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

Bryony opened her mouth to express her horror but stopped as the other servants expressed their delight in such a treat. Belowstairs didn’t usually enjoy the luxury of a joint of beef, and clearly they would take it any way they could. She quietly shuddered at the thought. She’d forgo supper entirely, and…

Just then she remembered Kilmartyn’s casual words. That he expected her to join him for dinner each night, to report on the day’s work. Had he really meant it? Dear God, she hoped not. The longer she put off seeing him again the better she’d deal with him. She was still feeling flustered about the oddness of their last encounter.

She shook off the memory. He couldn’t have meant it. “Bertie, when Jem returns with the dog would you see that they both have a bath. We don’t want fleas invading the household—they’re almost as bad as rats.”

“I’ll help,” Mr. Collins volunteered. “I don’t expect it’s going to be an easy task.”

“I’m going out for a bit,” she announced. Maybe fresh air would clear her head, exercise would rinse the strange feeling from her body. “His lordship’s room needs new curtains and bed hangings, and I’m off to the draper’s to make arrangements. I presume everything is calm now and I’m not needed?”

“We’ll be fine, Mrs. Greaves,” Mrs. Harkins announced. “But do you want one of the men to accompany you? I wouldn’t like to think of someone accosting a pretty thing like yourself, all alone out there.”

Bryony looked at her in astonishment. Why in the world would Mrs. Harkins say such a cruel thing to her? But Mrs. Harkins was looking her bland, cheerful self, with not a drop of malice in her.

The woman was clearly in need of glasses.

Bryony forced a laugh. “I’ll be perfectly fine. I’ve been out on my own for years.”

In fact, she hadn’t. Not until her father’s death and the ensuing scandal. Before then she’d had a footman or maid with her wherever she went, and the new freedom was one of the few good things to come of the tragedy. Once she managed to clear things up, restore her father’s reputation and their privileged lives, she wasn’t going to give this up. She wasn’t going back to the polite prison that society, even the limited society she’d lived in, dictated.

Her shawl and hat were in her office, and it was the work of a moment to grab them, plunk the ugly bonnet on her head, and start out into the bright sunshine of a spring morning. Weather in London was seldom this glorious—she would enjoy it while it lasted. A nice long walk to the draper’s would be good for her.

Rufus lounged against the wall, well out of sight. He didn’t mind waiting—he was basically an indolent man, and he knew that sooner or later his patience would be rewarded.

It was sooner. The woman emerged from the alleyway beside Cecily’s house, a shawl bundled around her, a ghastly hat on her head, but he’d know her anywhere. Cecily’s new housekeeper, wandering where she shouldn’t, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

She shouldn’t have seen him. No one, not even Cecily’s maid, had ever seen him, and he intended to keep it that way. He couldn’t afford to have curious servants start spouting nonsense about a man they’d seen, lurking on an uninhabited floor of the Kilmartyn town house.

He’d already promised Cecily he’d do something about the housekeeper. It was a shame—she was a pretty little thing if you didn’t see the scarring, and a man could make sure she k

ept her face turned away from him. All cats are gray in the dark, and she looked lithe and strong, able to withstand a great deal. While he was catholic in his tastes when it came to gender and class, he liked a resilient partner in bed.

But alas, she’d sealed her own fate, simply by getting a good look at him. Too bad. He’d gone to so much trouble to get his own help settled inside the household that any disruption could disturb his careful house of cards. Then again, he’d always liked risk.

It would take but a moment, a brush, a slight push, and Cecily’s despised housekeeper would go tumbling beneath the hooves of a horse, the wheels of a carriage. After all, accidents happened all the time, and he knew how easy it was to sabotage a carriage. He’d done so recently. If he continued to walk swiftly no one would ever connect him with the poor young woman lying in the road.

It was the practical thing to do. Pushing away from the wall, he started after her.

It was truly a glorious day, Bryony thought. If she’d been in the country, at Renwick, she could have thrown off her bonnet and danced in the sunlight, with no one to watch or disapprove. On such a warm day she could even slip off her stockings and shoes and go barefoot in the thick grass, with the heady smell of roses surrounding her. The rose gardens at Renwick were renowned, and sometimes it seemed that she missed the flowers more than anything else.

She tilted her head up to the sun, letting the warm rays bathe her face. She’d end up with freckles the moment the sun hit her skin, but since her face was already ruined she never minded the spatter of gold across her nose.

There was no scent of roses in the streets of London. In Mayfair it was relatively clean, but the street reeked of horse droppings and urine, and even in the distance the manufactories were puffing out smoke. She needed to keep her eyes on her destination, not looking upward into an endless horizon that promised nothing. She needed…

Something bumped against her, hard. She put out her hands, but it was too late, and she felt herself falling, falling, into the street, the carriages moving dangerously fast, bearing down on her, and she was going to land beneath the deadly hooves…

A strong hand clasped her arm, yanking her back, and she fell against him as she overtipped her balance. It was all she could do not to fling her arms around the stranger and sob in relief, but she managed to swallow her panic and look up to thank her rescuer.

“Don’t you know better than to daydream on a busy London street, Mrs. Greaves?”

It was the Earl of Kilmartyn’s lazy voice in her ears, his dancing green eyes looking down at hers, his hand still clasped around her arm.

“Bugger,” she said, and then slapped her hands over her mouth.

CHAPTER TEN

KILMARTYN LET HER GO, laughing. “Why, my dear Mrs. Greaves,” he said, “wherever did you learn such a word?”

His housekeeper stiffened her shoulders, and he wanted to touch her again. Really, that dress was too dreadful, and the bright sunlight only proved it. It was shapeless, the cloth shiny in worn places, and the hat was an atrocity. He wanted to strip everything off her, down to her doubtless plain underdrawers and chemise. He wanted her naked, bare of any of the things she used to hide from the world. He wanted her hair down around her pale shoulders, he wanted it wrapped around him.