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

She would call him Alexander when hell froze over, even if that’s how she had started thinking of him in her mind. “I wanted to know why you decided I was fair game as a bed partner when every member of the house assured me you never . . . what delightful term did they use? Oh, yes, soil your own nest. Prunella and Dickens insisted you would never touch me.”

“Clearly they were wrong. And if you’re going to start preening, thinking your exquisite self made me lose all control, then you’ve failed to take into account your absolute insistence that Mrs. Lefton sent you.”

Now the feeling inside her wasn’t a pleasant longing; it was dread and guilt. She needed more wine; she needed something to focus on rather than his face. “I’m sorry I lied, but I could scarcely say I simply turned up for the job.”

“Did I not, over and over again, ask you if you came from Mrs. Lefton?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“And did you not answer, most emphatically, yes?”

“You know I did. So I lied about the employment agency. It’s hardly the greatest crime in the world, and it doesn’t absolve you of . . . of . . .” If she accused him of ruining her it would merely make him more determined to put her through a hellish sham of a marriage.

“Of what, my precious?” His voice was silken.

“Of taking advantage of someone in your employ,” she finished.

“But you’re failing to take into account a major factor. Mrs. Lefton does not run an employment agency for domestic servants. She runs a very elegant cathouse in London, and everyone who works for her is a whore.”

Sophie sat there, stunned. “You mean you sent away for a prostitute, like ordering a delivery of coal? Sight unseen? You simply asked for someone to fill your bed?”

He was unabashed. “Well, actually, I had another bed planned for her, in a cottage on the estate, but then you arrived, took over the kitchen, and insisted that Mrs. Lefton had sent you. I assumed your coy, missish ways were simply part of a sexual game you liked to play. Many people enjoy them, and I went along with it reluctantly. Every time you were too believable, I checked on whether Lefton sent you, and you always said she did. Your double entendres were quite lascivious, though I guess they were single entendres after all, and when you were talking about making me melt with delight you really were talking about pastries.”

Coy? Missish? She was just ready to fling her wineglass at him and see the fragile crystal shatter against the strong bones of his face, when Tim entered with the next course, pheasant with truffles, and there was nothing she could do except fume.

“I told her to put toads in it,” she said grumpily.

“How delightful of you,” he murmured. “I think from now on you can be my official taster. If you or anyone else decides to poison me, you’ll go first.”

“Such a kind gentleman,” she cooed.

“Always, my love,” he said, taking her reluctant hand that rested on the white tablecloth. Before she realized what he was doing he’d placed a soft kiss on the back, and she snatched it away.

“You’d best watch it, my lord,” she said with the syrupy tones she’d used before. He called her coy and missish? She’d live up to his demoralizing words. “I might fall madly in love with you, and just think how inconvenient that would be. Not to mention unfashionable.”

“Oh, we needn’t worry about fashion,” he replied. “We won’t be going into town. In fact, you won’t be going anywhere, so no one will notice as you fawn over me.”

If only she’d learned how to shoot, she thought wistfully. She knew just where they kept the guns, and while murder, no matter how tempting, might be a bit extreme, she could always shoot off a toe or something. There was something about the Dark Viscount that made her feel extremely violent.

But she’d never bothered with guns, unlike Bryony, who’d regularly gone hunting with their father and hit her target far more often than he did. Sophie had spent her time with her laces and ribbons and powders, too busy being a girl to learn how to protect herself or get revenge.

“I will endeavor not to embarrass you with my excess of devotion,” she said between clenched teeth.

Picking up his wineglass, he leaned back in his chair to survey her. “Oh, I might not mind. Devotion is always so flattering, and you’re halfway to being in love with me already. Don’t bother fighting it. Some men are simply irresistible.”

She reached for her own empty wineglass to throw but Tim managed to whisk it out of her reach, refilling the glass, and by the time he set it down again she’d thought better of it. She needed Alexander to trust her. It was the only way she’d escape.

Tim disappeared into the butler’s pantry, leaving them discreetly alone for a few minutes, and Sophie turned a patently false smile on Alexander. “My heart’s delight,” she said sweetly, “have you talked with the vicar about the calling of the banns?”

His response was equally florid. “Oh, my passion flower, I have not. Indeed, I doubt I can wait three weeks to make you my own, and I have decided a special license is just the thing.”

Sophie’s artificial smile faltered. “A special license?”

“My solicitor can see to it, I imagine. I find that the prospect of you sleeping in a separate bed is less than appealing.”

All artifice fled in the face of such imminent disaster. “No.”

He sighed. “Do we have to go over this again, my pet? You’re making a fuss over nothing. Considering that you’ve been watching me, nearly naked, for weeks, including today, I can only conclude you find my body interesting. You enjoyed yourself in my bed, for all your protestations. I’m experienced enough that I know when a woman reaches her peak, experienced enough to make certain she does.”