Never Kiss a Rake Read online

  She stood there for a moment. “Go along then, Mrs. Greaves,” he said lightly, dismissing her. “The sooner you get your hands on this wretched hovel the better.”

  “Adrian!” the countess objected. “It’s hardly that.”

  “You have my permission to spend whatever you need, hire whatever servants you deem necessary,” he continued, flashing her his devastating smile, ignoring his wife. “And if you have any problems you may bring them directly to me.”

  That was never going to happen. She’d underestimated the power of a beautiful man. Being around a devious charmer like the Earl of Kilmartyn was going to be the most difficult part of this entire venture, she realized with a shock. He most certainly gave that wicked, seductive smile to everyone without thinking. She managed the slight bow that befitted her station in the hierarchy of servitude. “Thank you, my lord,” she said again, and made her escape.

  Adrian Bruton, Earl of Kilmartyn, turned to look at his frail, beautiful wife, laid out so temptingly on the rose-colored chaise that set off her dark beauty to perfection. She was looking at him mutinously, and he knew he was going to pay for his interference.

  “She’s hideous, Adrian! I don’t want her around me. You know how sensitive I am!”

  Sensitive as one of the water buffalo he’d seen in India when he’d travelled there. “Don’t be absurd, my darling.” He always used extravagantly affectionate names for her. It was his small indulgence, a needle to her overweening vanity, when she knew she was the furthest thing from his darling. “There’s nothing wrong with Mrs. Greaves.”

  “Nothing wrong! Did you see her face?”

  “Of course I did. She has a few scars from the pox. So does half of England. It hardly signifies.”

  “Well, you might not mind being surrounded by ugliness, but I do,” she snapped.

  He was already surrounded by ugliness, the ugliness of human nature at its worst, and he’d been chained to her for close to a decade. He gave her his most loving smile. “Then I’ll have her report directly to me on all matters and you won’t have to see her,” he said softly, knowing it would goad her.

  “No!” Her voice shook. “I know you too well. You lust after her.”

  His smile was derisive. “Either she’s abominably ugly or so irresistible a piece that I want her the moment I see her. Make up your mind, Cecily. She can’t be both.”

  Cecily looked up at him, her lower lip trembling. She seemed to have forgotten her manufactured headache.

  He should have known it wouldn’t last. “Why won’t you come to me, Adrian?” she murmured, attempting a winning smile. “I miss you in my bed.”

  “You surprise me, my love. There are usually so many occupying it that I wouldn’t have thought you’d notice.” The retort wasn’t a wise move on his part, but there were times he couldn’t resist.

  “You’re such a bastard,” she snapped, forgetting her headache. “If you won’t satisfy me you can hardly blame me for looking elsewhere. Since I have no intention of letting you out of this marriage you might at least take advantage of its pleasures.” She stretched one leg out on the chaise, her rich skirts riding up over her perfect, plump ankles. Ten years ago it would have driven him mad with desire.

  Today it simply seemed like an absurd affectation. He could find pleasure anywhere he turned, and without the poisonous afterbite of this black widow spider. “I wouldn’t think to trouble you when you have the headache, my precious,” he said, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. And he walked from the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

  He headed straight for his study on the first floor, as far away from her as he could get, barring the kitchens in the basement and the servants’ quarters at the top of the house. He went to the cabinet he always insisted be kept full, reaching for the bottle of Irish whiskey. It was eleven in the morning and he didn’t give a damn. He could do what he bloody well pleased and today it pleased him to get drunk. He poured himself a glass, then drank it down without ceremony. He felt unsettled, uneasy, and he couldn’t pin down why.

  And then it came to him. The new housekeeper, with the pulled-back hair, the prim mouth, and downcast eyes. She hadn’t the faintest idea how oddly tempting she was. There was something about her that had struck an odd chord inside him. Was it lust? He was accustomed to that. He found many women desirable, and while the stiff Mrs. Greaves was hardly his usual sort, he found himself wondering what kind of body she had under that hideous dress. And whether he was going to ignore convention long enough to find out.

  He poured himself a second glass, taking the time to savor its smoky flavor, the warm afterburn of it against his tongue, and then he dropped down on the sofa where he’d slept many a night, stretching his long legs out in front of him. He had a great deal to think about. There was the usual—how to divest himself of his despised wife before he strangled her. How to end this tedious existence without having his entire life be brought to ruin around his ears for one stupid mistake, one idiot act of trust.

  And now one more question to trouble his mind. Who the hell was the woman he’d been fool enough to hire as his housekeeper?

  He’d always liked a challenge, and she was so tightly buttoned up she might as well be wearing armor. How hard would it be to strip off that armor?

  She was a little thin for his tastes, when he liked women to have curves, but he could overlook that. The few pockmarks were scarcely noticeable, and he didn’t give a damn about them. It was her eyes that drew him, the eyes she tried to keep hidden, downcast like a proper servant. Dark blue, almost indigo, and while she tried to look subservient he could sense her impatience.

  She wasn’t a proper servant—he’d guessed that immediately. It was clear in the way she carried herself, the tilt of her head, her manner of speaking. She was no down-on-her-luck widow looking for a job, he was willing to bet his life on it. And she had no intention of letting him get anywhere near her.

  Yes, he did like a challenge. He wasn’t sure whether he was going to seduce Mrs. Greaves, or simply see if he could make her smile, but he was always interested in a challenge.

  Who the hell was she? And why had he invited her into his house, a house filled with so many secrets? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer was an adage that had been drilled into him from early on; perhaps that was the reason.

  His wife didn’t want her here. That should have been recommendation enough, for he had no greater enemy than the beautiful woman he’d once loved to distraction.

  Perhaps he’d been imagining danger where none existed. She might simply be a gentlewoman, forced to earn her living by catering to the whims of people who should have been her equal in this bloody, convoluted society that ruled England and therefore the Ireland of his birth and his soul. Why should her sudden appearance have anything to do with the dark stain on his honor?

  There was no harm in erring on the side of caution—he would have to keep an eye on her. Though in truth the cautious thing would have been to let Cecily simply dismiss her. But there was something about the mysterious Mrs. Greaves that interested, no, fascinated him. Despite the unflattering hair, the prim expression of her mouth, she was a pretty woman trying to look plain. Not a beauty—the marked side of her face would always preclude that—but a far cry from Cecily’s horror.

  But she was so tempting, and he seldom bothered to resist temptation. Besides, any attention he paid her would infuriate his wife, always a benefit.

  He rose, crossing the room to pour himself his third glass of Irish, then glanced at his reflection in one of the many mirrors Cecily had placed in the house. The man he saw was a stranger, a charming, golden, slightly drunken English lord. He raised a mocking toast to the man. “Here’s to you, lad,” he said, slipping into the lilting Irish of his forebears. The ones he’d tried to honor, and instead shamed.

  He drained the glass, and turned away.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  IT WAS INFINITELY REASSURING how well things seemed to come tog
ether, Bryony thought later that evening, sipping at her delicious cup of smoky China tea Mrs. Harkins had unearthed. Alfred and Ruby had been dismissed, departing in a huff, but Bertie and Emma had filled in admirably, and Bryony had pitched in, ensuring that the meal was presented and served as it should be, even if most of it was returned untouched.

  She took a deep sip of the wonderful tea. She was right where she needed to be, with her sisters safely stowed in the countryside while Bryony did her investigating.

  And so she was—starting with the Earl of Kilmartyn. He was the majority stockholder of Russell Shipping. The embezzlement scheme had left his share of the company oddly untouched, and the ensuing bank panic hadn’t affected him.

  Her father’s lawyer had been no help in looking into things—he’d known he wouldn’t be paid, and he’d been brutally clear with what little information he had. Her father was a criminal who had stolen everything and left them destitute.

  Not that Bryony could ever believe it. Her new employer was the logical villain. He was her father’s partner—who better than he to embezzle the fortune that Eustace Russell had spent his life amassing? A house on Berkeley Square cost a great deal to maintain, and the jewels around Lady Kilmartyn’s slender throat were impressive indeed.

  Was he really capable of such a heinous act? To be sure, he was reputed to have the morals of an alley cat when it came to affairs of the heart—that much gossip had been simple enough to acquire. He also had an extraordinary gift for making the right investments, amassing a fortune so impressive it made society overlook his Irish heritage.

  Bryony leaned back in her chair. There was a tiny office just off the kitchen, and her predecessor had left it in a shambles. She had cleaned it herself, had even found a comfortable chair in a storeroom that would definitely need clearing out. The material that covered it was ripped, but it didn’t take her more than a few moments to mend it with invisible stitches. Her feet hurt, her shoulders ached, her hands were raw. Given the wretched state of the household, even the housekeeper had to do her part, and the office had needed a thorough scrub.

  She could only hope most days wouldn’t be so tiring. Housekeepers kept long hours, but they weren’t usually responsible for the rough work. Things were so disastrous in Kilmartyn’s house that today it was necessary, and perhaps tomorrow as well, until she managed to hire more help. But hard work never did a soul harm, and it kept her mind off things. Such as the darkness in Kilmartyn’s eyes, the lines of dissipation around his mouth and forehead.

  Dissipation, or guilt gnawing at him?

  “Mrs. Greaves?” Emma appeared in the open doorway, looking nervous. “Lord Kilmartyn’s asking for you.”

  The tea immediately curdled in Bryony’s stomach. “For heaven’s sake, why?” she said, and then could have cursed herself. That wasn’t a proper housekeeper’s response. She quickly recovered. “Wouldn’t you know, just when I’ve gotten my feet up,” she said with a small laugh. She rose. She looked like a mess—her hair had come loose, her ugly worsted dress was wrinkled and spotted, she’d managed to roll up the sleeves and unfasten the neck. She needed to put herself in order, but she could hardly be caught primping. “Could you tell him I’ll be there momentarily? I can hardly present myself to my employer in this state.” She unfastened the apron she’d found and placed it on the desk.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Greaves, but he said you was to come immediately. He’s in the music room on the third floor and he says it can’t wait.”

  This time she stifled her instinctive curse. Five blasted flights of stairs, from basement, ground floor, first floor through the third, when her feet were killing her. At least she’d been able to keep her own shoes and underclothes when they’d been brought back to London, though the soft, expensive leather was hardly made for such rough treatment. “Then I shall go,” she said calmly, rolling down her sleeves.

  She had time enough to work on her toilette as she trudged up the servants’ stairs. There were no railings to help her—most servants were carrying things when they moved between floors—so she went slowly, refastening her sleeves at her wrist, fighting with her open neckline. The button there was missing, but the tiny bit of throat exposed was hardly noticeable. At least she was blessed in one matter—employers never really looked at servants. They were part of the furniture, existing solely to make the master’s life effortless.

  She was out of breath by the time she reached the third floor. She moved swiftly through the back corridors into the dimly lit hallway. The double doors to the music room were closed, and for a moment she wondered whether Emma had been mistaken. Bryony would have given anything to simply walk up one more flight to her attic bedroom and curl up.

  She stiffened her back. She was a Russell, she reminded herself. She was on a mission, and her father’s reputation and her sisters’ futures depended on her. She strode forward and knocked quietly on the door.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE EARL OF KILMARTYN knew he was getting drunk. Not as drunk as he could be, and he hadn’t indulged in absinthe for almost a week now. The Irish whiskey worked almost as well, though he wasn’t sure if the headache was worse than the aftereffects of the green fairy. He stretched out on a sofa, glass in one hand, waiting for his mysterious new housekeeper to come in and lie to him.

  Other men might be annoyed. He was perversely pleased. After all, everyone lied; it was only to be expected. And he was damnably bored with life right now. Having a gently bred young woman wait on him was a novelty not to be missed.

  She looked familiar, but he couldn’t imagine where he would have seen her before. Granted, the scattering of pox scars on one side of her face should have made her memorable, but he couldn’t place her. It was something about her eyes, perhaps. The dark, almost indigo eyes she tried to make cool and detached. Maybe she was a wandering lunatic, bringing danger into his household.

  Wouldn’t that be delightful? he thought with cynical amusement. One could only hope.

  He heard the quiet knock. Most servants scratched at the door, not wanting to intrude on their masters’ lives more than necessary. They were supposed to be like fairies, managing everything while they were unseen, invisible. It was simply unfortunate that he always noticed things.

  It must be part of his bloody Irish heritage. Another thing to thank an absent God for. He was far too fanciful—what other grown man would even remember the notion of fairies?

  “Come,” he said.

  She slipped inside the room, the proper shadow of a servant. She looked different, though. Her hair was coming loose from its rigid arrangement of braids, curling slightly around her face. She was rumpled, and tired, and he knew he should feel guilty. She shouldn’t have worked herself into exhaustion in his household.

  Then again, for some distant reason she had sought this out. He intended to find out why.

  “Lord Kilmartyn?” she said, polite and professional, not like a damned spy at all.

  He didn’t bother to sit up. “What color is your hair?”

  She stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I asked you what color your hair was.”

  She frowned at him. “Is that why you sent for me, sir? It could hardly matter.”

  A little saucy for a housekeeper, he thought with approval. This could be fun. “Does it matter why the master of the house sends for you?” he said loftily. “I wasn’t aware I needed to justify my request.”

  She flushed. “Of course not. I beg your pardon, Lord Kilmartyn.”

  “Pardon is granted. What color is your hair?”

  “Brown,” she said flatly.

  “Not it’s not. I distinctly see some lighter shades in there, now that it’s coming loose from that damnable arrangement you showed up in.”

  She put a nervous hand to her hair, trying to smooth the escaping tendrils back. It was a lost cause—they had a mind of their own. “Sir, if I might be so bold, I have had a long and tiring day. Your household is in dismal condition, and I’ve
barely put a dent in it.”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “You’re right; this place is abominable. If you’re tired then sit. It’s just you and me. No one to spy on us. We can do anything we please, break any rules we want to.”

  She jerked, clearly unsettled. Was it the word “spy” or his very mild suggestion of bad behavior? “I believe I will stand, sir.”

  Such dignity! She was playing her part very well, and it was a part. He wasn’t quite sure how he knew it, but nothing could shake his conviction. He smiled at her lazily. She could play the housekeeper, he could play the drunk. He could hold his liquor far too well, but she wouldn’t know that. “I must admit, Mrs. Greaves, that I have, in fact, forgotten why I sent for you,” he confessed, deliberately adding a faint slur to his voice. The Irish was more noticeable as well—it came out when he was drinking. “But you might oblige me by fetching me another bottle of this lovely stuff.”

  She started, realization dawning on her. “You’re drunk.”

  “That should be, ‘you’re drunk, my lord,’” he said reprovingly. “Or, ‘you’re drunk, Kilmartyn’ if you wish to be familiar. Or ‘you’re drunk, Adrian’ if you want to be more than familiar. And indeed I am,” he lied. “Very drunk. These things come up from behind and surprise you, and since I’m already almost entirely castaway I may as well finish the job.”

  She stared at him for a long moment. She had very fine eyes as well, though he probably shouldn’t mention them. She moved across the room, picked up one of the small bamboo-style chairs, and sat in front of him. He smiled at her with deliberately boozy benevolence. He could see her shoes, and very fine shoes they were indeed. Not the shoes of a housekeeper.