“Why should I keep my mouth shut?” she said recklessly. “I’m your employee, not your slave, and you’re paying a very great deal for my wisdom and experience, not to mention my creativity.” At least she assumed he was. Too bad she was unlikely to see any of it. Since the mysterious Mrs. Lefton seemed to have made the arrangements for the viscount’s new chef, then most likely the money went to her first. Even if it did trickle down to Sophie, she would probably be gone well before her first month’s wages were due.
“So you are,” he murmured thoughtfully, letting those stormy gray eyes run down her body, and that familiar unease and anticipation swept through her.
He wouldn’t touch her, she reminded herself. Dickens had sworn he never touched the female staff. It was a blessed relief, she reminded herself for not the first time. “So what else did you wish to say to me, your lordship?” She didn’t bother disguising the note of impatience that crept into her voice. Even knowing she was perfectly safe from importunate advances still didn’t quiet her uneasiness in his presence, the strange restlessness that she couldn’t understand.
“Just this,” he said in a lazy voice, and before she had any idea what he intended he reached out and pulled her up against him, his other arm coming round her waist.
It was almost as if she’d been slammed against a hard object, though in fact he was only flesh and blood. Extremely firm, well-muscled flesh and blood, and there was no way her breath could have been knocked out of her by his unexpected move, and yet suddenly she couldn’t breathe.
She’d managed to raise her arms, to push against him, but it did no good. He was very strong, and she was trapped.
She looked up, way up into his eyes, steeling herself not to react to the stark, elegant beauty of his face. She knew her own eyes were cool, her expression undaunted, but she could feel her lower lip tremble slightly, the one part of her she couldn’t control, and she bit down hard on it to try to still the telltale sign.
She couldn’t read his expression—he was adept at being enigmatic, and he simply stared down at her for a long moment, as if he could read her soul beyond the determined, bland expression she was trying so hard to master.
“Yes, my lord?” she prompted impatiently, hoping her cool words would bring him to his senses and he’d release her. She’d made a fatal miscalculatio
n.
He caught her chin in one large, hard hand, holding her still, and when he put his mouth over hers, she froze in shock.
This kiss wasn’t like any other she’d ever experienced. His lips weren’t soft, tentative, worshipful. His mouth was hard, damp, covering hers as he tipped her head back, and she let out an involuntary gasp of shock. This wasn’t right. He didn’t touch his servants; she was perfectly safe.
He lifted his head, and she let out her pent-up breath in a whoosh. He was looking down at her critically, critically, as if she’d just presented him with an undercooked capon. “Surely you can kiss better than that,” he said with a hint of asperity. “Open your mouth.”
He still had her trapped against him, and the heat of his body through the too-few layers of clothes was calling to her. She needed to put a stop to this immediately, she reminded herself. “Why?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Why?” he echoed, almost nonplussed. “Are you really asking me why you should open your mouth when I kiss you?”
“You are correct, my lord”—she put an ironic emphasis on his title—“although it’s of little importance, since I have no intention of letting you kiss me again, and I am most certainly not going to kiss you. Please release me.”
For a moment he seemed almost baffled. “You’re not going to kiss me?”
“Absolutely not. Ever.” Her voice was firm. “Now if we’re finished here I need to return to the kitchens to begin preparing dinner.”
“Not quite finished, my dear Sophie,” he said in an amused tone that sent shivers of alarm down her spine. “Were you or were you not sent here by Mrs. Lefton?”
She’d already told him that she had been—she could hardly take it back. Maybe the mysterious Mrs. Lefton specialized in cooks who kissed their masters. “Mrs. Lefton sent me.” She didn’t even blink at the blatant untruth.
“And did she, or did she not, send you here for a specific reason?” His soft voice was almost dangerous, but his hold on her had gentled slightly. Not that she made the mistake of thinking she could tear herself out of his arms. If she tried, those arms would tighten once again. She was going nowhere until he was ready to release her.
“Yes, my lord. And I promise to fill my position to the absolute best of my abilities.” She swallowed, then continued doggedly onward. “But I have my own ways of doing things. I promise you will have nothing to complain about with what I offer you.” She was feeling reckless—she hadn’t even cooked him a full sixteen-course meal, and yet she had complete faith in her abilities if he just gave her enough time to try. “I swear to you that by the time I’m finished, you will be struck silent with awe and admiration.”
He simply blinked in astonishment. And then he threw back his head and laughed, and for once the sound was different, clear and loud, with none of the irony and mockery that seemed to lace his speech and his humor. “My dear Sophie,” he bent down to murmur in her ear, “your promises whet my appetite to an alarming extent. If you’re able to fulfill them even half as well as you insist you can, then I imagine we’ll get along very well.”
If she let out a sigh of relief he’d feel it, so she simply nodded. She’d earned a reprieve, and once he tasted her Poulet à l’Ancienne with its cream sauce just lightly touched with lemon and capers, her place of honor would be assured for as long as she wished to stay.
“In the meantime you need to release me, your lordship. How would it look to the other servants if they happened to see me in such an odd position?”
He glanced down with a lazy expression at their bodies pressed close together. “I can think of many odder, more interesting positions,” he said, and the mocking humor was back. “And they’ll find out soon enough.”
She was too busy trying to wriggle out of his arms to pay attention to what he was saying, and this time he let her go, stepping back from her. “Do keep away from the east lawn,” he added affably. “Or you may not be able to wait until tonight.”
She had absolutely no idea what he was talking about, and she wondered for a moment if the man were slightly . . . eccentric was the polite term for it. Moon-mad might be closer.
“I intend to spend the rest of the day and night in the kitchen,” she said firmly, backing away from him, hoping she wasn’t going to trip. She wasn’t going to turn around and run—that was assured. Never turn your back on the enemy, Papa had always said, and whether the Dark Viscount had had anything to do with Papa’s death or not, he was most definitely the enemy.
“Not the entire night,” he said, and before she realized it he’d pushed her up against the baize door, caught her mouth with his, and his tongue was there, touching hers with an intimacy that astonished her. What strange perversions had the man come up with?