Never Marry a Viscount Read online

  “I beg your pardon,” he said with great deference, shocking Sophie into a prolonged silence. No one had treated her with deference since her father died. “Of course you must be Madame Camille. We were afraid you weren’t coming.”

  Madame Camille? Should she attempt a French accent? Their mother had been French, so there was the likelihood that she could manage it, but it would be difficult. “You were?” she said in a nondescript voice, neither French nor English, neither haughty nor subservient.

  The butler didn’t appear to notice. “When you failed to appear at the inn, Mrs. Griffiths was quite put out, and we were afraid you’d changed your mind. But you’re here now, thank God, and I apologize that you were forced to find your way here on your own. I hope you’re not too tired.”

  Everyone in the kitchen was following this polite inquiry in fascinated silence. “It was quite easy,” she said with great truthfulness.

  “I am relieved to hear it. Where would you like to start?”

  All right, his attitude was respectful bordering on obsequious, so Madame Camille clearly had some authority. If the current owner’s stepmother was put out, did that mean she was supposed to be a lady’s maid? She was supposedly French, after all. She wasn’t quite sure why she’d decided to approach Renwick—perhaps it had been the distant hope that she could find some sort of employment, but the idea of being a maid most definitely did not appeal, though she supposed she could manage, having had her own maid for most of her life. While she was useless at taking care of her own hair, she had managed to do a creditable job with her sisters’, and she could put together a flattering toilette, though her laundry skills were definitely lacking.

  How far could she carry this off? If she made a wrong move, would she be turfed out on her ear? And would that be any worse than the position she was already in?

  “First, I would like to see my accommodations, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Dickens, Madame Camille.” A frown crossed his brow. “I thought you were French?”

  “Half-French,” she said truthfully. “And I have spent many years in England.”

  “Very good, madame.” For some reason Dickens took it in stride. “You’ll find your quarters quite satisfactory, I expect. Mrs. Griffiths had them done up new just for you. She’ll be so pleased to hear you’ve arrived.”

  Sophie took a calming breath. “Will she?” If she just kept answering everything with a question, she might manage to carry off this masquerade, at least for a bit. At least long enough to figure out what she was going to do next. Not to mention get a good long look at the third man they had considered capable of destroying their family.

  “Your reputation precedes you. When Mrs. Griffiths advertised for a new chef, she didn’t think that the great Madame Camille would condescend to leave France and work at Renwick.”

  Sophie almost kissed his balding head. In one short speech he’d given her everything she needed to know, and instead of waiting on the notorious harridan she was to have her own kitchen. Bliss!

  “I felt like returning to the land of my birth,” she said.

  Dickens’s high forehead creased. “But madame is French.”

  Bugger! Sophie thought, using the curse she learned from Bryony. “Half-French,” she corrected. “And my parents lived here when I was born.”

  It satisfied the man. Not that he seemed suspicious, merely curious. “Were your parents in service, madame? You seem so very young to have such an impeccable reputation, if you’ll pardon my saying so.”

  Well, there was that, she thought. But if there was one thing she could do well, it was lie. “But of course,” she said with great dignity. “My father was a great chef, and my mother his assistant. I learned to cook at their knee. Knees. I have had my own kitchen since I was very young.”

  “Well, you’re a blessing from above,” Dickens said. He turned to the red-faced, tearful woman he’d been fanning. “Did you hear that, Prunella? We don’t have to worry about Mrs. Griffiths coming in here again.” He turned back to Sophie. “Mrs. Griffiths has very high standards,” he said with an effort at tact, “and our lack of a chef has been . . . challenging for all of us.”

  “I’ve tried me best,” Prunella said tearfully, “but I never claimed to be able to do more than plain country cooking, and was that good enough for her high and mightiness? Oh, no, she had to storm down here like the harpy she is and berate us and . . .”

  “Prunella.” Dickens’s voice was admonitory. “We do not speak of our employers in that fashion, particularly in front of . . .” He jerked his head toward Sophie in a gesture that was supposed to be subtle.

  Sophie wanted to giggle, but she preserved her sober mien. “I presume my rooms are nearby?”

  “Yes, madame. I wondered if I might dare ask . . .” His words trailed off as a commotion came from the far end of the cavernous room, and the seated woman immediately leapt up, the butler straightened, and the three maids scattered like the frightened mice they suddenly resembled. Sophie held her place, calm and imperturbable in the face of this chaotic household. She wasn’t sure whom she was expecting to stride into the kitchen, the housekeeper or perhaps even a return visit from the viscount’s notorious mother, Mrs. Griffiths. The last thing she expected was Viscount Griffiths himself.

  She’d never seen him up close, and she was frozen, staring at him in astonishment. She knew far too well the beautiful body that lay beneath all those proper layers of clothing, the bone and sinew, the golden skin, the long, long legs and strong shoulders. Her view of his face had suffered from the distance, but now, even in the murky light of the kitchen, she could see him better than she ever had before.

  Up close, he was even more handsome than she’d thought him, dangerously so. Up close she could see the high cheekbones, sharply delineated, the dark, satanic eyebrows, the strong, narrow nose and thin-lipped mouth. He had dark hair, worn too long, and she still couldn’t guess the color of his eyes—his lids were drooping almost lazily as he surveyed the kitchen inhabitants.

  “Hard at work, I see,” he drawled in a lazy voice. “I gather my stepmother was in here earlier, causing a fuss. My apologies to all of you. She has come to me, and I regret to inform you that Mrs. Griffiths has decided to fire you all and bring in new staff from London.” There was a shocked silence in the room as everyone seemed to diminish slightly. He looked out over them—he was taller even than the huge, burly butler, and even if he hadn’t been, he would have given the impression of height. He seemed at ease, almost casual, as he stood in the doorway of the kitchen.

  “The good news is,” he continued, “that I never listen to my stepmother, not to mention the fact that she’s alienated so many employment agencies in London and everyone around here that it’s unlikely we’d be able to find anyone to work this huge monstrosity.”

  Monstrosity, Sophie thought with instant outrage. If he disliked Renwick so much, he should have left it alone. For a moment she felt his eyes on her, and she quickly schooled her expression into one of subservience, congratulating herself on her acting ability.

  “So you are all reprieved for the time being, though I might suggest you keep your distance from Mrs. Griffiths if you can help it. I’ve told her to stay away from the kitchens, but I have no faith that she will listen to me.”

  Dickens stepped forward. “Yes, my lord,” he said with great dignity. “And we’re most grateful that you’ve chosen to support us . . .”

  “Oh, you know me, Dickens. I’m only interested in my own comfort, and being without servants would have a dreadful effect on it. We do, however, have an outstanding problem.”

  “My lord?”

  Sophie felt his eyes glance over her bowed head once more. He couldn’t know she was new here—people simply did not pay that much attention to their servants. “The chef . . .”

  “He walked out two days ago,” Dickens said, interrupting his employer. Sophie’s eyebrows rose as she waited for the viscount to address such impertinence, but he see
med to take it in stride.

  And Dickens had drawn the viscount’s attention away from her, Sophie thought gratefully, trying to sink back into the shadows.

  “That explains the slight improvement in the quality of what’s on the table. However, it won’t suffice, and if that young lady continues to try to sneak away, I’m going to be very cross.” It was all said in a lazy drawl, and it took Sophie a moment to realize he was talking about her. She came to a dead stop, frozen, as she felt the heat of a blush rise to her cheeks. Where had that come from? She’d never blushed during her triumphant season, unless she’d done so on purpose to abash some young suitor.

  She squared her shoulders and stepped forward, removing the hat that was far too dashing for a mere servant but the only one she owned, and met his lazy gaze with a completely spurious serenity. “Were you referring to me, your lordship?” she said in an even voice. “I must confess I am the new cook, so if you have requests or complaints you’d best address them to me.”

  He had abandoned Dickens and Prunella, who seemed to fade into the distance as the Dark Viscount turned, surveying her with deceptively benign interest. “Are you indeed?” he murmured, strolling toward her. The servants she’d been trying to hide behind had scattered, leaving her standing alone. She met his gaze steadily, knowing a servant should lower her eyes, not giving a damn. “And where did you pop up from?”

  “London,” she said. “Although I’m French, I’ve lived in England half my life. Your mother hired me.” She only hoped she’d gotten that part right.

  “Not my mother, my stepmother. That hag is no blood relative of mine,” he said in perfect French, devoid of the usually terrible accent the British aristocracy employed, as if learning the words was imposition enough. Why bother with pronunciation?

  But she knew her own French was equal to or better than the Dark Viscount’s. “I beg your pardon, monsieur le vicomte,” she said in the same language, “but I am unaware of these things. I can assure you I am an excellent chef, skilled in many areas.” She sent up a mental prayer in the midst of this. So far her skill, or perhaps it was her luck, had been golden. Everything she’d cooked for Nanny, for her sisters, for herself, had been quite spectacular. She seemed to have a gift, or perhaps the fates had decided to reward her after taking everything else away from her.

  He was watching her, his lazy gaze traveling from the top of the mussed golden hair down the length of her small, curvy body to the expensive shoes peeping out from the dusty hem of her dress. It was a good thing he was a man, and therefore unable to guess at the original cost of the stylish hat she was holding, the kid gloves, the expensive dress. And no one ever looked at the faces of servants.

  But he was looking at her face, and his seemingly casual regard was anything but. It made her want to squirm. “And you just arrived from London, madame?” he continued in French.

  “Yes, monsieur le vicomte. I promise you, I am more than able to fulfill anything you require of me.”

  A look flashed in his eyes, and she saw, at last, that they were an odd, clear gray, almost the color of the scrubbed stone floor beneath her feet. “We’ll wait a bit on that, shall we?” He had switched back to English. “We have houseguests at the moment—Lady Christabel Forrester and her brother. I intend to get rid of them as soon as I can, but in the meantime, remember that we are a house of mourning. Frivolous confections and ornate menus would not be appropriate.”

  “I am so sorry for your bereavement.” She uttered the proper terms that had been drilled into her since childhood—Nanny Gruen had been determined to teach her “poor, motherless chicks” the right way to go on in society.

  The viscount raised one of those satanic eyebrows at her words and she could have kicked herself. “It shouldn’t concern the staff. My brother had yet to visit this mausoleum, so any sign of mourning would be a superficial platitude. Nonetheless, things will be quite subdued here for the time being, and your menus should reflect that.” He continued to stare at her, as if trying to place her.

  She knew for a fact that he had never seen her—she would have been vitally aware if she’d been anywhere closer to him than the tor overlooking the valley setting of Renwick. She refused to lower her eyes—cooks were at the upper end of the strict servant caste system, and she wasn’t going to let him cow her. “Yes, sir,” she said.

  He watched her for a moment longer, then turned away. “I trust this will be the last time I have to waste my time with household matters—I have no fondness for kitchen visits. We’ll have something simple tonight—four courses will suffice. Lady Christabel doesn’t eat much, and Mrs. Griffiths is distraught with grief. What’s your name?”

  The last question came so abruptly that it took her a moment to realize he was speaking to her. Dickens jumped in. “This is Madame Camille . . .”

  “I don’t believe I asked you, Dickens.” His calm voice stopped Dickens abruptly. “Your name.” It was an order, not a question, and his indolent air had left, his stare hard and uncomfortable.

  She took an instinctive step forward, simply because she wanted to step back. She couldn’t let him frighten her. “I am Madame Camille . . .” For a moment her mind went blank. He would want a last name, and she hadn’t had the sense to think of one. She could only hope the real Madame Camille went by her first name alone. “Delatour.” It was stupid of her, her own personal amusement. Camille of the tor. It would mean nothing to him.

  His expression didn’t change. “Walk with me, madame.”

  “I have yet to see my rooms, to wash the dust of travel from me,” she said calmly, and heard the indrawn breaths of shock around her. Did no one tell this man no?

  If they did, he didn’t listen. “That doesn’t signify. Dickens will see to your things. Come.”

  Oh, damn, blast, and bugger, she thought furiously, outwardly obedient. The last thing she needed was someone pawing through her valise. Clearly the Dark Viscount was going to haul her off whether she agreed or not, so she simply smiled at Dickens, who’d managed to edge to her side without ever getting in between her and the viscount. She handed him her hat and valise, then stripped off her expensive gloves, slowly. “I should be back shortly. If you’d have one of the footmen leave these in my room, I would appreciate it,” she said. “I prefer to deal with my things personally.”

  “Certainly, madame.”

  She brushed at her heavy skirts, shaking them a bit, and turned to face the lord of the manor. “Monsieur le vicomte?” she said politely.

  Like a fool she waited for him to hold out his arm for her, but of course he simply turned and strode from the room, expecting her to follow. He had long legs, she was small, and she had no choice but to break into a little run before he disappeared from sight. Blast the man. Gorgeous or not, he was rapidly sinking in her esteem.

  With a soft French curse under her breath, she rushed from the room, chasing her nemesis.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “MOST OF THE SERVANTS understand the word merde,” Alexander said in a casual voice, not bothering to turn back to the girl as he strode along the corridor. “Words like that tend to be universal.”

  The so-called cook said nothing, merely rushed to keep up with him. He could have slowed down, he supposed, but he had a certain cynical enjoyment in having her hurry after him. They moved through the narrow hallways, directly out into the stable yard. He could see the various grooms watching them with curiosity, but he knew they would duck their heads if he glanced their way. They were all properly cowed, he thought with grim amusement. The murderous viscount was afoot.

  He glanced at the petite creature he’d found in his kitchen, of all places. If she were a cook he’d eat his hat, which would probably taste better than some of the things that had appeared on his table in the last fortnight. Their previous chef had a fondness for his brandy and presumably no taste buds. Alexander had endured it for as long as he could stand it, but it wasn’t until Dickens had murmured something about the uproar in the serv
ants’ hall that he decided to do something about it. After all, he didn’t really give a damn about food, and enjoyed watching his stepmother fume. But he wanted a fire in his bedroom and clean sheets and a general sort of tidiness, and the servants wanted decent food.

  Adelia had apparently made some sort of arrangement for a cook, but for weeks no one had appeared. Alexander had been making his own arrangements for more important appetites, but he’d never expected this.

  He marched her out past the stone walls, onto the paths leading to the gardens, saying nothing until they were well out of earshot. And then he stopped so abruptly she barreled into him, unable to slow her momentum.

  She was a gorgeous handful. She smelled like spring—fresh grass and wild roses, and her golden blond hair was a haphazard mop of curls that was about to tumble down around her perfect face.

  Well, nothing was truly perfect, but she was absolutely enchanting. Her eyes were a brilliant dark blue, her lips adorably kissable, her nose small and pert. In truth, she was the loveliest thing he’d seen since he could remember, and that in itself presented a problem. When he’d talked to Mrs. Lefton he thought he’d made things clear.

  He caught the girl by the arms, but not before she slammed up against him with her light weight, and he enjoyed the feel of her breasts against him for a brief moment, the soft sound of surprise from that lovely mouth. He wanted to drink that sound from her, cover her mouth with his, but he needed to be absolutely certain his suspicions were correct.

  “Did Mrs. Lefton send you?” he demanded abruptly, reluctantly releasing her.

  She took a step back, rubbing her arms as if he’d left a mark. She looked up at him fearlessly, so unlike anyone in the servant class. There was only a moment’s hesitation. “Of course,” she said.

  He looked her up and down, slowly, circling her like a panther about to attack its prey. She was too young, too short, too pretty. He’d told Mrs. Lefton he wanted someone older, who’d spent enough time on her back to know what was expected of her. He’d said tall—he hated bending over women all the time. Besides, there were some sexual variations he had in mind that required someone tall enough, though no woman was going to reach his six foot three inches. He’d stated that he wanted someone appealing to look at, but no great beauty with aspirations. And here he was, left with a mistress who not only was everything he hadn’t asked for, but who also appeared to think she could pass herself off as his cook.