She started to reach her hand up to touch her scars, but she stopped herself. It had turned into a nervous habit—using her hand to cover the half of her ruined face—but she’d forced herself to stop. She needed to accept herself the way she was, not fuss over something that couldn’t be changed.
She rose. “Let me do it, Mrs. Harkins. After all, it appears I’m the one on the chopping block today.”
She mov
ed through the halls, carefully balancing the heavy tray, trying not to jar it or her still-aching head. Most of her other ills had improved, save for a strange tenderness between her legs, but she certainly wasn’t going to be thinking about what she might have done to herself in her fit of drunkenness. She had experimented with pleasuring herself but had stopped in a fit of embarrassment. And why was she thinking of that now?
The closer she got to the library the stronger her sense of dread grew, though she couldn’t imagine why. As she’d told Emma, there was no reason to be frightened of Kilmartyn, despite the rare mood Bertie had warned her of. She could handle him—she’d handled him before. But the closer she got the more her heart began to pound, and the tray trembled slightly in her formerly steady hands.
When she arrived at the door she stood there in a quandary. She could try to balance the tray on one knee while she knocked… no, scratched on the door. She could set it on the floor, but then, how in heaven’s name was she going to open it? She didn’t want to face him anyway, though she wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was simply that she, like Kilmartyn, was suffering the aftereffects of too much indulgence…
A sudden panic washed over her, and she whirled around, ready to run, when the door was flung open and she heard Kilmartyn’s distinctive voice. “What are you doing, creeping about? Why didn’t you bring the tea in?”
It took a great deal of effort but she pulled herself together, turning back and showing him an impassive face. “I didn’t know how to carry the tray and scratch on the door at the same time, much less open it.”
For a moment he said nothing, just looked at her, and she wanted to squirm beneath his searching gaze. “Of course you don’t,” he said obscurely. “I’ll take the tray.”
He reached for it, but she held on. “Don’t be absurd. I’m your employee—”
“If you don’t let go of it it’s going to splash all over us.”
“If you don’t let go of it I’ll dump it on you,” she shot back, and then was silent, horrified at her words.
With a sound of exasperation he let go, and she moved past him into the room, her clothes brushing against him. A frisson of reaction swept over her body, stronger than ever, and she remembered that damnable book hidden beneath her bed. She’d forgotten all about it. The wretched thing had taken her from a harmless, almost juvenile longing for the beautiful, unattainable male, to a case of steaming lust.
She looked around her, uncertain where to put the tray, but he must have read her mind. “Put it on the desk, Bryony,” he said, sounding weary.
She didn’t like the sound of her name in his rich, seductive voice. It was too intimate, when she desperately needed formality and distance before she made a complete fool of herself. “Mrs. Greaves, if you please, my lord,” she said as she set the heavy tray down, straightening up without showing any of the ache the tray had caused.
“Bryony,” he said firmly. “Sit in that chair.”
She looked at it. It was one of a pair of huge leather club chairs, much too comfortable for a servant. “I believe I’ll stand, my lord.”
“I believe you’ll sit,” he said. “With or without my help.”
Alarm swept through her at the thought of him putting his hands on her, and she sat quite quickly, perching on the edge of the chair, hands folded in her lap, feet neatly together on the floor. He stood at the desk, his back to her, and he was pouring the tea. She started to protest, then shut her mouth again.
He was wearing trousers and a white shirt, but no tie and collar and no vest or coat, and she could see the lines of his body clearly. She could dwell on them. His legs were very long, which made sense, since he was a tall man. He was more wiry than muscled, though she knew he was quite strong. He could pick up… her mind went blank, and she started to rise.
“Sit, Bryony,” he said sharply, like a master to a dog, she thought, trying to dredge up a righteous anger to overcome her nervousness. She stayed where she was.
He turned with two cups of tea in his hand, and he simply gave her a warning look as she started to rise. “Sit back in the chair and get comfortable, my very dear Miss Greaves. Because you and I are about to have a long, interesting talk.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
BRYONY STAYED EXACTLY as she was, the cup of tea balanced carefully on her knee, because her hand was still trembling. She summoned up a reasonable facsimile of her immutable housekeeper expression, keeping her eyes politely lowered.
“Look at me.”
His peremptory tone made her lift her head, and she didn’t bother to disguise the flash of annoyance. “Yes, my lord?”
“We have a problem that needs to be addressed.” He took the seat opposite her, but left his tea on the table. He paused, looking at her strangely. “Exactly how much of last night do you remember?”
Hell’s bells, she thought. How bad could it have been? “I don’t believe I understand you, my lord. What do you mean?”
“If you call me ‘my lord’ one more time I’m going to…” He appeared to think about it for a moment. “I’m going to do something that you probably won’t like at all. So stop it and answer my question.”
He must know she’d gotten into his cognac, she thought. But surely he wasn’t hypocrite enough to fire her over one misdemeanor. “I heard someone crashing around and I went to investigate. I discovered it was you, so I continued on to the kitchen where I admit I helped myself to a bit of your cognac. And then I went back to bed. I do realize that was a grave act of misconduct, and I do promise that it won’t happen again. The aftereffects are very unpleasant.”