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

“Means that he’s going to make me marry him,” she clarified. “Because I have no intention of letting him.”

Dickens paused on the staircase, turning to look at her in shock. “Why not, miss? I’ve been with his lordship for more than twenty years, and I can tell you there’s not a finer gentleman in all of England.”

And there wasn’t a more deluded butler in all of England, she thought, and then the arithmetic started to connect. “How old is he?”

“Thirty-four, miss.”

“Too old for me,” she said flatly. “And why did he need a butler when he was fourteen?”

“I was hired more as a companion and a valet.” There was something odd in Dickens’s voice, some secret there.

“Why does a fourteen-year-old need a valet? Was he extraordinarily messy?” She rather liked the thought of him covered in mud.

“No, miss.” They’d reached the second floor and Dickens paused by her sister Maddy’s door. Sophie closed her eyes for a moment, wishing desperately that the last few months hadn’t happened, that the door would open and Maddy would be there, and they’d immediately fight, and make up, and fight again, and all these terrible things would disappear . . .

Dickens opened the door for her. “The master thought this might be appropriate.”

Maddy had always gone in for pretty things, and the room was decorated in soft shades of pink that had complemented her rich, dark hair and creamy complexion. It had always made Sophie slightly bilious, but suddenly it felt familiar and beloved. “It’s fine,” she said, limping inside and looking around.

“He also wished me to tell you that there are appropriate garments in the dressing room, and that I should take your current dress and burn it,” Dickens said. “The bathing room is down the hall and . . .”

“I know where everything is,” she said. “I lived here all of my life when we weren’t in London.”

“Of course, Miss Russell. I beg your pardon—I forgot.”

She gave him an absent smile as she looked around the pink room, then started with shock. “Humphries!” she cried.

“Miss?”

But she’d moved, a little too quickly for her protesting ankle, and scooped up that slightly battered-looking stuffed toy that was tucked into a corner of the room on its own small chair. She hugged him to her, and he smelled like her sister, like the rose perfume she favored, and Sophie wanted to cry.

But Dickens was watching her, and while he wasn’t the enemy, he clearly sided with the viscount. She turned. “This is Humphries. He belonged to my sister when she was young.”

Dickens was staring at the slightly battered creature with distaste. “Exactly what is it?”

“A hedgehog. It always went well with Maddy’s personality,” she said. Hobbling over to the bed, she dropped down with a total lack of grace, then hid her wince as the soreness between her legs protested. “So how long do I have to be in this prison? Can I come back downstairs and oversee the cooking?”

“Prunella and the girls have things well in hand. You should rest, and then change for dinner. I don’t know if Mrs. Griffiths will be joining you, but I expect the occasion will be semiformal since it is en famille.”

“I’m not changing my clothes.”

“I didn’t check to see if there were matching shoes . . .” Dickens’s voice trailed off suggestively.

She gave him a grumpy look. “You’re as bad as he is.”

There was just the glimmer of a smile in Dickens’s eyes. “Don’t worry, miss. I expect this will all work out quite well in the end.”

“As long as I get away from here I’m sure you’re right.”

Dickens said nothing, merely giving her a slight bow before leaving, and Sophie flopped back onto the bed. It was soft, luscious, and it felt like hers, and then she remembered when she’d last been in her own bed and let out a groan. She wasn’t going to think about it. Wasn’t going to think about him.

She got to her feet, moving carefully across the thick Persian carpet that Maddy had adored, and walked to the window. The room was a little stuffy from having sat unused for so many months, and fresh spring air might help, but the moment she reached the casement she froze.

It was the wrong time of day, but Alexander was swimming. She stared down at him as he surged through the water with an uncanny grace. She’d never been so close when he was in the water, and she could see his body quite clearly. Were there male mermaids? Mermen? If there were, they would look like Alexander. She leaned against the window dreamily, watching his strong shoulders and arms as he plowed through the water. There were all sorts of folktales about selkies, creatures who were seals in the water and humans on land, but Sophie had never been one to put much store in folktales or stories. Now she was beginning to wonder.

There was something almost hypnotic about the way his body moved, and she couldn’t pull her eyes away. She still didn’t believe he’d felt her spying on him during the last few weeks—someone must have seen her climbing the tor every day and told him.

His strong body drove through the water, and suddenly she remembered that body in her arms, driving into her, again and again and again, and her strange sort of joy in his possession. A joy he hadn’t shared, apparently. She was being ridiculous, watching him like some heartsick ninny. But she couldn’t pull herself away.