Rufus wasn’t as strong as his brother, particularly since the accident, but he could still manage to take care of things. Alexander trusted Rufus enough to get close, and a bullet in the brain at point-blank could easily be arranged to look like a suicide. He was adept at forging Alexander’s name—he’d been doing it for years on debts and bank cheques. A note expressing his guilt and despair over committing a second murder would raise no troubling questions.
He would slip into Alexander’s life perfectly. Once, long ago, he had worshiped his older brother. Maybe he still did. But that was weakness. His mother thought he could take Alexander’s place. No, he could become Alexander. If he did, Alexander would live on, in him, and he would feel no guilt. It would be . . . glorious.
Sophie was alone when she woke. Of course she was. Cautiously opening her eyes, she looked around her. No sign of him. She buried her face in the pillow as mortification overcame her.
What had she done? She’d been an animal last night, worse than the basest whore. She had wanted him so badly that nothing else mattered. How could she have done such things?
She moaned into the pillow, then jerked her head away. It smelled like him. That lovely, subtle scent of skin and wool and leather, and she felt a tightening deep down, and she wanted him again. She wanted to do the same things with him, the shameful, secret things; she wanted to stay locked in this bedroom for days and never leave the bed or him.
But he had left her. The one thing she’d wanted was to wake in his arms. She’d wanted words, not the hot, sexual words he’d used, but words of love. Or at least affection. And he’d said nothing.
He’d held her as she fell asleep, her practical mind argued. He hadn’t left the bed. But then, each time she’d awakened he’d been hard and she’d been eager, so eager that she was sore between her legs. So in truth, he’d stayed with her only as long as he could tup her, and when it was morning he’d left.
But he’d stayed . . . no, she couldn’t look for something that wasn’t there. The man was an inexplicable mix of ridiculous honor and undeniable lust. Who would have thought she’d prefer the lust part of him?
She sat
up. Bright light was filtering in through the curtains—she had no idea what time it was. Everything was topsy-turvy, nothing made any sense, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it or weep. She would do neither. She would get up, bathe and dress, and move on with her life. Which would include walking out that front door, barefoot if she must. She couldn’t marry a man who didn’t love her. Not when she was so desperately in love with him.
She climbed out of bed, and every muscle, including unexpected ones, protested. Her shift was her first priority. She remembered what she’d done with it, and she groaned again. And then she saw the silk dressing gown that lay on the end of the bed.
She slipped it on, then almost pulled it off again. It was like wrapping herself in Alexander. The Dark Viscount, she’d called him, because of his reputation, his looks, his saturnine demeanor. It had been a stupid name, one born of childish imaginings. But she wasn’t a child anymore; she had seen to that. She could have pulled herself together after the night at Renwick, even after the interlude in the carriage. But now she would never be the same.
She didn’t care, she thought, straightening her shoulders. If she had to do it all over again she would. She wouldn’t trade her putative future with an ancient, wealthy lord for a moment of last night. She could spend the rest of her life in someone’s kitchen, perfectly happy with her memories and the pleasure of creating glorious things to eat.
She shoved the sleeves of the dressing gown up, but they slid down again, and she had to pick up the hem so she wouldn’t trip on it. The door to her room was ajar, and she went in, moving a little slowly.
A strange maid was standing there, folding delicate, lace-trimmed underclothing, and for one heart-stopping moment Sophie was afraid the girl was packing for her. Alexander had changed his mind—he refused to marry such a wanton. But the girl smiled and bobbed a curtsey as she tucked the clothing into the large armoire, and Sophie wanted to smack herself. She wanted him to change his mind, didn’t she? To admit the truth, that he didn’t care for her.
“You’re up, miss,” she said. “I’m sorry I didn’t hear you or I would have had your bath drawn already. It won’t take but a moment. And I’ll have a tray sent up, shall I? It’s gone past three and you must be famished.”
“Three?” Sophie said, and then stopped with shock at the raw sound that came from her throat. She cleared it, and tried again. “As in three in the afternoon?” It was a little better, but not much.
“Yes, miss. You were that tired, and his lordship said no one was to bother you until you woke on your own.”
Sophie took a deep breath. “And where is his lordship?”
“Dunno, miss. He went out early this morning and hasn’t come back. He doesn’t tend to tell the servants where he goes or when he returns. Mr. Griffiths said I was to tell you not to worry if his lordship doesn’t come back. He’ll make sure you’re looked after.”
The words were like a stone in Sophie’s heart. She sank down in a chair as the girl disappeared.
She deliberately straightened her back. Food and a bath would go a long way toward making her feel human again. Until then she shouldn’t rush into any decisions. She should try not to think at all, because life at that moment was too overwhelming.
Her curtains were pulled, and it was an overcast day. It always seemed to rain more in London, which was so unfair, given that in London one’s clothes had to be smarter, one’s hair had to be more elaborate, and no umbrella was big enough to protect the intricacies of proper dress. She wouldn’t have to be worrying about such things in the future, which was a mixed blessing. She’d always liked dressing up.
There were drawbacks as well. She wouldn’t be able to walk in the countryside, of course, unless she found a position away from London. Indeed, that would be the smartest thing, far away from people and places she’d known. But she would need a place fast, and London was her only option, at least until her sisters reappeared, and she couldn’t count on them for rescue. She had to make her own way. The three of them had faced disaster, and each of them had to find her own way through.
The bath was a heavenly respite from her muddled thoughts. Once the girl, Gemma, had left her, Sophie leaned back and opened her legs, letting the water soothe her. The girl had put some sort of herbs in the bath as well, and the effect was wonderfully soothing, so blessed that Sophie refused to get out until the water grew cold around her.
Gemma must have been sitting outside the bathing room door, listening, for the moment she rose from the tub the girl knocked and slipped inside, taking a large towel and wrapping it around her. “I thought you were going to shrivel up like a prune, miss, you were in there so long. You’ve got a tray of cold meats and cheese waiting for you in the room, and I’ve set out some clothes for you to approve. I hope you don’t mind. I’m just an upstairs maid, not really a lady’s maid, but I was told to look after you until they could find someone permanent, and I’ll do my best.”
“You’ll be fine,” she said. If life were different, if she were going to stay, she’d be happy to have Gemma as her permanent maid, a step up in the servant hierarchy for the girl. But she wasn’t.
Gemma’s instincts had been unerring—the outfit she’d chosen had been one Sophie had worn to make afternoon calls. The skirt was gathered in the back and flat in the front, the blouse pleated and ruffled and laced, with a fitted jacket that had a slight military flair. It was neither too fancy nor too plain, and it would suit her.
“And these, miss,” Gemma said, holding in her hand a pair of shoes.
“Where did you get those?” Sophie demanded, shocked. They were one of her favorite pairs, left behind when they’d been evicted with only the clothes on their backs. She could walk for miles in those shoes.