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Mrs. Griffiths automatically reached for another biscuit, then glared at the empty plate as if it were to blame. “He won’t touch the servants,” she said. “He never does.”
Sophie smiled sweetly. “That is reassuring, ma’am. Which means that I and my staff are safe from any importunities, and if his lordship is feeling amorous, he’s more likely to look for companionship in the stable than the kitchen.”
“He likes men, not animals!” Mrs. Griffiths snapped.
“As long as he’s uninterested in women, it’s none of my concern. You’ve been most kind in instructing me about the household, Mrs. Griffiths. I look forward to hearing more of your thoughts about the meals in the future.” She gave her a curtsey, trying more for a polite little bob than the full-court obeisance, and then departed before her employer realized that Sophie had dismissed her.
Dickens followed her down the wide marble staircase, wise enough not to remain behind and bear the brunt of Mrs. Griffiths’s displeasure. “I’m not certain that was particularly smart of you, Miss Sophie,” he said in an undertone. “We do our best to placate Mrs. Griffiths whenever possible. She can be a very vindictive woman.”
“Clearly,” Sophie said. She wanted to add, “And she’s a liar as well,” but she stopped herself. Really, she could hardly discuss something as intimate as sexual proclivities with a man old enough to be her father, when she wasn’t even supposed to know about such things. In truth, she didn’t know much. If only her sisters were here—Maddy had faultless instincts when it came to something like that, warning her off one or two extremely handsome young men who had courted her.
If Alexander Griffiths was interested only in men for bedsport, then why had he kissed her like that? No, she didn’t want to think about his kisses. They were too distracting. She needed to stay down in the kitchen and . . .
“What was that, Miss Sophie?” Dickens said as she let out an unbidden curse.
“Nothing, Mr. Dickens,” she murmured, mentally kicking herself. “I just remembered that I wanted to make a tarte au l’onion tonight and I have to check the egg supply.”
“Our chickens, quails, and ducks lay far more than we can use, Miss Sophie.”
“That’s a relief.” But Sophie wasn’t relieved at all. She’d been so caught up in the pleasure of having her own limitless kitchen, not to mention being distracted by the bewitching, nerve-racking presence of the Dark Viscount, that she had forgotten why she was here. Not to cook, not to find shelter when she’d lost her temporary home, though both of those were lovely. She was here to find out whether Alexander Griffiths, Viscount Griffiths, had had anything to do with her father’s disgrace and death. Where had all his money come from?
And if the man was gone for a number of days, now was the time to find out.
She didn’t want to. She wanted to go back to her wonderful kitchen and her helpers and create masterpieces, even if the only audience was that horrid old woman on the third floor. At least Mrs. Griffiths’s silent companion would enjoy them as well. She’d make enough for her kitchen staff, rather than feed them something cheaper and plainer. At least for as long as she remained here, they would eat like peers of the realm.
“Do you have any idea where his lordship went, or how long he’ll be gone?” Sophie asked in what she hoped was a casual voice. “Shall I expect him for dinner?”
“It’s unlikely,” Dickens replied. “He goes into town fairly regularly and stays away a night or two. I imagine this is one of those . . . er . . . occasions.”
“Really? Where does he go?” She didn’t bother pretending to be uninterested. Where would the viscount disappear to without telling his stepmother?
“He . . . that is . . . his lordship . . . er . . .” Dickens was looking uneasy. “A man has certain needs, miss, and he . . .”
“Oh,” Sophie said, finally understanding. “You mean he goes out and finds a whore for a couple of nights?”
Dickens cleared his throat. “He doesn’t wish to . . . er . . . mingle with anyone in the area. He says it’s soiling his own nest.”
More proof that she was safe from his advances. Which made the fact that he’d kissed her, twice, all the more puzzling. Perhaps his stepmother hadn’t lied, that he preferred men, and the companionship he found in town was of the male gender. But still, why had he kissed her?
It wouldn’t happen again. She wasn’t going anywhere near him without Dickens in tow.
Clearly she was living on borrowed time. Either Alexander Griffiths would return, refuse to take no for an answer, and she’d have to run away, or his evil stepmother would find some excuse to dismiss her. If he was gone for two nights then now was the time to act, whether she wanted to or not.
Sophie could feel his hands on her face, her neck. They were smooth, cool, slightly calloused, not the soft, pampered hands of the men she had danced with. He slid his hands over her breasts, his fingers dancing across her hardened nipples, and she wanted to reach up and pull the chemise down to her waist, exposing herself to the feel of his skin against hers. He leaned over and put his mouth against hers, and she knew he was wet from the pool with cool water on his golden skin, and she wanted to taste the water, to drink it, and she opened her mouth for his tongue, reaching up for him . . .
The chair beneath her creaked, and she awoke with a start. She was alone in the kitchen, sitting by the fire in her ridiculously comfortable chair. Dinner was finished, everything put away, and only one tray was set for the morning. Which meant he wasn’t expected to return that night. Sophie shook the last remnants of the dream from her brain and rose, wandering around the dimly lit, deserted kitchen, making a last-minute inspection. She was delighted that he’d gone out to find more agreeable companionship, she told herself. If the man had to pay for physical affection, then it only served him right if it was cold and heartless.
Except she knew very well he wouldn’t have to pay. The majority of the women on staff, and possibly a number of the men, would have gladly accepted his advances, not to mention the married women and widows in the surrounding areas. Wealthy, handsome viscounts were not in abundance—despite suspicions surrounding his first wife’s death, she imagined that most young women of proper upbringing and lineage would leap at the chance to marry him.
She didn’t like the idea. In fact, it put her in an extremely bad mood, whether she pictured him in the arms of a painted courtesan or kissing the hand of some simpering young lady. God knew there were plenty of girls who simpered. Blushed and stammered oh so prettily while they hid behind their fans. They weren’t as beautiful as she was—that wasn’t vanity but simply a fact. But they were much more compliant.
Sophie had never simpered in her life, except in moments of extreme sarcasm. For all that she was planning a traditional life with a wealthy, titled husband, she had no intention of being a shadow. Her sisters had always been strong, and Sophie liked to think of herself as the strongest.
Of course, a wicked thought came creeping into her mind—Alexander Griffiths was rich and titled, and he fit the criteria for husband material. Not to mention divinely, dangerously attractive. Dangerous was the word—she was being distracted by the nice gothic air of brooding and mystery that went with his gorgeous face and even more gorgeous body.
She was attracted to the danger he represented, even as she was horrified by it. She couldn’t stop thinking about him. She dreamed of him at night. She kept expecting him to stride into the kitchen. Her nipples were still hard from her dream, and she thought she could taste his cool mouth on hers.
She needed to get away from here.
