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

Rufus beamed at her. “This becomes even more interesting than my excursion with pirates. I look forward to hearing all about it. And when is the happy occasion?”

“Tomorrow. You can be one of the witnesses,” Alexander said.

He didn’t seem to notice Rufus’s fleeting expression of sheer malice before he smiled that charming smile. “I would be honored to do so. Though that’s a bit soon, isn’t it?”

“I don’t believe in wasting time. Miss Russell is without a chaperone or any kind of protection, and the sooner we’re married, the less gossip there’ll be.”

“I don’t need protection,” she shot out, but Rufus gave her a calculated smile, moving closer.

“Don’t let my brother bully you, Miss Russell. I promise I’ll keep him in line,” he said, reaching for her hand again.

She let him take it, noticing how her skin crawled when he touched her. It was a strange reaction—the man really was more beautiful than Alexander, his smile brilliant, his eyes clear and guileless. And yet she didn’t believe him. Something was off, and she wasn’t sure what, but Rufus Griffiths was the very last person she’d go to for help in getting away from Alexander.

Unfortunately, he might be her only choice. She gently disengaged her hand, giving him her practiced smile that was as false as his was. She could only hope hers was more believable. “I look forward to hearing about your adventures on the high seas, Mr. Griffiths,” she murmured. She turned to Alexander. “And I look forward to the return of my shoes. You’d hardly want a barefoot bride, would you?”

Was it her imagination, or was there tension in the large entryway of the town house? Alexander had been happy and relieved to see his brother alive and well—there was no doubt about that. But some of that had faded, and there was an undercurrent that she couldn’t quite define.

Alexander gave her his cool, mocking smile, nothing like the effusive charm of his half brother, and yet more believable. “The idea has a certain charm, but I may relent. Expect to see them in the coach on the way to the church.”

“Rat bastard,” she muttered beneath her breath, just loud enough for Alexander to hear. She turned her back on both of them, following Wilton up the broad stairs.

Alexander watched her go. In fact, he actually liked her without shoes—she had a way of scampering, like a young girl, not moving with the usual dignity that hard leather imparted.

“Can’t keep your eyes off her, can you, brother mine?” Rufus’s silky voice intruded. “It must be love.”

Unwillingly Alexander turned his gaze back to the prodigal son, managing a flinty smile. “Do you really think I’m capable of falling in love, Rufus?” he drawled.

Rufus laughed. “Oh, most definitely. You’ve done your best to become cynical and cold-blooded since Jessamine’s death, but deep down you’re an incorrigible romantic. I’m only surprised it hasn’t happened sooner.”

Alexander had stripped off his hat and coat and handed them to a waiting footman. “Don’t be ridiculous. I need a drink—what about you?”

“Always,” said Rufus. “And you can tell me all about how you two met, and when you realized she was your one true love.”

There were clear signs of Rufus’s occupancy as they walked into the drawing room. Not that the staff wasn’t diligent about keeping things spotless, but things had been moved, several valuable trinkets he’d acquired during his travels after Jessamine died had disappeared, and he had no doubt where they’d gone. Rufus was always in need of money, despite his generous allowance.

“Why are you limping?”

“Bit of an accident, old man.” Rufus brushed it off. “Driving too fast, as usual. I’m much better now—I don’t even need a cane. But I don’t want to talk about me, I want to talk about you and your grand passion.”

“Hardly.” He poured them both whisky, then glanced around for his favorite chair. It was no longer there, but he didn’t bother to ask where it had gone, avoiding a seat on the tufted sofa that was now pulled close to the fire. The room was too hot, and he wanted to open a window, but Rufus had already sunk into the leather chair that was nearest the healthy blaze, so he took one farther away.

“Well?” Rufus prompted, propping his injured leg on a footstool. “What does my mother think of the upcoming nuptials? I’m surprised she didn’t come with you. Or did you tell her she couldn’t?” he added with his usual perspicacity.

“Can you imagine your mother and me in a carriage for eight hours? Only one of us would be left alive,” he said lightly. For some reason he didn’t want to talk to Rufus about Sophie. In his grief over his brother’s death he’d forgotten one salient point. He didn’t completely trust Rufus.

“My money would be on my mother,” Rufus said, raising his glass. “Cheers.”

“Here’s to Lazarus’s return from the dead,” Alexander murmured.

“Here’s to your upcoming nuptials. So what happened? You swore you would never marry again after the debacle with Jessamine. That silly chit was never right for you. In fact, it was a good thing she took a dive off the battlements, though I suppose you still must be plagued with guilt. A wife

who kills herself is always a bit lowering, don’t you think? But tell me, who is this little chippie?”

He could feel his joy at Rufus’s resurrection continue slipping away. “Hardly a chippie, Rufus, and considering she’s going to be my wife, you might mind your manners.”

“Oh, I seldom do, particularly in the safety of my very own home,” Rufus said carelessly. “Don’t try to put me off—I won’t have it. I want details.”

Strange, Alexander thought. He was hardly a possessive man, and what he owned he shared, but when Rufus referred to the town house Alexander had inherited along with the title as “his very own home” the phrase sat oddly. “It’s simple enough,” he said, taking another sip of the whisky. “She’s a properly brought-up young lady. I accidentally compromised her, ergo I marry her.”