Never Kiss a Rake (16 page)

“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 appointment, 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.

R
UFUS 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.