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

If it were up to her she would strip the curtains, the wall hangings, everything of this noxious color and put something more soothing in its place. But that was the least of her worries. She wasn’t here to make life more pleasant for Kilmartyn, she was here to discover whether he was innocent or guilty of collusion in her father’s disgrace and death. There was a small gilt desk in one corner, and she headed for it. In the top drawer there was nothing but a stack of invitations and cards, carelessly discarded, and she doubted she’d find anything of interest there. She sat down anyway, going through them, looking for something out of place, a name, an event that might spark something. But everything was deadly dull—it was no wonder he’d simply tossed them in the desk. Collins would see to clearing out such things in the future.

Indeed, she had no reason to feel guilty for spying. After all, she would be leaving this house and its inhabitants in a much better state than the chaos she’d walked into. Assuming she didn’t leave this house with its master in prison.

She pulled open the next drawer, to find cufflinks and studs, a gold watch carelessly discarded, a silver brush that had come apart, and a peculiar pin, made of the kind of curling lettering she associated with medieval monks. There were letters—I, R, and B. His last name was Bruton—perhaps this had belonged to someone in his family. The silver looked new, though, and heavy. What was he doing with such a thing?

She closed the drawer, leaving everything intact, and turned, reluctantly, toward the unmade bed.

There should be no reason why she could picture the Earl of Kilmartyn lying in that bed, sheets twined around him, the ugly covers pushed to the floor, wearing nothing but his golden skin. She put her hands to her lips, remembering how his mouth felt beneath hers, and she shivered.

She could remember his chest, smooth, the light dusting of hair in the middle, the heat of his skin. So different from the farm workers. She’d seen them in the fields on blisteringly hot days, and she’d watched in fascination, the way muscles played beneath skin, at backs and arms and strong legs clad only in rough breeches. It had been a purely intellectual interest, she’d told herself. Nothing worse than looking at some of the magnificent paintings and statues in the British Museum, and there she’d seen a great deal more. That strange arrangement of little parts between their legs that no lady should ever observe fascinated her. She knew the mechanics of sexual congress—one couldn’t live in the countryside and be unaware of it—but she still couldn’t quite figure out how something so small could manage the trick.

Not that she was about to be deflowered by one of the Elgin Marbles, she thought absently. She wasn’t going to be touched, deflowered by anyone. So why was she looking at Kilmartyn’s bed and thinking about men’s parts and deflowering?

She knew why, and her skin grew warm.

She had no idea why no one had made up the master’s bedroom yet—she would have to speak to the girls about it. She rose and began to pull the sheets together, yanking them up and smoothing them so that they lay, flat and neat against the mattress, followed by the heavy brocade counterpane. Tucking the sheets underneath the mattress, she suddenly froze as her fingers touched something. A journal, a book of some sort, the leather of the thin spine soft against her questing fingers, and she began to tug it toward her, excitement rippling through her, when she heard a noise.

The Earl of Kilmartyn stood in the open doorway, an unreadable expression on his handsome, saturnine face, and she froze, knowing she was the picture of guilt.

CHAPTER NINE

“LOOKING FOR SOMETHING, Mrs. Greaves?” Kilmartyn said in a lazy voice. And then, to Bryony’s horror, he closed the door behind him and leaned against it, all catlike elegance.

She stiffened, as she knew she should. “Of course,” she said briskly. “This entire household is under my care, and I wished to make certain your rooms were cleaned and comfortable. I’m afraid the maids have yet to get to your room, and I thought I should help.”

“The staff know to leave my room alone,” he said, not moving. “They are to come in when I tell them to, and at no other time. I don’t like spies.”

There was no way she could control the heat that flooded her face, but she pulled herself together, banishing inconvenient things like guilt. “You’ve hired me to be the housekeeper here, my lord, and it’s my responsibility to make certain the rooms are clean and comfortable. If you have a problem with that perhaps you don’t need my services.”

He seemed amused. “Oh, I most definitely need your services, my dear Miss Greaves. If it would make you happy to have my rooms cleaned daily then feel free to arrange it. In fact, if you wished to do it yourself I could hardly make an objection, and I must admit the sight of your hands tending my bedding is curiously arousing. As for the ro

om, nothing in hell could make it comfortable. The walls and the hangings look like pig vomit, and letting in sunlight only makes it worse. I use this room for sleep and nothing more.”

Except for the book beneath the mattress. “I trust my staff to take care of your quarters, my lord. Though I agree these are quite distasteful. Why do you stay here if you hate it so much? There are other more pleasantly outfitted bedrooms on the second floor.” She shouldn’t be asking so many impertinent questions, but if she didn’t, how would she ever discover the truth?

“I like it up here. I just don’t like the way the previous owners decorated it. My wife went through and spent a fortune on everything she could, but by the time she got to these smaller rooms she lost interest. After all, they’re for poor relatives and unimportant guests, and they should simply make do. Or so she said.”

“Previous owners?” she echoed.

“Did you think this was a family manse, passed down by generations of Brutons? We’re Irish, Miss Greaves. I’m only tolerated because I’m an aristocrat—I’m sure they’d send me back to the bogs if they could. I bought it from a businessman who lost a fortune in a slight miscalculation. Fortunes are won and lost that way, you know, my dear Miss Greaves. Just one mistake, and everything can disappear.”

Was he talking about her father? Thinking about him? Did he think Eustace Russell had truly brought the shipping company to the edge of ruin by embezzlement and then run away to escape the consequences? It could hardly be termed a mistake, if true, and she knew it wasn’t. What small mistake could he have made that left him dead and his family destitute? Trusting the Earl of Kilmartyn?

“I wouldn’t know, sir,” she said in a polite voice, hiding the emotion that surged beneath her faded black dress. “High finance is hardly my concern. This household is.”

He was making no sign that he was going to move away from the door anytime soon, and if she approached him there was a good chance that he’d hold his place, putting them in much too great a proximity. Instinct told her that would be a very bad idea.

“So it is,” he said softly. “Then what do you intend to do about this monstrosity of a bedroom? Do you have any idea how to make it a more inviting place? As you can see, the bed is large and comfortable. I could happily fit at least one more person in with me.” His eyes ran over her body, and she felt a sudden heat. “But I wouldn’t want to subject a woman to those curtains.”

“I would think your wife would be used to them.”

“Don’t be disingenuous, Miss Greaves. You know I wasn’t talking about my wife.”

She didn’t blush. She was getting used to him, used to his unsettling ways. “Curtains and bed hangings are easy enough to change. So are wall coverings. And the furniture could be moved to a more pleasing aspect. Since you have no sitting room attached, you need a better place to sit, assuming you prefer to be here and not in the library.”

“Considering my propensity for drinking a great deal too much, it might be better to end up here sooner rather than later. We don’t want you having to help me to bed again. Next time I might not be so drunk that I’d let you go. Why, I might even go so far as to kiss you.”

Bryony froze in horror. He’d been unconscious—he couldn’t possibly remember her impulsive action. But he was looking entirely innocent, as if there were no hidden meaning beneath his outrageous words.