Blast. Damn. Bugger. She had experimented with cursing one summer, with Maddy’s amused help, but it still didn’t come out naturally. Except at the worst time of all, in front of the Earl of Kilmartyn.
His eyes met hers suddenly, and she wanted to kick herself. He’d caught her staring at him, and that infuriating smile played around his infuriating mouth. “What do you think of this shade, Miss Greaves?”
Mr. Peach had unearthed a really luscious shade of blue, with just a hint of purple in it, almost a blueberry color, rich without being bright. Bright colors in a bedroom never suited. “I like it,” she said.
“Come here.”
She didn’t move. She found she had managed to wander a comfortable distance from him, far enough to breathe more easily. “I can see the color quite well from here, my lord,” she said in a dulcet tone.
“Come here.” The repeated command was quiet, but she didn’t make the mistake of thinking it was an option. If she didn’t move closer he would move her himself.
“Certainly, my lord,” she said with patently false meekness, and came back to him, shoulders braced.
He took the bolt of fabric and tossed a length of it over her shoulder, startling her, and then pulled her closer, lifting the fabric to cradle her face. He was looking down at her with a totally unreadable expression in his forest green eyes. Such deep, unfathomable eyes—she could fall right into them if she wasn’t careful. She stood very still, feeling like a cornered animal.
He tilted his head to one side, surveying her. “Yes, it suits her. An excellent match for her eyes, Peach. We’ll take enough for the room, the hangings, and the counterpane, and I want, oh, five ells extra for Miss Greaves.”
“No,” Bryony said.
His lips twitched. “You can’t stop me from buying fabric for you, Miss Greaves. If we’re refurbishing my surroundings then we may as well refurbish you.”
“That wasn’t what I was saying no to,” she said. “My lord,” she added belatedly. “If you do the room in just the one color it will be as if you crawled inside a blueberry tart. It will be suffocating. You need varying shades.” She shrugged the fabric off her shoulders, back into his hands, and moved to the counter, picking out a complementary shade with gray undertones, a lighter one, and an indigo so dark it was almost black. “There,” she said. “A combination of these will suit better. I would suggest the lighter shade for the walls, the darker for the bed hangings, and the… favored color for the curtains.”
“The lady has excellent taste,” Mr. Peach pronounced, clearly impressed.
“The lady is very wise. However, we’ll have the darker shade for the curtains and the rich blue for the bed.” His eyes slid down over her, and it almost felt as if he were touching her. “To better complement anyone who might find herself in it.”
He couldn’t mean what she thought he meant. But it was so blatant there could be no doubt. Mr. Peach coughed, and she wanted to slap Kilmartyn’s face, hard. She wanted to take her small fist and punch him in the stomach. She wanted to strip off her clothes and climb into that bed with him. And she suspected he knew it.
She kept her face expressionless, for what good it did her. “As you wish, my lord,” she said, all humble servitude, but he wasn’t fooled.
“Peach, if you can send your minions over to take measurements as soon as possible we’d be most grateful,” he said, not taking his eyes from her.
“Your lordship, I will come myself,” Peach said grandly. “And do you wish us to measure Mrs. Greaves? I can recommend any number of excellent dressmakers…”
Before Bryony could protest Kilmartyn shook his head. “I’d prefer everyone else keep their hands off her.”
She could feel the heat in her face. He was practically announcing to the world that she was his mistress, or at least his plaything. “I prefer everyone to keep their hands off me,” she said grimly.
“If wishes were horses…” he murmured. He picked up her discarded bonnet, then looked at it with ill-concealed dislike. “Is this really the best you can do?”
Looking at it with fresh eyes, she had to agree it was phenomenally ugly. It also shielded most of her face from curious eyes, and she’d kept it for years, even though the current fashion was for smaller hats, close to the head. Dying it black hadn’t been a complete success, and it looked rather like it was covered with a molting snake skin. “Yes,” she said, and clamped it onto her head defiantly, fumbling with the ribbons.
He shook his head, then brushed her hands aside. “Allow me.”
She had to fist her hands rather than fight with him. She held still as he slowly tied the heavy silk ribbons that had begun to fray. He’d taken off his gloves, and his long fingers brushed her skin, setting off all sorts of unexpected feelings rushing through her body, heat and longing and a deep sorrow she couldn’t define.
He stepped away. “I suppose it will have to do for now. Peach, we look forward to seeing you.”
They were back out on the street before she realized it, and he’d drawn her hand through his arm. When she finally found her voice her words were incautious. “You are a truly terrible man.”
He laughed. “Not really. Only a slightly terrible man. When you get to know me you’ll find that I can be quite charming.”
“I’ve already seen your charm. I was not impressed.” The moment the words left her mouth she halted, shocked. This was much worse than “bugger.” No employer could be spoken to in that way. She suspected even a cherished mistress wouldn’t be allowed such liberties.
But Kilmartyn didn’t appear surprised. “You need to remember your role, Miss Greaves. No one is going to believe you’re simply an overzealous housekeeper if you keep baiting me. Mind you, I find it quite delightful, but for your sake you might confine your insults to times when we’re alone.” He tugged at her, but she didn’t move. There were just so many disturbing things in his words that she felt sick.
“What do you mean?” Her voice came out raw and anxious.
The smile that played around his mouth had nothing to do with the dark intensity of his eyes. “Do you really wish to have this discussion standing still in the midst of Regent Street, my very dear Miss Greaves?” She said nothing, and he continued. “No? I thought not.”
He started walking, and this time she didn’t pull back, or try to break free. She had more important things to concentrate on. Did he suspect she was something other than a housekeeper? If so, why in the world did he allow her to remain in his household?
There was no answer to that, and Bryony considered herself to be a pragmatic woman. She would put it in the back of her mind and think about it later. There was no value in worrying about it now.
They walked back toward Berkeley Square in a surprisingly comfortable silence. It was a rare, beautiful day in spring, and the feel of the sun shining down was almost a blessing. She could see the trees with their fresh buds blooming against the bright blue sky, and she allowed herself a small moment of peace, and for some reason the strong arm beneath her hand, the tall, warm body beside her, was part of that peace.
“I’ll leave you here.” His voice broke through her reverie, and she looked up, startled. They were on the edge of Berkeley Square, and the house was in sight, halfway up the street. “My wife has her maid spy out the windows, and we don’t want to make your situation in my household any more difficult.”
“It’s not difficult now, my lord,” she said, glad her calm voice was back. She needed to remember to use his title more often. It reminded her to keep her temper under control and her role intact. “A challenge, perhaps, but not difficult.”
He released her, and for all that she’d fought his polite hold on her, she suddenly felt… bereft. She gave him her official bow. “May we expect you home for dinner, my lord?”
“It depends. If I find something more entertaining I might spare you the exquisite pleasure of my company.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“We have an appointme
nt, Miss Greaves. You share my dinner, and we trade obscure curses. I’d be hard-pressed to find anything that could possibly compare. On a purely intellectual level, that is.”
“Bugger,” said Bryony, and walked away from him down the street.
She could feel his eyes follow her all the way to the house.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
RUFUS DIDN’T ENJOY MAKING MISTAKES. In truth, it put him in a perfectly foul mood, and once he’d decided to finish the interfering Mrs. Greaves he wanted it done with. It had been simple enough to brush past her at just the right moment, to give her a shove that should have sent her flailing beneath the murderous hooves of one of those reckless carriage drivers. He hadn’t realized that he wasn’t the only one following her.
It was careless of him, when he was usually the most precise of men. He hadn’t even noticed Kilmartyn behind him, close to him, moving in to whisk her out of harm’s way.
It could have been quite disastrous, if the streets weren’t so busy, if Kilmartyn had recognized him and started to become suspicious. He was a very clever man, Kilmartyn was, though it pained Rufus to admit it. Not nearly as smart as Rufus himself, but then, who was? Fortunately Kilmartyn had only the faintest idea who he was, and had no hint that Rufus was one of many who enjoyed the countess’s favors.
However, it didn’t do to underestimate his opponents. The housekeeper was negligible—she simply had the misfortune to see his face, and for that she was doomed. And she’d be easy to deal with, as long as he made sure no knights in tarnished armor like Kilmartyn were there to rescue her and then take her away with him.
He didn’t bother to follow—he could tell by the way they looked at each other, the way Kilmartyn kept hold of her that there was something between the two. They weren’t lovers yet—he could recognize the difference in the way people moved with each other, the hidden touches, the looks. No, these two were antagonists of the best sort, wanting to rip each other’s clothes off and hating each other at the same time.
It would keep the two of them completely occupied for a good while. Once Kilmartyn had shagged her he’d lose interest, but as long as the hunt was on he’d be fully distracted.
Rufus wondered whether he ought to head back to Berkeley Square and inform the delightful Cecily of what he’d observed. She would explode with rage, and he rather liked her when she exploded. But no, he had other things to do, things to arrange, and he needed to be careful. That information could wait.
He would walk to his rooms, change, and go out to dinner as if he hadn’t a care in the world. And in truth, he didn’t. All would fall into place as it was supposed to. He could take his time, stroll by the burned-out shell of a house on Curzon Street, and remind himself of all that he had wrought. This was only a minor setback, one he was sure would be taken care of in time. He would get rid of the too-observant Mrs. Greaves, as well as clinging, venal Cecily. He could do the rest on his own.
Kilmartyn didn’t end up returning for dinner that night, for which Bryony could only be grateful, she assured herself. The new staff were settling in. Mr. Collins was proving invaluable in overseeing them, and Mrs. Harkins’s culinary genius was beginning to approach French levels. Normally staff ate early, before the quality, but given how little the masters of the household enjoyed Mrs. Harkins’s food, Bryony came up with the notion that the staff should have a substantial tea and then supper later on. That way they could enjoy at least a taste of the fruits of Mrs. Harkins’s labor, and the cook wouldn’t be cast into the slough of despair.
As the day wore on spirits grew lighter, and there was laughter at the table as the staff devoured coq au vin, fresh Dover sole, and the most delicate trifle imaginable. And then, eventually, Bryony was alone, the house shut down for the night, though Bertie would doze by the front door in case his lordship decided to return. According to Bertie on nights like these his lordship usually ended up spending the night in the arms of a courtesan, one of several who enjoyed his favors.
Her father had never kept a mistress, even after her mother’s death. But then, her father had been too obsessed with making money to be distracted by carnality, and thank God for that. She truly didn’t want to even consider her father having those kinds of needs.
Of course there was always the off-chance Kilmartyn might return in the middle of the night. If he had a late-night card game, or if he preferred not to spend the night in a bed of pleasure but only a few hours then he might come back to torment her.
Perhaps he’d leave her alone, once his… his beastly cravings were satisfied. Her main source of knowledge on such things came from her sisters, and she suspected their information was somewhat incomplete, given that they’d received it from their school friends. But it only made sense that if one… itched, then one would be more likely to torment the people around one. Once scratched, peace of mind should settle down, and the Earl of Kilmartyn would no longer seek to torment her. He wouldn’t look at her with those unfathomable dark green eyes, as green as a forest after rain. She’d be invisible to him, as all good servants should be.
She could only hope so, she told herself, sitting at the desk in her little office by the deserted kitchen, going over her accounts. Mr. Peach had arrived promptly, measurements taken, orders prepared. He didn’t say a word about the extra fabric Kilmartyn had decreed, and she kept silent as well. No doubt Mr. Peach understood how uneven an aristocrat’s attention might be. He would forget all about his absurd suggestion. Particularly after having spent the night in the arms of a courtesan.
And why did she keep thinking about that? It was none of her business, except as it affected the running of the household, and Bertie was used to sleeping in a chair in the front foyer. So why did the very thought of Kilmartyn’s elegant hands, sliding over smooth, bare skin, make her edgy and anxious and ready to explode?
She shook her head, disgusted with herself. She knew the disastrous truth, and she had never been one to avoid such things. She’d developed a… weakness for him, after a mere three days in his presence. Not exactly a tendre—he was much too complicated a man to inspire such a sweet emotion. It was more like a schoolgirl crush, though she was as far removed from the schoolroom as she could be. There was nothing to be ashamed of. He was a very beautiful man—that mane of hair, the high cheekbones and smiling mouth, and dark, dark green eyes. And she liked his height, the way she felt walking beside him, glancing up at him, feeling both threatened and protected at the same time.
He was the first man she’d ever been close enough to flirt with. At least, that appeared to be what he was trying to do, though she was giving him no encouragement. She would have felt the same for that man she’d come across in the upstairs hallway—Mr. Brown? She would have felt that way for Bertie, a well-set-up young man, or the muscular butcher, or any of her father’s business acquaintances and cronies she’d seen from a distance over the years.
It was simply her misfortune to have been thrown together with one of God’s own creatures. He looked like a fallen angel, all raffish charm and seraphic good looks. And she was understandably vulnerable.
Not that he was going to know it. He might suspect, but in no way was she going to give any hint that she found him to be other than an employer, an aristocrat so far above her touch that they may as well be separate species.
And she’d tell him that, if she ever got the chance. Not that she would—he was a master of innuendo, not of plain talk, and it was so desperately hard to fight innuendo.
But if he’d spent a night making love that should improve the situation. When he eventually returned he’d be in better spirits, and when he looked at her he’d see a scarred, plain housekeeper and nothing more. To quote her beloved Shakespeare, “it was a consummation devoutly to be wished.”
Of course it was.
Searching the study was out of the question tonight—it was too near the front hall and Bertie. She could try the bedroom again—he’d interrupted her before she could finish, and she was desperate to f
ind what the slim volume beneath his mattress held. Proof of a conspiracy of theft and murder? Or something harmless? She could risk it. If Kilmartyn returned home and saw a light up there he might reasonably assume it was Collins, not his errant housekeeper.
Though his last words earlier in the day had been disturbing. Why had he suggested she was playing a role, and needed to be believable? Was he simply trying to find ways to disturb her? He might suspect she was a gentlewoman down on her luck—there was no crime in that. In fact, perhaps she should embellish a bit of history to Mr. Collins in hopes that he’d pass it on. She could be the impoverished third daughter of a baronet or something, forced to earn her own way after her father’s untimely death. Or the widow of a missionary who’d been cast off by her well-to-do family for the mésalliance. Anything would do, as long as he believed it and it quieted his suspicions.
Or maybe she was paying it too much attention. Kilmartyn was a man who liked to push, to disturb. At least, he did in her case. It was probably no more than mischief and boredom. It meant nothing.
She closed the account book. Mr. Peach had been prepared to charge Kilmartyn a fortune for his services, but Bryony had simply fixed him with her calm, cool stare and he ended up taking twenty-five percent off the total. The only uncomfortable part was when he handed her an envelope full of money, her kickback. She’d shoved it back at him in horror. In truth, tips and bribes were the one part of servitude that she couldn’t abide. People had seldom made that mistake when she’d served as housekeeper for her father and if they did they’d quickly learned the error of their ways. Even if it made her role more believable there was no way she was going to take a handful of greasy bills from Mr. Peach, no matter how much her sisters might need it.
She rose, stretching. It had been a desperately long day, well after midnight, and the next day would start far too early. At least she could sleep until the sinfully late hour of six a.m.—the servants had mastered the breakfast rituals, and only Lady Kilmartyn would require a morning tray. The woman had only left her rooms once since Bryony had moved in, something Bryony attributed to either a monumental case of sulks or the fact that her handsome cousin kept her well occupied. Either way, it was none of her concern. As long as the staff responded to the mistress’s needs in a timely fashion Bryony didn’t need to waste her time thinking about her. In fact, she ought to have told everyone to sleep in, but they were just growing accustomed to the new discipline, and if there was only one breakfast tray to prepare there were a thousand more things to clean.