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His bad temper began to evaporate as he considered this. He knew women tended to find him pleasing—even without the title and the fortune, they had flocked to him, and he had only to beckon to have them wind up in his bed. It was simply the luck of the draw—nothing he could be proud of. In fact, his face would have been the better for a few scars, perhaps a broken nose, something to mar the prettiness that his brother had always teased him about.
But he didn’t want to think about his lost brother, someone who had troubled him as much as he’d loved him. He took another sip. He wanted to think about the beautiful bundle of contradictions who was supposed to fill his bed and his erotic fantasies, not his kitchen and his stepmother’s appetites. She was supposed to distract him from the unanswered questions that had plagued his relationship with his adoring younger brother.
Indeed, a woman who could cook like that had no need to earn her living on her back, and so he would tell her once he was finished with her. He could even help her get a decent job. The Lefton wouldn’t thank him for that, but tant pis. He was generous with the women who’d shared their favors, and he would be generous with this one.
Once he got her past her skittishness. Indeed, she was like a beautiful, unbroken colt, uncertain of the reins and halter, but knowing the man had sugar and carrots and other lovely things to tempt her.
And he would tempt her. He would tame her, he would ride her, and he might even introduce her to variations he kept for rare occasions when he and his partner were feeling particularly adventurous.
He had things to teach her, and he found he enjoyed the idea. He might be wrong, of course, and her intense regard could come from a profound, instant dislike, but he didn’t think so. He recognized all the signs of sexual interest, even if a so-called professional didn’t.
Or perhaps she was afraid of it. Life as a prostitute was probably easier if you didn’t feel anything for the client.
He frowned. Prostitute was an ugly word—it made him think of back alleyways and disease-riddled women, and this girl was so young, so fresh, so beautiful. She had a gloriously untouched quality about her. Mrs. Lefton would charge him a fortune, unless . . .
It was always possible that the girl was never particularly amenable to the path she’d chosen. Lefton might have sent her to him to break her. If so, Lefton was in for a surprise. Alexander had no interest in breaking a woman’s spirit, in crushing her rebellion. In fact, he intended to enjoy it.
If he were a decent man he’d find a house full of women who needed a brilliant cook—anywhere else and she’d have the men on her the moment she dropped her guard. But even in a convent there’d be trouble, and he knew it. She was better off with him. He liked only willing females, and if there was anything she didn’t like, he wouldn’t insist.
He’d give her this night to get settled. He hadn’t even figured out how he was going to arrange things—he was hardly going to creep down into the kitchens like some predatory old man. Nor could she come to his rooms—while he was as far away as he could be from his despised stepmother, she was still under the same roof, and he’d rather not have to think of her at all when he was deep between his not-French cook’s legs.
There were certainly enough bedrooms in this place to suffice. He’d have her put in one of the bedrooms where the daughters of the criminal shipbuilder had slept. They were innocent rooms, made for pretty girls, and she’d like them. He could even give her her pick. The idea of taking her in such a bastion of innocence would have made him hard if he weren’t already sporting a painful erection. He’d like to take her in every room in this huge house—stretched across that scarred table in the kitchen, the desk across the room from him, in the straw in the stable yards, in the attics. The thought of her straddling him on this comfortable chair almost finished him off, and he laughed ruefully.
In the end, Mrs. Lefton was quite brilliant. She’d sent him the unexpected, and he had the worst case of blue balls since he was a randy stripling. This was going to be a game of cat and mouse, just what he needed to take his mind off the loss of his worrisome brother.
Because Rufus was gone, drowned off the coast of France, and life had to go on.
CHAPTER SIX
SOPHIE ALWAYS WOKE UP slowly, needing time to lie abed and face the demands of the upcoming day. She was sleeping so peacefully that when the rapping on her do
or threatened her slumber she simply turned over in the comfortable bed and pulled a feather pillow over her head.
Her respite didn’t last long. The next thing she knew the pillow was pulled from her head and someone was shaking her shoulder. “You need to get up now, miss,” came an unknown and unwanted voice. “We’re already at work on the breakfast trays and the bread’s started, but you need to get up to oversee things.”
Oversee what? Who is this woman and what is she talking about? All Sophie wanted to do was sleep, and sleep she would, damn it, and the strange woman could go . . .
She bolted upright, trying to focus her sleep-filled eyes as memory came back with an unwelcome rush. She was at Renwick, albeit in the basement, and she had work to do.
“I’ve brought you both tea and coffee, miss,” said the woman, whom Sophie recognized as her ally, Prunella. “And sweet rolls from yesterday. But you must get up.”
“I’ll take the coffee,” she said, swinging her legs around to the side of the bed. Thank heavens she’d bathed the night before, or she would be unable to face the day. “I’ll be out in five minutes.” She yawned hugely. “Are the breakfast trays ready?”
“Not yet, miss. It’s only just past six, and even if the Forresters are leaving today, I expect they won’t call for them until eight at least.”
“Six?” Sophie, an inveterate late sleeper, echoed in horror. “In the morning?”
“Yes, miss. I don’t think anyone begrudges you sleeping so late, but there are decisions to be made, and I think the viscount will wish to see you.”
Of course he would, she thought with a grimace. She had her work cut out for her in that area.
She was no innocent—she’d been kissed, a number of times, and found it pleasant. She’d been the toast of London; she recognized the signs of male interest. She could comfort herself with Prunella’s assurance that he never touched the female servants, but there was still that look in his dark, mocking eyes that she found so unsettling.
What would she have done if she’d met him in London, she thought as she hastily began donning the layers of clothing. He would have been one of the many men seeking her attention, wanting her hand in marriage and a piece of her father’s fortune. She would have ignored him, of course. She liked simple, shallow men whom she could move around like figures on a chessboard.
Or would she? Would it have made all the difference if she’d met him a year ago, when she was the beautiful Miss Sophia Russell, the toast of the season? Would she have . . . ?
It was all moot at this point. She laced up her corset, loosely. It was hot, hard work in the kitchen, and she wasn’t about to tie herself in so she couldn’t breathe. At least the basement kitchen stayed cooler than the upper floors.
