Never Kiss a Rake (20 page)

It was starting out to be a sunny day, and she would make certain the curtains were open and the right side of her face was in full view, reminding him that he had better things to do while his wife was out of the way. Not that her presence seemed to have much effect on him.

Her heart was hammering as she led the way upstairs. She would have much preferred to lurk behind Mrs. Harkins’s impressive bulk, but that would have involved breaking precedence, and as housekeeper she was expected to maintain it. By the time she reached his door she felt almost faint with exhaustion and anxiety, but she was reasonably certain she showed neither. She lifted her hand to knock on the door when she heard Mrs. Harkins’s shocked sound, and turned.

“Begging your pardon, Mrs. Greaves, but tha’ shouldna knock. It disturbs the master. Most of us just scratches on the door.”

Bryony felt herself flush. Of course she was right—her own servants had made only a faint sound of warning before entering a room, never
knocking. “You’re absolutely right, Mrs. Harkins,” she said. “My last employer was an elderly woman who would hear nothing less than a loud rap on the door, and I’m afraid I forgot myself. Would you please alert his lordship that we’re here?” She’d never scratched on a door in her life—it reminded her of cats—and she needed to study Mrs. Harkins’s technique.

It was actually quite simple; more of a backhanded rub than an actual scratch, but the sound of Kilmartyn’s voice made the knot in her stomach tighten even further.

“Come in, Mrs. Harkins.” He sounded so normal. Just a lordly aristocrat going through his daily chores, checking on menus in the absence of the mistress of the house. Though, according to Mrs. Harkins, Lady Kilmartyn never showed the faintest interest in menus either.

I can do this
, Bryony thought, squaring her shoulders.
If not for me, for father and the girls
. She opened the door and walked in, Mrs. Harkins following closely behind.

He was sitting at the huge desk, the one she’d had yet to search, and he looked… almost normal. Clearly the advent of Mr. Collins had made a difference—instead of his casual disarray he was now neatly dressed, a perfect example of an aristocrat tending to his daily duties. His long hair was brushed back from his face and while he wore no jacket, his brick-colored double-breasted waistcoat with silver buttons lent just the right touch of elegance to his attire, and his dark silver cravat made his green eyes almost iridescent. His smooth shave accentuated the line of his jaw, and not for the first time she wondered why he went without facial hair. A beard or at least a mustache would have covered up some of that almost irresistible beauty.

But he probably knew exactly how his smooth, glorious face affected the female population, even one as unlikely as she. She gave him her dignified bow as Mrs. Harkins joined her, flushed and excited. “I believe you wished to see us, sir?”

He glanced at her, impassive, before turning to Mrs. Harkins, and it was like a blow. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but hardly this total lack of reaction. “Indeed,” he said. “Mrs. Harkins, I believe you had menus to present?”

Beaming with pleasure, Mrs. Harkins started forward, handing her lord and master the neatly plotted menu for the week. He took it, and instead of glancing at it and dismissing her he looked down at it for a long moment. Then he squinted. Then he did the most shocking thing of all. He reached into the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a pair of spectacles and placed them on his nose.

Bryony stifled her gasp of shock. No wonder he mistook her for a beauty. He was close-sighted!

He must have heard her anyway, for he looked up, directly at her as she stood in the sunlight that was pouring in the library windows, her face in full view. He looked at her, seeing her absolutely clearly, and then pulled off the glasses.

“Wretched things,” he said casually. “I only need them when I have to read very small writing. You’d oblige me, Mrs. Harkins, if in the future you wrote your menus in a broader hand.”

“Of course, my lord,” Mrs. Harkins said, sounding agonized, and Bryony was immediately protective, her anger overriding her reticence.

“Mrs. Harkins went to a great deal to provide the most glorious menus for the week,” she said sharply. “If you like I’ll read them to you.” She’d said it to shame him, but the moment the words were out of her mouth she regretted them.

“An excellent idea,” he said, handing her the sheet of paper. “Mrs. Harkins, why don’t you leave us and Mrs. Greaves can report on my comments.”

Ooooh, no!
“Of course Mrs. Harkins should stay,” she said quickly. “Much better to get your decisions and comments directly, rather than have me repeating them. That way there can be no miscommunication.”

He raised an eyebrow. “But isn’t that your job, my dear Mrs. Greaves? To pass on my orders to the other servants? Do you feel you’re not up to it?”

Good God, was he looking for a reason to fire her? Not that she could blame him—a housekeeper who searched the master’s bedroom in the middle of the night was hardly the thing, and in retrospect the specious excuse of laudanum only made things worse. He had every reason to dismiss her. Not to mention the embarrassing situation—he’d kissed his ugly housekeeper, covered her in his bed, pushing her down into the mattress.
He’d… used his tongue. Touched her, more intimately than anyone else ever had. In daylight the very thought horrified her, and it most likely embarrassed him. Chances were he would want to get rid of her as quickly and efficiently as possible. She couldn’t let that happen.

Before she could answer Mrs. Harkins spoke up. “Mrs. Greaves does an excellent job, my lord. She’s already got the new maids trained to the needs of the household and they’re working beautifully, she found us Mr. Collins and the new footman, and she’s going to rid the house of rats. If you don’t mind me being so bold, sir.”

His dark green eyes swept over her figure in the bright sunlight, and nothing was hidden. “Rid the house of rats, is she? That would be quite a formidable feat.”

Did he consider himself a rat? Or was he referring to his wife’s lovers, like the gentleman she found prowling the halls yesterday? “The new boy, Jem, has an excellent dog that should take care of the rats. I’m planning on securing a cat or two to look after the mice.”

There was just the faintest quirk of a smile on his mouth, and she remembered those lips, brushing against her face, her skin, her mouth, and she suddenly grew hot. “Ah,” he murmured. “The rats and the mice. Large, wicked rats and quiet, shy little mice. I expect the rats will win any battle between the two.”

She was no fool. He was comparing her to a quiet mouse, while he was the wicked rat. But she was no meek and gentle mouse, and she wasn’t going to play his game. “There won’t be any battle—the dog and the cats will take care of them.”

He sighed. “Yes, it’s always the larger outside forces that ruin many a rat’s well-thought-out plan. Read me the menus, would you, Mrs. Greaves? And Mrs. Harkins, if you wish to stay you most certainly may do so.”

Mrs. Harkins looked at her helplessly, but Bryony gave her a faint nod. She needed her presence, even if she didn’t want sweet Pauline Harkins caught in the middle of whatever odd game they were playing. And it wasn’t rat and mouse, it was cat and mouse. Though she wondered why Kilmartyn equated himself with a rat, one of the vilest creatures on earth.

Bryony picked up the paper and began to read the menus in a clear voice, growing hungrier as each menu was read and then elaborated upon by the cook. She’d stuffed herself that morning, and yet Mrs. Harkins’s creations were making her ravenous. In fact, it seemed as if all her appetites had been awakened. Things tasted better, music sounded sweeter, the sky was a brighter blue. And the man in front of her was more devastating than she’d ever found anyone before.

“It all sounds divine, Mrs. Harkins,” Kilmartyn said in a soft voice. “Clearly I’ll have to have supper at home more often.”

And that was all she needed
, Bryony thought miserably. She should never help Mrs. Harkins with her menus again.

“Very good, my lord,” the cook said, beaming as she sketched a faint curtsy.

“Then we’d best get to the rest of our duties,” Bryony said briskly. “Do you have any idea when her ladyship is expected to return home?”

If he was surprised to hear of his wife’s departure he didn’t show it. “I neither know nor care. Nothing would please me more than if she’d simply fall off the face of the earth, never to be seen or heard from again.”

The flat, cold tone of his voice shocked her, as much as the belief that he meant every word. He clearly despised the woman he married.

“Then we’ll simply make certain her room is put back in proper order for her eventual return,” she said evenly. “Come along, Mrs. Harkins.” She moved fast, hurrying the woman along, and she’d almost made it to the door when Kilmartyn spoke up. “Not so fast, my dear Mrs. Greaves. We have yet to discuss the household.”

She wanted to gnash her teeth, but she’d forgotten she had actual news to impart. She could have always handled it in a note to his wretched lordship, but status would dictate that any disclosures should be made in person. She came forward to stand in front of his desk obediently, as Mrs. Harkins gently closed the door behind her. Kilmartyn’s expression didn’t change. He still had that polite, faintly disinterested look on his face, identical to the one he showed to Mrs. Harkins. That, at least, was a relief. Wasn’t it?

“I did have news for you, my lord,” she said, before he could start with a list of her deficiencies. “Mr. Peach will start work on your bedroom today, and promises he should be finished by Saturday. I will need to make arrangements for an alternative bedroom for you, and I wondered if you have a preference.”

He was shuffling papers absently, like any employer forced to deal with the humdrum matters of everyday life. “Yours,” he said.

It took her a moment to grasp the import of his words, but he continued on quite smoothly. “I expect you’d probably raise a fuss, so I’ll make do with the violent-yellow chamber at the end of the hallway.” He raised his eyes to meet hers, and his expression was absolutely serene.

Bryony took a breath. “You, my lord, are absolutely outrageous.”

He smiled then, an innocent, almost angelic smile that went well with his beautiful face. “Hadn’t you realized that, my dear Miss Greaves? My very dear Miss Greaves?”

There was a gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach that she told herself was hunger. But hunger for what? For the attention and flirtation of a beautiful man? This was very bad. This was very bad indeed.

If he could be businesslike despite their odd banter then so could she. She cleared her throat unnecessarily. “The household is slowly becoming ordered. The new maids are working out extremely well. Jem, the kitchen boy, is lively and energetic and occasionally respectful, and you know that Mr. Collins has been a gift from the gods.”

“A gift from you, Miss Greaves. Do you consider yourself a goddess?” He leaned back in his chair, putting his fingertips together in a motion that simply called attention to the beauty of his hands. “Let me see, which would you be?”

“Hestia,” she said promptly. At least this was a safe topic of conversation. “Goddess of hearth and home.”

“Oh, no,” he said. “You’re much more interesting than that. You’re more like Diana, the chaste huntress. Then again, what are you hunting?”

That managed to unsettle her further. How in the world could he guess that she was looking for something? “I would hardly qualify as a
goddess, my lord.” She didn’t bother to gesture to her face—it was there to see quite plainly in the bright sunlight.

For some reason he didn’t seem horrified by it. In fact, he didn’t seem to notice it at all. “You might qualify as Ariadne, for all the clever webs you’re trying to spin. Or you might be Persephone, trapped with an ogre like me.”

“You’re hardly an ogre, my lord, and I’m not trapped. I can leave anytime I choose.”

“Can you?” He sounded doubtful, and that troubled her even more. “I think the closest you could come is Demeter, worried about her lost children. But you’re too young to have children, and besides, you’re a virgin. It must be your… sisters you’re worried about. Brothers would be on their own, but sisters usually require someone to look after them, and I presume your parents are dead.”

He was getting hideously close to the truth. He was a clever man, and he could put clues together. If she wasn’t careful he’d guess who she was before the month was up. She couldn’t let that happen.

“My parents are dead, and I have neither sisters nor brothers. I was an only child.”

“Then who are the people you send your salary to?”

“I beg your pardon?”

His smile was catlike, no longer the dispassionate employer. “You told my wife you were still in service because the money your previous employer left you went to your family. What family?”

Bugger
. The forbidden word danced in her head, and she wanted to groan. She should have been more careful.

But she rallied quickly. “My uncle, my great-aunt, and an unending series of young cousins all rely on my help,” she replied. “I can give you their direction if you doubt me.” She flung the last at him, a dangerous offer.

“Oh, there’s no need, my darling Miss Greaves. I know as much as I need to know about your personal life.”

It felt like a slap in the face. Of course the personal life of a servant was of no interest. Even the family life of a courtesan would be unimportant.
“Certainly, my lord,” she said, trying to sound meek and almost succeeding. “Did you have any questions? About the household,” she added hurriedly.

“None at all. You manage things quite beautifully, Miss Greaves. I don’t know how we shall manage without you.”

She froze. “I wasn’t aware you were about to face such an eventuality. Have I somehow failed to give satisfaction?”

Something about her commonplace phrase amused him. “You have been admirable, my dear Miss Greaves. So admirable, in fact, that I doubt you’ll wish to stay with us for long. But our household will delight in your presence for as long as you care to grace us.”