“But why? He never has before.” Realizing how she sounded, she quickly softened her voice to hide her sudden panic. “And he doesn’t need me for that. You present him with the menus while I see to Lady Kilmartyn’s rooms.”
Mrs. Harkins shrugged her shoulders. “I could always tell him you’re busy, but the master isn’t someone to be denied when he wants something.”
Bryony felt a tension in her stomach at Mrs. Harkins’s artless words, and it had nothing to do with household duties. Those moments in his bed, his hand between her legs, were emblazoned in her mind. She managed a tight smile. In fact, seeing him in Mrs. Harkins’s company would most likely be easier. He couldn’t very well refer to her midnight ramblings in front of the cook.
Could he?
And why hadn’t she noticed that Lady Kilmartyn had made an unexpected departure sometime during the night? It sounded like a Restoration comedy—the three of them wandering the halls, with no one bumping into each other. She’d heard nothing when she’d lain in Kilmartyn’s bed, but then, hearing was the sense least involved with those few minutes. She could remember the feel of his warm body, pressing her down, the taste of his mouth on hers, his tongue. His hand, touching her so intimately, and the shockingly powerful reactions that touch had provoked. So odd, and yet so… interesting. The smell of his skin, his sheets, the scent of soap and some citrusy herb and just Kilmartyn. She could see him, the intensity in his eyes as he bent over her. It was little wonder she’d heard nothing. Lady Kilmartyn could have been murdered on the floor beneath her and she wouldn’t have even noticed.
And that was an odd thought. Why would the idea of murder even enter her mind? Well, not so odd after all, considering that her own father had been murdered.
It was after eleven o’clock when the summons finally came. She’d consumed an entire pot of strong tea, not to mention three sugary cinnamon rolls in an effort to keep awake. She’d found herself dozing over her books twice, and she’d cursed the Earl of Kilmartyn every spare minute. She couldn’t stop thinking of him. She’d been a fool to assume he was sleeping elsewhere, and she’d been far too eager to get her hands on that ledger. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. She wasn’t going anywhere near his bedroom until she’d actually seen him leave the house.
Collins returned to the kitchen and set the heavy silver tray on Mrs. Harkins’s spotless table. “He’s in a rare mood this morning,” he announced. “He’s wanting to see you in the library, Mrs. Harkins.” He turned as Bryony entered the room. “And he said as how you were to see him afterwards.”
Bryony managed a tight smile. “Very thoughtful of his lordship, but we may as well make his life easier and both see him now,” she announced. “I have too many things to do to sit around and wait upon his pleasure.”
Everyone turned to stare at her in shock, even Becky. “But that’s what we do, Mrs. Greaves,” one of the new maids said finally. “It’s our job.”
Bryony controlled her instinctive snarl, plastering a pleasant smile on her face. “Indeed. But another part of my job is seeing to his wife’s rooms before she makes a sudden return and finds everything in disarray. There’s no need to argue about it. If his lordship is ready for us now then we may as well go.”
Collins frowned. “Mrs. Greaves, he particularly asked—”
“Don’t worry about it, Mr. Collins. If his lordship has any objections I’ll make certain he knows it was my decision. And what, precisely, did you mean by ‘a rare mood’?” Not very housekeeperly of her. Instead of asking she should have chastised Collins for commenting on his employer, but after last night she was too wary to walk in on him unprepared.
“Hard to explain, Mrs. Greaves. Like a man about to embark on a load of trouble and excited to do so. I’ve seen that look on gamblers when they’re about to risk everything. Perhaps his lordship has got some wager at one of his clubs?”
“It’s a possibility,” she said glumly. She had a very good idea of the trouble he was wanting to get into, and that trouble was his new housekeeper. A good look at her in broad daylight should put him off. She’d skinned her hair back, wetting it so it clung to her scalp, though she could feel little tendrils beginning to escape. She’d worn the uglier of her two dresses, buttoning it up tight to her throat, and the black apron she wore made things even worse. She wished she’d gone ahead and found clear eyeglasses to complete her initial appearance, but she’d thought her scars would scare off anybody.
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 he
r 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.”