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

The bath was the closest thing to heaven Sophie could imagine. Her feet stung when she first stepped into the steaming water, but sinking into it was like being wrapped in warmth. She slid down, up to her chin, letting the hot water reach the soreness between her legs, and she breathed a sigh of pure pleasure. Until she saw Prunella looking at her in shock.

“Whatever did he do to you, miss?”

Sophie could feel her face flame, and she glanced down at her body beneath the clear water. There were marks, definite marks, on her breasts, her chest, and probably more places. Her pale skin always bruised easily, not to mention the redness from his unshaven stubble, or the fact that her lips felt swollen. “I . . . uh . . .”

But Prunella had already turned away. “Begging your pardon, Miss Russell,” she said.

For the first time Sophie felt ashamed. “I’m sorry, Prunella,” she said helplessly.

Prunella turned back. “Oh, no, miss! It’s not your fault. Men are the very devil, and resisting one who’s caught your eye is well-nigh impossible. I just hope he didn’t hurt you.”

Sophie remembered that sudden sharp pain when he thrust inside her. And then she remembered the burgeoning of feeling that had come over her despite the pain, and her insides clenched as she remembered his mouth on her breasts, and she felt her nipples contract in the warm water, which shouldn’t be right. She tried to sink lower, but if she went much farther she’d end up with a mouthful of water.

“Of course not,” she muttered, wishing Prunella would go away.

Prunella must have been a mind reader. “I’ll leave you be, then, miss, unless you’d like some help washing?”

Sophie tried not to look too relieved. “I’ll be fine. I’d just like to soak a bit.”

“A good idea, miss. It’ll help the aches and pains.”

Sophie had the strong suspicion she wasn’t talking about her feet.

An hour later she was bandaged, dressed, and hobbling around in a pair of slippers two sizes too big for her. Dickens had even found her an entirely unnecessary cane, which she used anyway to favor her right foot, which seemed to have suffered a turned ankle as well as the cuts. She was sitting at a stool in the kitchen, working on the evening’s pastry, an elaborate tart made from dried apples and fresh ginger. They still hadn’t found her shoes, and the viscount was right—she wouldn’t be doing much walking for at least a day. That didn’t mean she could afford to sit around waiting. There was no way she could be near a kitchen and not be involved, and working with the pastry had calmed her shattered nerves just a tiny bit, and enabled her to plan. Clearly she had to find a way out of there, and fast. She was hardly going to spend the rest of her life married to a man who despised her, particularly one capable of such casual cruelty. Not that she cared what he thought of her, but she was hardly going to stay around someone who thought she had manipulated him into marriage, someone he had tried and found wanting.

Not that last nigh

t had felt casual. She’d been caught up in a storm of emotion and desire, and she could have sworn he was too. Otherwise why had he bothered?

“Miss Russell, you’ll be taking dinner with his lordship.” Dickens had just descended the stairs, and while his words were proper, his eyes were troubled. “And he’s directed me to move your things to one of the guest bedrooms.”

“No,” she said flatly.

“I’m afraid you have no choice in the matter. He said to tell you that if you don’t cooperate you won’t get your shoes back.”

“He has them?” she said angrily. “Blast the man! So I’m supposed to whore myself out for a pair of shoes?”

Dead silence in the kitchen, and Sophie could have kicked herself. It wasn’t as if they all didn’t know what she’d been doing last night, but they’d studiously ignored the fact, treating her with the kind deference they had from the very beginning.

Prunella was the first to speak. “I don’t believe the master had any such idea in mind. He’s a reasonable man if you just speak to him.”

“Are we talking about the same man?” Sophie shot back bitterly. “The one who won’t let me leave here?”

“He’s looking out for you, miss,” Dickens said.

Sophie made a rude noise of disbelief. The more time passed the more the astonishing pleasure of last night faded, and her regret was so strong she wanted to weep with it. If she were the type to weep, that was.

“Do you need Tim to carry you upstairs, miss?” Dickens continued, obviously not about to let her escape.

She made one last adjustment to the pastry, then slid down from the stool. “I can manage.” She didn’t bother to disguise her annoyance. It wasn’t his fault, of course, but she had no doubt at all he’d instruct Tim to haul her upstairs kicking and screaming, if she kept being stubborn.

She was in a miserable situation, she thought, leaning on the cane as she slowly made her way up the winding stairs to the ground level, but fussing about it wouldn’t help. She needed to be calm, patient, and look for her best chance of escape.

She automatically started up the second flight of the servants’ staircase when Dickens stopped her. “No, Miss Russell. You need to use the main staircase.”

She resisted her instinctive, long-suffering sigh and followed Dickens into the empty hallway where she and her sisters had once played hide-and-seek. “Do you think the viscount really means it?” she asked him.

“Means what, Miss Russell?”