Never Kiss a Rake (13 page)

She didn’t blush. She was getting used to him, used to his unsettling ways. “Curtains and bed hangings are easy enough to change. So are wall coverings. And the furniture could be moved to a more pleasing aspect. Since you have no sitting room attached, you need a better place to sit, assuming you prefer to be here and not in the library.”

“Considering my propensity for drinking a great deal too much, it might be better to end up here sooner rather than later. We don’t want you having to help me to bed again. Next time I might not be so drunk that I’d let you go. Why, I might even go so far as to kiss you.”

Bryony froze in horror. He’d been unconscious—he couldn’t possibly remember her impulsive action. But he was looking entirely innocent, as if there were no hidden meaning beneath his outrageous words.

She stiffened her back, managing a polite smile. “Indeed, and that is one of the many reasons why I hired Collins. As to whether you decide to kiss him, that will be between the two of you.”

Kilmartyn hooted with laughter. “I don’t think I’d ever get that drunk, Mrs. Greaves. And I thought you put out an edict that no member of the family bed the staff.”

“I did.”

“Tell me, Miss Greaves, does that apply to you?” His voice was soft, almost a purr, and she wanted to drift closer, into the warmth he seemed to emanate. Yes, the man was very dangerous to her peace of mind.

She stayed right where she was. “Of course.”

He smiled. “Good to know. In the meantime, may I count on you to make my bedroom more habitable?”

Startled, she looked around her again. “If you wish, sir.”

“Oh, I wish. So tell me, what kind of colors do you prefer?”

“That should hardly signify.”

He looked at her dreamily, his eyes half-closed, a lazy expression on his face. “You have very pale skin, with just a hint of soft rose. I could see you surrounded by a shade of blue. Perhaps a rich, indigo blue to set off all that lovely, creamy skin and your beautiful eyes.” He paused, looking positively lascivious. “Yes, make them blue. And every time I slip into bed I’ll be thinking of you.”

She managed a frosty look, her insides roiling at the image, and he laughed.

“In gratitude, Miss Greaves. God forbid I should think of you in any other way.”

She managed a nod. “It will be seen to, sir.” There was no way she was going to oversee the transformation of his sleeping quarters, his huge bed. It would be too unsettling. She really should make Collins deal with it. But she knew she wouldn’t. “It can be arranged fairly quickly, but I’m afraid the actual work will take a number of days. Where will you sleep while the workers are here?”

“As you pointed out, there are any number of available bedrooms in this household. Who knows, I may even make a few conjugal visits. It’s been a while since I’ve sampled my wife’s abundant charms, and she’s been making demands.”

This time Bryony did blush. She suspected he’d said it simply to see her reaction, but that didn’t mean she could control her normal bodily reactions. In fact, her normal bodily reactions were in a turmoil any time he was near, whether he was saying outrageous things or not, and she was having a hard time pulling herself together. “That’s hardly any of my concern, my lord,” she said in a stilted voice.

“I beg you pardon, my dear Miss Greaves. I’ve embarrassed you. Consider me all repentance.”

He looked about as repentant as a jackdaw. She bowed her head again. “Certainly, my lord.”

“How many times are you going to bow at me? How many times are you going to call me ‘my lord’ when I’ve directed you to call me Adrian?” he said, that soft, seductive note in his voice once more. And for some wicked reason she thought of the bed behind her.

“When I am no longer employed in your household, sir. At which point there will be no reason for our paths to cross, so in truth, I expect the answer is never.”

“You are so bracingly forthright for such a young woman, Miss Greaves. And you are young, aren’t you? Your papers said you were thirty-five, but I calculate you’re about ten years younger. And yet you seem to be able to manage the servants and the household much more efficiently that any of my previous employees have. What accounts for your frightening maturity?”

“I beg your pardon, sir, but this has nothing to do with my duties, which are being neglected as we speak. If you don’t mind I should go check on the kitchen…” She moved toward the door, all determination, but of course he remained where he was. Leaving her close, much too close.

“Your first duty is pleasing me,” he said, and she felt a little frisson of uncertainty run down her backbone. His half-closed eyes opened suddenly, green meeting her own dark blue, and for a moment she froze, staring up at him, unable to move.

And yet how could she say she froze, when she was suffused with such heat? Never had she felt anything like this. He wasn’t even touching her, and yet she felt invaded, taken, seduced, and enraptured, all from the deep, piercing look that caught between them, pulling her like a riptide, and she swayed toward him, wanting to feel his body against hers. Her breasts were hot, there was a tight feeling in her belly, and she wanted… she wanted… she couldn’t name what she wanted. She could only feel it.

And he was feeling it too, she knew it. That look was holding him captive as well, unable to move, staring down at her with fathomless emotion, need and doubt and surprise. Need won out, and he moved his head down toward hers, and she knew he was going to kiss her, really kiss her, going to take her, and she would let him, God, she would let him, and…

The sharp rap on the door was a shock to them both, and the tension broke. She fell back, almost stumbling, and he moved away from the door, barking out a sharp “What?”

“Begging your pardon, my lord,” came Emma’s breathless voice. “But we’re looking for Mrs. Greaves. There’s been a calamity in the kitchen.”

“I’ll be right there, Emma,” Bryony said, shocked at how normal her voice sounded. She reached up to smooth her hair, but it was still neatly coiffed, she touched the neck of her dress, expecting it to be unbuttoned half to her waist, but it was intact. It had been the most erotic moment of her life, and he hadn’t even touched her.

He said nothing, watching her out of his intense green eyes, so different from the languid ones he presented to the world. She opened the door, and it seemed as if sanity rushed back in with the light from the hallway. “If there’s nothing else you need, my lord, I’ll go see to the kitchen. And you can be assured your drapery and wall coverings will be changed to your satisfaction.”

“There’s that word again,” he murmured, so low that Emma couldn’t hear. “Satisfaction. And there’s a great deal I still need from you, Mrs. Greaves. But we’ll attend to that later.”

She didn’t show her reaction, the frisson of heat that rushed through her body. Stone-faced, she nodded, and left for the blessed relief of a kitchen catastrophe.

Kilmartyn watched her departure, at a dead run, and laughed softly. This was much more fun than he’d expected it to be. He was doing everything he could to unsettle the cuckoo in his nest, the interloper, the spy, whatever she was.

All he had to do was come close, make some sexual innuendo, and she’d panic delightfully. More proof that the girl was the upright British virgin he knew her to be. Unfortunate, because virgins were not fair
game, particularly upright British ones. When he’d so much rather see her horizontal.

He laughed again at his own wicked thoughts. She really was quite lovely. The scars on her face were a trifle—he’d seen worse on aristocrats who’d suffered from a surfeit of spots when they were young. That tawny hair of hers fascinated him, her dark blue eyes nagged at his memory. In fact, his enjoyment of this little game of cat and mouse warred with his discomfort. He was becoming a little too obsessed with her. Despite his reputation he wasn’t the heartless rake he was painted, and he didn’t like innocents.

But he found he was liking Miss Greaves. Bryony. Very much indeed.

“Rats!” Mrs. Harkins announced tragically when Bryony breezed in the door. “Rats in the cupboards, getting into me flour and meal, gnawing on the joint I planned to roast for dinner. I’ve had the rat catcher in half a dozen times and it does no good, and now there seem to be hundreds of them.”

“They do tend to breed,” Bryony said smoothly. She’d take rats over the Earl of Kilmartyn any day. “What we need is a cat.”

“An animal in my kitchen?” Mrs. Harkins said. “Never!”

“And a dog. The dog will catch the larger ones, the cat will take care of the mice.”

“Now I don’t mind a dog so much,” Mrs. Harkins said, softening. “But cats are nasty creatures. They look at you as if you’re put on earth to serve them, instead of the other way around.”

Bryony laughed. “That’s part of their charm.” She glanced around the kitchen. Bertie was polishing silver industriously, Mr. Collins was entering something in the wine ledger, and Becky, the scullery maid, was lurking in the corner.

“So, gentlemen,” she continued, “which do you prefer, cats or dogs?”

“Cats,” Mr. Collins announced. “They’re cleaner, and they hunt for the fun of it.”

“Dogs,” Bertie said, casting an apologetic glance at Collins. “They’re more friendly-like, and they’ll take out a rat quick as you please.”

“I likes ’em both,” piped up Jem, the new boy, as he came in lugging a huge brass kettle of coal. He set it down, taking a deep breath. The coal scuttle was almost as big as he was, and probably weighed as much.

“Jem, I think you should carry lighter loads,” Bryony said.

Jem straightened his shoulders, looking affronted. “Lighter? Mrs. Greaves, this is nuffin. I can carry twice as much and not break a sweat, I can.”

Tact, she reminded herself. “I’m sure you can, Jem. But we count on you so strongly that we’d be in disastrous straits if you happened to hurt yourself by overdoing.”

The grubby face looked slightly mollified. She’d have to see to baths for him as well, though to give him his due he had been mucking about in the coal cellar. “I won’t let you down, missus,” he said. “And I just happens to know of a dog what needs a home.”

Bryony raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Happen I do,” Jem said. “He’s a bit of a stray, but he’s a good boy, real friendly-like, and I’ve seen him catch rats big as cats themselves.”

Bryony hid her smile. “And do you know where we’d find this most excellent canine?”

“I can bring him to you, missus. I think I may have seen him in the stables.” He was trying to look innocent and failing.

Bryony had already heard the complaints from the coachman about the dog who’d seemed to arrive at the same time Jem did, though he did grudgingly say the dog wasn’t half-bad, which for Taggart was rare praise. But she decided not to mention it.

“That would be excellent, Jem. Thank you. You may fetch him when Mrs. Harkins can spare you.”

Mrs. Harkins sighed. “You might’s well go now then, boy,” she said. “Just leave the coal here for now—it’s a warm day and no one will be wanting a fire until later tonight, if then.”

“I don’t suppose anyone has a cat stashed someplace?” she asked idly.

“I can see to that, Mrs. Greaves,” Mr. Collins volunteered.

Bryony nodded. “There. Catastrophe averted. Mrs. Harkins, do you have something you can serve instead of the joint, or do you need me to go to the butcher’s for you?”

“Oh, no,” Mrs. Harkins said cheerfully. “I’ll just cut off the part they gnawed on and feed it to the staff.”

Bryony opened her mouth to express her horror but stopped as the other servants expressed their delight in such a treat. Belowstairs didn’t usually enjoy the luxury of a joint of beef, and clearly they would take it any way they could. She quietly shuddered at the thought. She’d forgo supper entirely, and…

Just then she remembered Kilmartyn’s casual words. That he expected her to join him for dinner each night, to report on the day’s work. Had he really meant it? Dear God, she hoped not. The longer she put off seeing him again the better she’d deal with him. She was still feeling flustered about the oddness of their last encounter.

She shook off the memory. He couldn’t have meant it. “Bertie, when Jem returns with the dog would you see that they both have a bath. We don’t want fleas invading the household—they’re almost as bad as rats.”