Never Marry a Viscount (Scandal at the House of Russell 3)

“Oh, yes, I keep a lair, a dungeon, and an oubliette in every one of my houses. You never know when they might come in handy.”

She ignored his amusement. “How many houses do you have?”

“Reconsidering me as marriage material? Wise girl. I own Renwick, a house in St. John’s Wood, a manor house in Yorkshire, and a farm in the Lake District, and I believe there’s a run-down hunting lodge just over the border in Scotland. You have to understand that my elderly uncle only recently succumbed to a long life of wretched excess and I haven’t had time to inspect all the honors and dignities that go along with my title.”

“Honor,” she scoffed under her breath.

“Not that kind of honor,” he said reprovingly. “Besides, I’m on a trip to London to marry the innocent child I accidentally despoiled, and if that’s not honorable—”

“Not when she doesn’t want to marry you. And I’m not a child,” she snapped, then realized how childish she sounded.

He always did this to her. Got her wound up, so that she blurted out inappropriate things and did things she should never do if she had half a brain. Which she appeared to be lacking, every time he touched her. What an idiotic, weak-willed female she was!

“Need we go over this again?” he said, sounding bored.

She closed her mouth. They’d been arguing about that very thing when he’d pulled her into his arms and proceeded to demonstrate quite clearly why she should want to marry him, and she didn’t dare risk giving him the excuse to put his hands on her again, any more than she wanted to risk temptation.

“Since you refuse to listen, no,” she said, straightening out her crumpled skirts, trying to forget what had happened beneath them. “May I look at your newspaper while it’s still light?”

He smiled. “Of course, my precious.” He handed it to her, and she turned past the front-page advertisements to the articles and society columns, waiting for him to stop paying attention to her.

He didn’t—he was watching her with lazy interest, as if waiting for something. It didn’t take long for her to realize what he was expecting.

There were no advertisements in the paper apart from those on the front page. He’d taken those pages out, the polite inquiries for domestic servants and lost dogs, cutting off that avenue of escape. She didn’t let her expression change. “The paper seems thinner than usual.” It was no more than a casual comment.

“I took leave to remove sections before we left that would be of no interest to you,” he replied.

“How kind.” She couldn’t keep the acid from her voice.

“I am always at your service, my love.”

She wanted to grind her teeth in frustration, but she kept her expression as impassive as his. As soon as he returned her shoes and turned his back she’d be gone. She could buy a newspaper anywhere, or find an employment agency. Or take the train to Plymouth and hope for the best. She had countless options.

So why did the thought of leaving him dishearten her? Why was she, the most practical and levelheaded of creatures, suddenly so confused?

She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d bested her in the question of the newspaper, so she forced herself to read an extremely dull article on the arguments in a minor parliamentary issue, a look of intense concentration on her face. She glanced up once, but he hadn’t even noticed. His eyes were closed, and whether he slept or not, she didn’t think hurling herself out of a carriage would be a solution.

She set the newspaper down with a sigh, and if one corner of his mouth quirked in the trace of a smile, she ignored it. Once they reached London the possibilities would be endless. She could wait till then.

Astonishingly enough, the bumpy roads got worse as they neared the city, not better, and feigning sleep certainly wasn’t the answer. Sophie glanced out her window as they drove through the city, wondering where her usual excitement had gone. When she was young, indeed, a few months ago, she had always been breathless with anticipation when they left Renwick for the London town house on Curzon Street, the town house that was now a burned-out wreck. She had found her time in the country to be more penance than respite, and she’d done everything she could to make her father return to the city.

None of that thrill remained. She looked at the houses, the people, the lamplighter making his rounds, the dung- and mud-filled streets, and she thought of the theater, shopping, riding in the park, all the things that she’d loved. And she wanted to be back at Renwick.

The carriage stopped sooner than expected, and she looked out her window into the gathering dusk. Shadows had invaded the carriage, and she couldn’t see Alexander’s face, but he seemed to recognize the place.

“My shoes?” she said.

The coachman opened the door, and Alexander climbed out first, then turned and reached a hand for her. She held up one bare foot.

“Yes, they’re quite lovely, but I think you’re better off without shoes for the time being. And you shouldn’t have taken off your bandages.”

“I didn’t need them, and . . . oof!”

He’d reached in, caught her arm, and hauled her out, not into his arms, but over his shoulder, starting up the stairs as if hauling an unwilling bride was an everyday occurrence in the area. For all she knew, it was.

She considered struggling, but he’d probably slap her on the bottom, and she simply wanted to get out of sight as quickly as possible, so she stayed very still until the front door opened for him, and a butler welcomed them in, not even batting an eye. “Welcome home, sir. We’ve been expecting you for some time.”

Alexander let her down, and her body slid against his in a most undignified fashion that she wanted to feel again. “You have?” he said, looking perplexed. “I didn’t send word I was coming.”