those fripperies once belonged to you.”
She fixed him with a steady eye. “Have you forgotten? I’m in mourning—it’s far too soon to discard my blacks.”
He didn’t seem moved by her reproof, merely letting his eyes run down her body with slow, deliberate fascination. Then he spoke. “Turn around, would you?”
She looked at him suspiciously. “Why?”
He laughed. “Foolish little girl. I promise I won’t touch you.”