“Absolutely no valet,” he said quickly, a little too quickly for someone supposed to be castaway. “I’m not some fey Englishman who can’t dress himself. I’ve done so since I was six years old—I don’t need someone fussing at me. If society doesn’t like the way I dress then they can go fuck themselves.”
He’d shocked her with his language, but she didn’t waver. He saw the almost imperceptible rise of one eyebrow as she chose to ignore his deliberate crudeness. “Aren’t you English, my lord?”
“It’s an Irish title. I’m a fish out of water in this bloody place.” He shouldn’t tell her that. She was a spy, and he was confiding in her. That was the trouble with drinking too much, he thought.
“Nevertheless, right now you are a gentleman living in London society. A valet will simplify matters, and if you end the evening… indisposed he’ll be able to help you retire.”
Oh, lovely, he thought, hiding his expression behind half-lowered eyelids. It hadn’t even occurred to him until she mentioned it. Mrs. Greaves was going to have to help his supposedly drunken carcass to bed. That was full of possibilities. “I’ll consider it. As for the rest of the staff, do as you please. I trust you.” Now there was a lie of monumental proportions.
She nodded, all dignity. “I won’t betray that trust.”
A magnificent lie in return. They were well matched. “I’m afraid my wife can prove difficult. If you have any problem simply come to me.”
“I will endeavor not to give cause for disturbing her.”
“She already has cause. She’s a jealous woman.”
The woman… what was her name… Brianna? Bryony? Something like that. She just stared at him. “You’ve had even more to drink than I thought, my lord. I’m hardly the sort of woman men are attracted to.”
He laughed, just a soft sound, but said nothing. He cocked his head, surveying her. Beneath that astonishingly frowsy dress she was a little thin, but even in his slightly inebriated state he could see curves. Respectable breasts, the faint flare of hips. He wondered how the late Mr. Greaves performed in bed. Not well, he suspected. She held herself like a spinster.
A sudden thought struck him, and he frowned. “Are you a widow, Mrs. Greaves? Or is the ‘Mrs.’ merely a courtesy title taken on by housekeepers?”
He could see her flash of hesitation. “A widow, my lord. My husband died.”
“How?”
He’d flustered her. “A carriage accident.”
Another mistake. It was unlikely the husband of a housekeeper would be riding in a carriage. A coach or a wagon, perhaps, but carriages were mostly reserved for the upper classes.
To which this woman clearly belonged. He managed to focus on her. Definitely a spinster. In which case a virgin. Too bad—virgins were best left entirely alone.
“You’re going to have to take me to bed, Mrs. Greaves,” he said. It was difficult to hide his amusement as a look of shock and horror washed over her face. “Don’t jump to conclusions, my dear. While I’m never too drunk to perform, I suppose I ought to leave the staff alone. It’s damned hard to find a decent housekeeper.”
She rose, effectively shielding her reactions now. “I’ll call Bertie.”
“I want to go to bed now, Mrs. Greaves. I don’t wish to wait for the footman, and if my memory serves me Bertie has never been remarkably swift. If we wait I’ll pass out and be too heavy even for him to move. I’ve fallen asleep on this settee before and it’s damned uncomfortable. I’m going to feel miserable enough in the morning—I want the comfort of my own bed. I’m not going to molest you, my dear woman. I merely need your support.” And to emphasize his demand, he pushed himself up to his feet, weaving slightly. Deliberately.
She caught him, and he draped his arm around her shoulder as she braced his waist. “Just… guide me to my rooms,” he said, letting himself slur, “and then you can leave me to suffer the results of my indulgence.”
“Overindulgence, more like,” she muttered beneath her breath, and the slight northern accent she’d been using had vanished, giving her the same clear tones of society he was used to. Caught you, my girl.
He tried not to put his weight on her—she was stronger than she looked, but he weighed a good amount more, and if he was going to knock her over beneath him he wanted to wait until there was a mattress handy. He concentrated on the warmth of her, the feel of her as she slowly guided him down the hall.
His rooms were on that floor, while Cecily kept quarters on the floor below, so they didn’t have to navigate the stairs. Like a good housekeeper she already knew which were his rooms, and she guided him into them.
He was expecting cold and darkness. Instead the gaslight had already been lit and there was a fire burning in his bedroom for the first time in months, taking the damnable spring chill off the place.
Christ, he didn’t care if she were a spy; as long as she was this good at seeing to his comfort she could have all his secrets.
Except for the one, he reminded himself. Couldn’t let that one go—too many people depended upon him. Cecily had managed to find out, and used that knowledge to try to control him ever since, but he was too old and too cynical to risk letting that dark knowledge out to anyone else. He hadn’t bee
n careful enough. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
The darkness was closing in as they approached the bed. Damn, he’d drunk more than he realized. For a brief moment he wondered if he could manage to hold on to her as he fell, and what she would do. She smelled… delectable. He wanted her beneath him, he wanted to kiss that prim mouth into soft acquiescence. He wanted a thousand things he couldn’t have.
He let go of her, falling onto the mattress, his grasp slipping free, and he closed his eyes.