Never Kiss a Rake (Scandal at the House of Russell 1)

Maybe he did. The morning sunlight came directly in from the windows to the east, illuminating his elegant figure, and she dropped into her customary bow automatically as he strode toward her, entirely at home.

“You must be the estimable Mrs. Greaves,” he purred, his voice soft and seductive. “My cousin has told me a great deal about you, but she failed to mention how pretty you are.”

Bryony’s pleasant smile didn’t falter, and she didn’t automatically touch her face, much as she was tempted to. “I may assume Lady Kilmartyn is your cousin, is she not? Then the reason she failed to mention my purported beauty is because she considers me…” She wanted to say “a hag from hell” but that would hardly be appropriate. “… unaesthetic,” she said.

He tipped his head to one side, eyeing her, and then he smiled, a winsome, lovely smile. “I expect she was jealous. My cousin is exquisite, one of the great beauties of England, and yet she can’t keep from feeling threatened whenever another pretty woman enters her world.”

Hardly pretty, Bryony wanted to say, but she was silent. One didn’t correct the employers or their friends.

He took a step closer, and the sun glinted off his chestnut hair, and his brown eyes were merry. “Yes, I know, you think I’m flattering you, but you’re being tolerant of the silly man. I’m Brown, you know. Rufus Brown.”

“Indeed, sir,” she answered politely. “Is there some way I may assist you?”

He took another step toward her, but she held her ground, surveying him calmly. He really was quite handsome—beauty must run in Lady Kilmartyn’s family. He had a dark curl that rested on the center of his forehead, a seemingly artless foible that she suspected was well honed. He was also doing his best to charm her, but she’d been up against the best. Against the Earl of Kilmartyn, in fact, and she’d managed to resist him. Mr. Brown was child’s play compared to him.

He cocked his head, that lovely smile playing around his lips, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I suspect you are going to be a difficult conquest, Mrs. Greaves.”

“I beg your pardon?” Her voice was cold enough to freeze water.

“I always like to have the staff on my side,” he added, and for a moment she felt like a fool. He could hardly have meant what she thought he had. “I have a habit of coming and going at odd hours, and I don’t like to disturb the household. Lady Kilmartyn and I are… very close, and there are times when Adrian can be ridiculously provincial.”

He was sleeping with his cousin, she realized with shock. It wasn’t unheard of for cousins to marry—in some families it was even encouraged. Queen Victoria herself had married her first cousin, but Bryony had spent her long, empty days in scholarship, and she’d been particularly fond of Egyptian civilization. A civilization that had been destroyed by inbreeding as much as any other influence.

But she was a servant, she reminded herself. It was hardly her place to judge. And if, despite all appearances, the Earl of Kilmartyn really had killed her father then he deserved everything he got. “Very good, sir,” she said politely. “Is there anything else?”

“Why in such a hurry to get away from me, Mrs. Greaves?” he said, moving closer. “I might get the feeling you don’t like me.”

Enough was enough. He was so close she could feel his body heat, smell the scent of sweat and stale perfume that wasn’t his. Plus something else she couldn’t identify, didn’t want to identify. And why was he here in the house when both lord and lady of the house were out? “It’s

hardly my place to like you, Mr. Brown. It is merely to provide excellent service and see to your needs.” Bad wording, she thought belatedly.

“Oh, I have no doubt you will,” he said softly. “Good day, Mrs. Greaves.”

She stifled her sigh of relief. “Good day, sir,” she said in the perfectly neutral, modulated voice she’d perfected for the fictional Mrs. Greaves. She and her sisters had always enjoyed amateur theatricals, and Bryony had excelled as the villain. She had mastered any number of accents, walks, and styles of speaking, which was only one reason she was sure she’d succeed in her masquerade.

The other reason being that she had no choice.

She watched Mr. Brown saunter down the hall, a man certain of his own irresistibility. And indeed, he had reason to be. It wasn’t his fault she was entirely immune to it. At another time, another place she would have been trembling and grateful for his faint, sexual innuendos.

But compared with the powerhouse that was Kilmartyn, he seemed like a boy. Kilmartyn must know that no woman could possibly resist him, and yet he didn’t walk with that offensive swagger.

No woman apart from herself, of course, she thought quickly.

She waited until she heard his footsteps all the way down the stairs. And then she headed for Kilmartyn’s bedroom and slipped inside, closing the door silently behind her.

There was no reason for her to be secretive—she’d already announced to the staff what she was doing. But stealth seemed ingrained, and she leaned back against the door and surveyed the room with the eyes of a housekeeper before she used the eyes of a spy.

It was a large room, with massive windows on the front of the house, though the hideous red curtains were shut tight against the light. The fabric was ugly, gaudy, and it hung around the bed, covered the chairs, covered the walls, and for a moment she was startled. Did Kilmartyn really have such bad taste?

There were two other doors leading from the room, one on each side, and she went to the left first, expecting to find a sitting room. Instead there was nothing but a surprisingly small dressing room, with barely enough room for a chair. There would be no chance for Collins to sleep there, awaiting his master’s return after a night of carousing.

The clothing was in perfect order, though she expected it would have been an entirely different matter before Collins had arrived on the scene. Closing the door behind her, she crossed to check the other adjoining room. It was dark, shuttered, the furniture shrouded in linen covers. Odd. The master of the house usually had much more spacious quarters.

And better taste in curtains, she thought, looking at them in disgust. The color was particularly displeasing—garish, jarring. She couldn’t imagine how anyone could sleep in here. It would give her nightmares. She crossed the room and pulled the heavy drapes aside, flooding the room with the sunlight of a rare clear day, then turned to look at the room.

It was clearly meant to be a guest room, or perhaps space for an extraneous relative. There were at least six larger bedrooms on the second floor, currently uninhabited, though Bryony had seen to their cleaning. Why was he up here? To get away from his wife?

For that matter, why was Lady Kilmartyn’s cousin up here? That made no sense at all.