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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—”
