She felt rather than saw Dickens approach her. She’d wanted to help, but Prunella had reminded her of the fierce hierarchy of the kitchen, and Sophie had sunk into her chair with blessed relief.
“You should retire, Miss Sophie,” Dickens said. “The majority of the staff have already gone up to their rooms, and I can oversee the last little bits of cleanup.”
“You’re a god among men, Mr. Dickens,” she murmured, “but frankly, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to move from this chair.”
Dickens made an odd, rusty sound that she rightly identified as a laugh. “I can call one of the footmen back and have you carried to your room.”
“A lovely idea, but I’ll forgo the offer.” The noise in the scullery had ceased, and the two maids headed for the narrow staircase that led directly to the servants’ quarters. The only access to the main house was through the kitchen stairs, which was something Bryony had set in place, Sophie remembered hazily. A gentleman houseguest of their father’s had taken advantage of one of the pretty maids, and Bryony had decided to limit their access. Perhaps tomorrow Sophie would see about sleeping up there as well. Not that she really had anything to fear from the Dark Viscount—he was just amusing himself, like a great, sleek cat baiting a poor mouse.
Except that she was far from mouselike, and she wasn’t going to be batted around for his entertainment. The next time he tried to kiss her, she was going to use her knee on his privates, and then he’d leave her alone.
Or discharge her, but she wasn’t going to worry about that. She was hardly going to trade her virtue for a chance to discover whether or not Alexander, Viscount Griffiths, was a criminal, and her sisters would kill her if she did. Her virginity, along with her beauty and her acceptable lineage, were her stock in trade, her bargaining chips. She couldn’t play them recklessly.
“You go on to bed, Mr. Dickens,” she continued, trying to put the idea of her virginity and Alexander’s dark, predatory eyes out of her mind. “I’ll be fine. I’ll just rest here a bit.”
“If that’s all,” he said. “Tim is on duty for the night if anyone needs anything, so don’t worry if one of the bells rings—he’ll take care of it.”
As if his words had set things in motion, the harsh sound of a bell broke through the late-night hush in the kitchen. Dickens turned to look at the board, and he made a face. “It’s his lordship. I’ll take care of it.” He started toward the stairs, when Tim appeared, looking slightly rattled.
“His lordship wants to see Miss Sophie,” he said breathlessly. “He says he wants what she promised him.”
Sophie sat up, suddenly alarmed. What was that annoying man demanding now? She’d given him everything she’d promised: a wonderful dinner to enrapture his senses. What else could the dratted creature want?
“Tell him I’ve gone to bed,” she said, not moving from her chair.
Tim cleared his throat. “Um, miss . . . I don’t think that’s going to do. He said I was to send you upstairs right and proper and no dawdling. He says he’s ready for the dessert you promised him.”
What the hell was he talking about? She’d already offered him dried apple tart, a blancmange, a lemon torte laced with cognac, and even an arrangement of spring berries and Chantilly cream. What else could he possibly be demanding?
She pushed herself up from the chair, groaning as her back ached and her feet hurt. How could women twice her age do this
three times a day without complaint?
Dickens was looking befuddled. “I fail to understand. I believe I personally carried a tray of exquisite sweets to the table. He should have no need for more food.”
“He told me he grew famished at all hours of the day and night,” Sophie said.
Dickens looked doubtful. “That’s news to me, miss, and I’ve been with his lordship since he was fourteen. It’s his stepmama who seems to have an unquenchable desire for sweetmeats and the like.” He turned and frowned at the footman. “Are you sure it wasn’t Mrs. Griffiths who asked for Miss Sophie?”
Tim shook his head. “No, sir, Mr. Dickens. And I will say his lordship looked hungry.”
Dickens shrugged. “Very well, I’ll assemble a tray and you can carry it up.”
“Begging your pardon, Mr. Dickens, but he specifically demanded Miss Sophie. He’s not going to be any too happy to see me return without her.”
“Well, then, you’ll just have to deal with it,” Dickens said reprovingly. “We do our best for those upstairs, but sooner or later we find ourselves disappointing them. You may as well get used to it.”
Sophie didn’t move. Her instincts, powerful enough to keep her still, warned her to run. To go into her rooms and lock and bar the door, which was ridiculous. As if the Dark Viscount would come prowling down to the basement in search of his errant cook!
Then again, he’d kissed her. The problem with Alexander Griffiths was that she wanted to kiss him. Wanted to kiss him the way he’d kissed her, that intimate, open-mouthed possession that seemed to reach throughout her entire body. Oh, to be sure, her previous adventures in the art had been willing. She’d hoped she could tell who would make the best husband, though Maddy had told her caustically that she was being absurd. Perhaps she was, but if she had to go through the mortification and discomfort of lying naked in a bed with a man, she ought to at least enjoy kissing him.
And she had, mostly. Those closed-mouthed, chaste salutes on her lips had been, on the whole, pleasant, though nothing had moved her to want more. At least, not until a few short hours ago, when Alexander Griffiths had pushed her up against the baize door and kissed her with a thoroughness that she could still feel imprinted on her mouth.
Damn the man.
“Never mind, Tim,” she said wearily, struggling to her feet. “I’m up now, and I may as well face the dratted man.”
“We don’t refer to our employer in that manner, Miss Sophie,” Dickens said reprovingly. “And I think it would be best if you kept your distance, particularly at this hour. One never knows if his lordship has been drinking—there are nights when the black moods are upon him and he imbibes a little too freely.”