Never Kiss a Rake (10 page)

Her mother had made it clear—the only value a woman had was her beauty. Once Bryony had lost hers at age twelve she became worthless in her mother’s eyes, a useless appendage to a wealthy family. Her mother had forced any number of cosmetic treatments on her, from cold buttermilk compresses to steam baths, but nothing helped. The cosmetics her mother had insisted upon cracked the first time Bryony had laughed, and her mother had slapped her, the brittle stuff crumbling beneath her hand.

She could still remember her mother’s words. “You may find this amusing but I don’t. You’re a leper, and you’re doing nothing to improve things. You’ll have no choice but to stay hidden away like some mad relative, out of sight and out of mind. People won’t be able to bear the sight of you.”

“Because you can’t bear the sight of me,” she’d responded.

Her mother didn’t waste time denying it. “There’s a new doctor in Basil—”

“No more treatments,” Bryony had said sharply. “The scars aren’t going away, Mama.” She looked into her mother’s beautiful face, the face she’d passed on to her three daughters, looking for any sign of love or affection. All she saw was thinly veiled disgust.

She reached up and pushed the crumbling makeup off her face, and it dusted the plain, slightly oversize dress she wore. “I suppose I’m simply going to be the madwoman in your attic, Mama.”

She’d embraced that role with enthusiasm, locking herself in her rooms, refusing to come out despite her sisters’ blandishments, despite her father’s pleas. She’d sat and stared at her reflection in the mirror, until something inside of her broke, and she took up her fire poker and smashed every mirror in the room. She had been sixteen at the time.

There had been three mirrors. Twenty-one years of bad luck, Bryony mused, and she’d barely made it through the first twelve.

They’d reached the library door, and she lifted her hand to knock sharply when she heard Collins’s swift intake of breath. “What is it?” she whispered as alarm spread through her.

Mr. Collins cleared his throat. “I think perhaps this isn’t a wise idea. His lordship is clearly—”

“Clearly what? You can’t see beyond a closed door,” she hissed.

“I have a particularly strong sense of smell.”

She looked at him in frustration. “And what do you smell?”

“Anise. Fennel. Flames. Burning sugar.”

“Good God,” Bryony said. “He must have thrown something into the fire…” Her voice trailed off, as she realized on such a warm evening no fire had been laid in the library. “More reason for us to intervene.” And before Collins could stop her she rapped sharply on the door, then pushed it open.

Just as the Earl of Kilmartyn ordered her to go away. She paid no attention, trying to take the heavy tray from Collins’s strong hands, but the man simply shrugged, entering the room and setting it down carefully on the desk where Kilmartyn sat. He had a tall glass in front of him, filled with an odd, milky-looking mixture that was slowly turning green.

“Mrs. Harkins has prepared a marvelous dinner for you, Lord Kilmartyn, and I know you would never think of offending her by ignoring her efforts.”

He just looked at her, his face impassive. Then he turned to Collins. “If you ever barge into my library again I’ll throw you out the window,” he said in a deceptively charming voice.

“Yes, my lord,” Collins said meekly, not missing the menace beneath that tone. He started to back out, then paused, as he realized Bryony hadn’t moved from her place beside the earl’s desk.

“You may go, Collins,” she said calmly. “There’s no need to protect me from his lordship. He’s hardly likely to throw me out the window.”

“I might be tempted,” he muttered, letting his green eyes move over her in an oddly assessing manner.

She made a shooing gesture, and Collins left, clearly reluctant, closing the door behind him. She removed the covers from the dishes, and the odors were wonderful, filling the room, overcoming the strong, not unpleasant scent of anise. What in the world had he been eating before they came in? Some sort of confection?

He looked at her, then down at the tray. “You brought enough to feed a horse,” he observed.

“You’re too thin.” The moment the words were out of her mouth she realized her mistake. No servant should ever comment on her employer’s physicality, except in discreet praise.

He didn’t seem surprised at her slip. “So are you,” he said. “I have little appetite. I eat when it pleases me.”

“As do I,” she said, bitterly aware of her own body. She wasn’t precisely skinny, but she was a far cry from the lush curves popular nowadays. She had breasts and hips, but her flesh was undimpled. Maddy had described her as “coltish” in an effort to ameliorate her frustration, and in return Bryony had simply neighed.

His lids drooped over lazy eyes. “I’ll make a bargain with you, Mrs. Greaves. You’ve guaranteed that Cook’s meal is outstanding enough to interrupt me in my library. If you expect me to partake of it, then you’ll have to share it too.”

“I’ve already eaten. And her name is Mrs. Harkins, not ‘Cook.’” She didn’t bother to keep the note of censure out of her voice.

Instead of being offended, Kilmartyn looked amused. “I’ll do my best. I suppose that means I’m to call John Coachman by his real name.”

“Do you have a coachman?” she asked, startled. One more person to oversee.

“He lives back in the mews and takes care of his own meals, and for that matter his name is Taggart. He’s an extremely bad-tempered soul, so I suggest you steer clear of him. He’s under my authority, not yours. Pull up a chair, Mrs. Greaves.”

She considered it, and him, for a moment. He was a very unsettling employer, alternating a devastating charm with flashes of brooding temper. In her relatively sheltered life she had met few Irishmen, and they were notoriously volatile.

She could walk away, but one was supposed to acquiesce to an employer’s demands, even the unreasonable ones. She turned, found the smallest, most uncomfortable chair, and brought it over to the other side
of the desk, facing him across the heavily laden tray. “I’ve already eaten, my lord,” she said again, her patience wearing thin.

He was watching her, a cynical amusement in his eyes. “Not much, I wager. You need fattening up.” He handed her a delicate silver utensil. “You’ll have to make do with the cake fork, I’m afraid since Cook… beg pardon, Mrs. Harkins… didn’t realize you’d be dining with me. In the future would you please have her set two places on my dinner trays.”

“Your wife will join you?” she said hopefully.

“My wife would rather eat dead rats than look at me while she eats. And I’m bored—I require company if I’m to eat regular meals. So just add that to your list of onerous duties, Mrs. Greaves.”

She looked at him, startled. “You expect me to take my meals with you?”

“Just supper. If I happen to be home. Don’t worry—it will be all business. My wife is too… delicate to deal with the running of the household, so you’ll need to report to me. Do you like fish?”

The added question startled her. “Yes.”

“Good.” He took the bread plate and placed a healthy portion of the
truite meunière
on it, along with the turnip and minted potatoes. The smell was divine, and Bryony realized she hadn’t eaten very much of Mrs. Harkins’s nourishing but bland stew.

She couldn’t sit there and eat his dinner. It was simply… wrong. She tried again. “I’m really not hungry…”

“And I really don’t care. Eat.” Beneath all that affability there was a note of steel in his voice, at odds with his well-honed charm, and Bryony picked up her fork.

It was delicious. Meltingly so, and Bryony let out a soft moan of appreciation as she savored it. And then she realized Kilmartyn hadn’t touched his food, he was watching her with hooded eyes and a faint smile. There was an odd heat in his eyes, something she didn’t recognize.

“Do you realize you look and sound positively orgasmic when you eat something wonderful?” he said softly.

She shouldn’t ask, she knew it, but she couldn’t let it go. “Orgasmic? I’m not familiar with that term.”

For a moment he stared at her blankly, then he leaned back in the chair and hooted with laughter. Bryony’s back stiffened, and she set down her fork, thoroughly annoyed. “I’m glad you find me so entertaining, my lord. I’m gratified to know I’ve relieved your boredom.”

He was still laughing when he sat forward, tears in his eyes. “I think I’ll wait and explain that term a little later in our relationship, Miss Greaves.”

“Mrs. Greaves, my lord,” she corrected him gravely.

He merely smiled, and took a bite of the fish left on his plate. He closed his eyes for a moment, then looked at her. “Definitely orgasmic. Pray give Mrs. Harkins my compliments.”

“I will, my lord.”

“Could you cease all the ‘my lord’-ing?” he said. “I’ve told you to stop. It’s becoming tiresome.”

“I could say ‘your lordship,’” she offered.

“Jesus, no. That’s even worse,” he said, and she flinched at his casual curse. “Don’t call me anything.”

“Whatever you wish, my—” She stopped herself with an effort. There was a reason to use titles in any conversations. It made the class distinctions clear, and she didn’t want to slip and start talking to him like an equal.

“Whatever I wish, eh?” he murmured. “Eat your trout—it’s too good to waste.”

She finished the portion on her plate, being careful not to make any more signs of appreciation that he could comment on. He ate lazily, leaning back in his chair, picking at his food, then finally set the plate back on the tray. “That’s enough,” he said. “It’s more than I usually eat.”

His portion had been smaller than hers, and he had a goodly amount left. “You didn’t like the fish?” she said with a sinking heart. After all, overseeing the food was her responsibility.

“The fish was delightful. I just don’t eat much.”

“You should make an effort. It’s not healthy to live off your own nervous energy.”

“Worried about me already, Miss Greaves? I’m touched. If I need to eat I will. Food is easy enough to come by if people have the means.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then they beg on the streets, sell their bodies for a pittance, rot their brains with gin, and give their children away. They die young, and the next generation takes their place, disease-ridden and desperate. And the English government does nothing about it, both here and in Ireland.”

She was momentarily shocked by both his words and the intensity behind them. “And what are you doing about it?”

He blinked, as if realizing he’d said too much. “Doing?” He shrugged. “I give to charity, I charm a few politicians, but my main pursuit is pleasure. Fortunately that’s as easy to find as a starving orphan.”

There was no missing the faint bitterness in his voice. “And in your own house, my lord. You have a beautiful wife.” Her voice was stiff.

Once more he was amused. “The pleasure I intend to pursue in my own house isn’t my wife, Miss Greaves. And don’t call me ‘my lord.’”

“Then why do you insist on calling me ‘Miss’ instead of ‘Mrs’?” She knew no servant would address their employer in that tone, but she couldn’t help it.

He leaned forward, and his smile was devastating, lighting his dark green eyes, the kind of smile to mesmerize some vulnerable young girl who didn’t have better sense. Fortunately she was neither young nor vulnerable, and her common sense was excellent. She was immune to that charm of his, even as she felt her skin warm.

“Because,
mo chuisle
,” he said softly, sounding very Irish indeed, “You’re as sure a virgin as I am Irish. There was no Mr. Greaves, there was no anyone. You’re untouched, and that’s a crying shame.”

She froze, her skin heating. He was having the strangest effect on her normally obedient body. At his words she felt her stomach tighten, as strange, warm sensations moved through the lower part of her body in a most disconcerting manner. What was wrong with her? She finally found her voice. “I don’t think that’s any of your concern, my—” She stopped in the nick of time.

“Don’t you, now?” He smiled at her, but his eyes were steady, gazing into hers. “We’ll have to see about that.”

“I really should check on the kitchen,” she said hastily, suddenly desperate to escape. “The new maids and the scullery girl seem very capable, but I should—”

“I have complete faith in your judgment. I think they’ll be perfectly fine. Their work should be done—most of them have probably been enjoying themselves.”

“I’m exhausted,” she said quickly, no lie. And this verbal sparring was making things worse. “I should retire.”

“It’s only nine.”

She looked at him suspiciously. This was going all wrong, and she had no idea how to put things back on the proper footing. He wasn’t treating her like a housekeeper, and she wasn’t responding like a proper servant. “What does ‘
macushla
’ mean?”

“Nothing so terrible, Bryony. I’ll tell you later.”

She wondered how he even knew her first name. She’d had to sign papers, but he should hardly have been interested in such a triviality, not enough to remember it. She straightened her back. This had to stop. “I believe you should call me Mrs. Greaves, not by my given name. Those are reserved for housemaids, not upper servants, and I believe I’ve earned the honor.”

“You may have earned the honor, my heart’s delight, but you most definitely haven’t earned the Mrs.”

Enough was enough. She stood up, so abruptly she knocked the dishes, and she caught them before they fell on the floor. “I believe I’ll retire, your lordship,” she said sternly. “Bertie will remove the dishes.”He didn’t rise. Of course he didn’t, she was a servant, she reminded herself. “I haven’t dismissed you, Bryony.” It was a challenge, with a charming smile and eyes of forest green.

Servility could only carry her so far. “But I’ve dismissed you, my lord,” she said serenely, and sailed from the room, closing the door behind her.

She should have been horrified by her temerity, shocked by her boldness. But she heard his laughter behind the heavy door, and breathed a sigh of relief. The Earl of Kilmartyn was proving to be far more of a challenge than she’d expected, but she could deal with him.