Never Marry a Viscount

Sophie considered climbing on a chair again, but decided she’d already made her point. “She was filling me in on some of the details of the household, Mr. Dickens,” she said. “And while I bow to your responsibility for the entire household, I must remind you that the kitchen environs are under the rule of the cook. This is my kitchen, and I believe I shall make the rules.” Dickens began to frown, but Sophie sailed on with a sweet smile. “However, I agree with you about unnecessary gossip. I do need to know who makes up this household and how many people will sit down to dinner, and the more we learn about our . . .”—she almost choked on the word—“. . . betters, the more efficiently we’ll be able to serve them. Don’t you agree?”

  Dickens was bedazzled by her smile. “Oh, yes, Madame Camille.”

  Too bad the Dark Viscount wasn’t as easily conquered. “Are the pheasants almost ready for the ovens?”

  Dickens was staring at her, momentarily besotted, and she wondered whether she’d given him too sweet a smile. “Just a moment, Madame Camille.”

  “Very good, Mr. Dickens. I appreciate your helpfulness more than I can say.”

  She now had a slave for life, she thought, almost ruefully. But a champion like Dickens could come in very handy.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ALEXANDER WOULD HAVE GIVEN ten years off his life to barricade himself in his library, away from the chattering voices of his unwanted houseguests. Christabel was bad enough, with her meaningful looks and clinging hands. Her brother Fred was simply an ass, always saying the wrong thing and then letting loose with his braying laughter. Alexander had had no choice but to drink deeply in order to simply bear his presence, or he might have ended up strangling the idiot the next time he made one of his foolish, usually offensive, jokes.

  Alexander couldn’t even mourn his brother properly, not when he was forced to play host. Adelia had decided she was prostrate with grief, though she managed to join them for dinner. Adelia was a gourmand, whose once-luscious curves, the ones that had blinded his father into an unfortunate second marriage, had now turned to something less appealing, but since her mealtime conversation consisted of sniffs and artfully muffled sobs, she’d made the situation even worse. Now, to top it all off, they had that prating fool of a vicar and his sanctimonious wife coming to dinner, to offer succor to the bereaved, even though it had been two weeks since they’d received the terrible news from his brother’s manservant.

  At least he had . . . what was her name? It was no more Camille than his was Robin Hood. He’d like nothing better than to parade her into the dining room and introduce her to all as his new mistress, but he’d have to be very drunk to do that, and he still had a headache from last night’s libations. No, he was going to have to get through dinner and foolish conversation and earnest homilies and awful jokes, and then he would go in search of the gorgeous creature Mrs. Lefton had sent him and forget everything as he stripped those ugly, proper clothes from her sweet little body.

  He needed exercise. If he couldn’t swim, couldn’t even walk without Christabel tagging along, then at least he could fuck, hard. Despite the girl’s apparent fragility, Alexander knew full well that Mrs. Lefton would never send him anyone not up to his own particular needs, which were powerful and often. Mrs. Lefton had a reputation to uphold, after all.

  He felt his headache begin to recede a bit. The Lefton’s prices were steep, and this one would be very expensive indeed, something that worried him not one bit. After all, he’d inherited an obscene fortune as well as the damned title and this huge house. He just wondered idly whether he’d be required to pay her an additional salary as his cook, and whether Mrs. Lefton would take her very large percentage out of that as well. He would feel sorry for the girl, except that she was no one’s victim, and she was here under her own free will, and he would be paying so much that even her share would be impressive. He wouldn’t be surprised if she ended up eventually taking over for the aging Mrs. Lefton. She seemed to be a young woman who got what she wanted.

  He could feel his shoulders relax as his groin tightened. She was going to keep him delightfully busy, busy enough that he could forget the things that plagued him. The sudden, unexplained influx of money, a worrisomely large sum courtesy of his brother, and now there would be no explanation. The details of his brother’s death troubled him as well, not to mention the watcher from the tor, the old pensioner who’d broken her hip and left her cottage empty, the houseguests who wouldn’t leave; all of these dragged at him.

  No, he didn’t need to think about anything but the sweetness that lay between his new mistress’s thighs. He was going to send Mrs. Lefton a bonus this time. Apparently she knew what he needed better than he knew himself.

  He only hoped the girl would be as enthusiastic about some of the things he had in mind as he was.

  He found he was looking forward to dinner for the first time in weeks, months, perhaps years. Tonight was a different matter entirely, he thought as he dressed in the evening clothes that Adelia insisted upon. It wasn’t the food itself that interested him; it was whether Madame Camille could manage to pull off a creditable meal or whether the ensuing repast would sink to the depths of their exceedingly talentless erstwhile chef. Or would she offer the plain country food that had been their lot since Adelia had fired the last one? In truth, that plain country food had managed to tempt his appetite just a bit—he liked his food simple and recognizable, given that sauces were usually just an attempt to cover spoiled meat. What if Adelia decided to fire her on the spot? He wouldn’t put it past her—his stepmama had a temper that had betrayed her too often in public. He would simply have to air their dirty linen by contradicting her. No one was sending Madame Camille anywhere, even if she served creamed worms on toast points.

  If the dinner was a debacle, he would take perverse pleasure in calling his flustered faux chef to the table to compliment her on the magnificence of her repast, a gesture often made when a cook had outdone herself. It would drive Adelia mad, and that was enough to make him smile. Now that his brother was gone there was no real reason to have to suffer his stepmother’s presence. Despite her complaints, she would never be the dowager countess, and it would take nothing but a fair chunk of his abundant wealth to get her settled elsewhere. He couldn’t think of a better way to spend his money.

  He moved to look out over the gardens, the shimmer of the pool as the wind teased the surface. The hell with his houseguests—if they wouldn’t leave tomorrow he would swim anyway, in his smallclothes or perhaps in nothing at all. Anything to get rid of them. The early summer days were too unusually fine to miss the chance to be out there. Besides, his watcher must be getting impatient.

  “You’re late, Alexander,” Adelia said tartly when he finally wandered into what she persisted in calling the Roman Salon, simply because there was a rather battered bust of Cicero adorning one alcove. At least, he presumed it was Cicero—he couldn’t be quite sure since the fellow was missing both a nose and an ear, clearly having been hurled at something or someone in the past by his drunken uncle. Marble could be more fragile than one would think, though harder than a human head. He could only hope the old reprobate hadn’t killed someone.

  Or maybe it had been tossed by what Adelia fondly referred to as the Usurpers, the shipowner’s family, apparently a gaggle of girls and a criminal father. None of that mattered. What mattered was annoying Adelia. “My toilette took time,” he murmured as he bent over Lady Christabel’s frail white hand.

  “The ladies should realize it takes us time to look up to snuff as well,” Freddy announced.

  Adelia made a face but Christabel giggled. “You do look magnificent, my lord,” she said in her soft, breathy voice, turning her hand under his to capture it. “It was definitely worth the effort. May I hope it was for me?”

  Oh, lord, he thought with an internal groan. “In truth, I have a particular, hopeless longing for the vicar’s wife,” he announced with a self-deprecating smile, just as that stout, elderly female entered the room,
accompanied by her stern husband.

  “Alexander! You go too far!” Adelia hissed.

  “Were you talking about me?” Mrs. Constable demanded suspiciously.

  “Only expressing my admiration for your forthright opinions,” he said silkily, giving her the smile that dazzled every female he’d ever met, except for the one downstairs who was being paid to be dazzled.

  The stern Mrs. Constable was far from immune, and she turned a becoming shade of pink. “My husband wishes I were more tactful,” she said.

  “My dear!” Mr. Constable said reprovingly.

  “Tact is for the morally corrupt,” said Alexander.

  “I agree,” said that lady, “and I—”

  “Good evening, Mrs. Constable.” Adelia failed to rise, as was her right as the bereaved mother, and both the vicar and his wife converged on her, making soothing noises.

  Alexander turned back to Lady Christabel and her brother as the least of all evils. For some reason Adelia’s justifiable grief over her lost son infuriated him, mocking his own pain. But then, everything about the woman infuriated him and always had. Perhaps it was simply that he couldn’t despise her grief; he was much happier hating the woman who had tricked his father into marriage and then done her best to get rid of him.

  He should have sent her packing long ago. There was no way to prove she’d had anything to do with the various accidents that had befallen him before Dickens had come to look after him. But he loved his younger brother, and he simply couldn’t have left him to Adelia’s tender mercies.

  Once his father had died, his brother had been under his protection, but there was no way Alexander could deny the boy his mother, particularly since he’d just lost his father. And so he endured the woman, for his brother’s sake. That time was coming to an end, and his relief made him feel guilty.

  This evening was going to be endless. He hadn’t decided whether he was going to make the trek down into the kitchens to find the cook’s quarters, or if he was going to summon her to his bedchamber like a regal satyr. Or whether he’d put it off for a day or two, long enough to get the Forresters out of the house and to come up with a comfortable plan. By then he’d know whether they could manage to stomach her cooking or if he needed to end that particular charade and cart her off to the dower house. He could think of no reason why she’d want to cook, when she could earn her living much more pleasantly on her back. But perhaps she wanted to leave the life of a whore and thought cooking a more respectable occupation. Either way, it didn’t matter. He didn’t care about the way her mind worked, he only cared about what lay under those ugly clothes.

  It was going to be a long night, and even if he had no particular interest in food, for once he was hungry. Starving, in fact, all his appetites awakened by that pert little miss in his kitchen. Anticipation usually made the reward that much sweeter.

  “Word has it you’ve a sweet little crumpet downstairs,” Freddy was saying, and Christabel, who still had a proprietary hand on Alexander’s arm, suddenly dug her fingernails into his evening jacket.

  “You seem to be more conversant with my staff than I am, Freddy,” he said, so mildly that the fool might have missed the edge of danger in his voice. “But if you think the maidservants are fair game, I must inform you that they’re out of bounds. I doubt they’re a particularly virtuous bunch, but Adelia transported them all from London, and it would be too expensive to replace them.” How the hell had Freddy found out about Madame Camille so quickly? Probably through his valet, Alexander realized.

  “Wouldn’t think of it, old man,” Freddy said with a leer. “It’s the cook I’m talking about. You know the one. You were seen deep in conversation out in the stable yard. I hear she’s quite gorgeous.”

  Christabel had now released his arm, and for that Alexander could have kissed the foolish ass. “Don’t be gauche, Freddy darling,” she said, her irritation profound. “Mrs. Griffiths is in no condition to see to menus, and I gather Lord Griffiths doesn’t hire a housekeeper. Why don’t you?” She was turning some of her ire on him, and the question was accusatory.

  “Actually, I tend to molest all the female servants and we simply couldn’t find one pretty enough to suit me.”

  Freddy’s braying laugh rang out. “Don’t believe him, sis. The new viscount isn’t known for his indulgences, at least not out here. Now, Mrs. Lefton’s establishment . . .”

  “This is hardly fit conversation for either the drawing room or your sister’s ears,” Alexander said, losing some of his amusement. “Bad taste, old boy.”

  Oh, things are getting even better, he thought, as Christabel stiffened. The one thing more important than snagging his unwilling hand in marriage was her devotion to her spoiled younger brother, and any hint of disapproval raised her hackles like a bitch with a favored pup.

  “I hardly think my brother needs to be lectured on proper conduct by a newly minted peer who’s lived most of his life in the wilds of . . . of . . .”

  “Yorkshire,” he said with real enjoyment.

  She faltered for a moment, but rallied. “Well, society there is hardly like that of London.”

  “I am chastened,” he murmured. “Perhaps I’d better make certain my stepmama is not tiring.”

  But Christabel wasn’t to be deprived of her goal so easily. She gave what she obviously hoped was a light laugh. “Well, of course it takes a little time to acquire the proper mien of a viscount. A wife of the proper background could be immense help.”

  For a moment he was struck dumb, a rare occurrence for him. She was even more gauche than her brother with his mention of well-known brothels. He gave her his devastating smile. “You’re right, of course. Someone with discretion and delicacy would fill the bill quite nicely.” It was said so sweetly that Lady Christabel wasn’t certain whether she’d been insulted or not. “Let me see what’s keeping dinner.”

  “That new cook of yours,” Freddy said with a laugh, loud enough for Adelia to hear and cease her posturings for a moment.

  “A new chef?” She almost brightened.

  “Indeed, Mama.” He liked to call her that, simply to annoy her. “She just arrived this afternoon, so I have no idea whether she’s managed to improve our menu as yet.”

  “Gorgeous little thing, I’ve heard,” Freddy said, and Alexander briefly considered strangling him.

  Adelia’s beady eyes narrowed. “To my mind the best cooks are large, ugly, and usually male. If she can’t improve our repast then I’ll know what to do.”

  Probably eat her, Alexander thought without shame.

  “Then why don’t we find out just how good she is?” he suggested, and signaled to Dickens, who was standing at attention near the door, flanked by the handsome footmen Adelia had insisted upon.

  “Yes,” said Adelia, rising majestically and taking the reverend’s proffered arm. “I could manage something sustaining.” And she began her journey toward the large dining hall.

  Here I come, ready or not. The child’s game came into his head as he took Lady Christabel’s arm, leaving Freddy to follow up with the redoubtable Mrs. Constable. His little darling was about to have a baptism by fire. He could only hope she wouldn’t go up in flames.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SOPHIE WAS RATTLED. SHE had never cooked so many things at once, never had other cooks under her direction apart from her willing sisters, and the kind of repast required for a small dinner party in a home the size of Renwick had been momentarily daunting. The one blessing was that most of the staff knew what they were doing—they simply needed direction, and Sophie, as the baby sister of her family, had always loved the rare chance of getting other people to do her bidding. It turned out Prunella had a lovely light hand with pastry, and another woman proved more than capable with the game birds once Sophie adjusted the herbs. She had planned to let Dickens know when she was ready to serve the meal, but that decision was taken out of her hands, and she had no choice but to let the first course, a clear soup, go out unadorned by
the sculpted toast she’d planned.

  Another of the staff, a young man just promoted from the ignominious position of “boy,” proved to have a talent for arranging food on the elegant china, and it needed only her touch with a feathering of freshly shredded basil to complete the fish course just as the soup dishes began to return to the scullery. They were gratifyingly empty, but then she remembered the swill bucket upstairs in the butler’s pantry, and she could have cursed. How would she know what met with approval and what didn’t if she couldn’t see what they’d actually eaten?

  She almost laughed. She was taking this job, this enormous task, far too seriously. After all, this was hardly her life’s work, and they would give her at least a two-week trial. The Dark Viscount didn’t look like someone who was likely to turn her out without notice, even if she sent burnt, unpalatable food upstairs. And she knew very well that her food was a great deal more than palatable.

  Indeed, she seemed to have a magic touch. The roast of lamb came off the spit at just the right time to sit and regather its juices before carving, the pheasant pies came from the oven golden and fragrant, and she watched course after course disappear upstairs with a wistful longing. This was her kitchen—she owned it, she acknowledged, as she never had when Renwick had been their home.

  But it had been her dining hall as well. Not that she wanted to sit down with the Dark Viscount, but she would have given almost anything to hear their reactions to her creations. She knew her food was good, bordering on magnificent, but she couldn’t count on the man having as good taste as she had.

  The dessert went last, her own personal triumph. At the last minute she’d given up on chocolate, and gone with something that had turned her family silent in awe. Tiny puffed pastries in the shape of a swan, filled with custard, they were so beautiful one hesitated to touch them, and they dissolved in the mouth like a heavenly cloud. She had sent up twice the number needed, reserving the last dozen for the serving staff to enjoy after clearing up, but one of the footmen came haring down with the demand for more. A good sign, she thought, watching them go wistfully.