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

Why in heaven’s name was he doing this? Bryony fumed. He had absolutely no real interest in her, only the enjoyment in thwarting her. She should learn her lesson, gracefully agree to everything—total compliance—and he’d grow tired. She hadn’t yet mastered servility, at least, not with the man she suspected of orchestrating her father’s destruction, but she’d need to try harder. So, as she’d suspected, he hadn’t suffered any unfortunate financial effects from the so-called embezzlement? Hadn’t anyone else thought that significant?

Little Mr. Peach was busy fawning all over his damned lordship, ignoring her. But then, she’d dressed to be ignored, and clearly the Earl of Kilmartyn was his client, not the frumpy little woman at his side.

“We want blue, Mr. Peach,” he was saying. “Dark, I think, rather than pastels or bright shades.”

“Certainly, your lordship,” Mr. Peach said, snapping his fingers at his assistants as they rushed to do his bidding. “We have a dozen shades of dark blue, from a soft slate to the deepest indigo.”

“I’ve brought my housekeeper, Miss Greaves,” Kilmartyn continued, using “Miss” just to annoy her, she thought. “She’ll see to the details, of course, but I wanted to make sure we ended up with just the right shade. About the color of her eyes, I think.”

Oh, damn the man! Bryony thought, keeping her face impassive as Mr. Peach peered beneath her bonnet.

“I hesitate to ask, Mrs. Greaves,” Mr. Peach said, automatically giving her the married status that housekeepers, by tradition, earned, “but could you possibly remove your bonnet and move toward the window? That way I can best judge the shade his lordship has in mind.”

“His lordship is being fanciful. I don’t think—” she began.

But Kilmartyn interrupted her. “His lordship is never fanciful, as Mr. Peach well knows.”

Bryony began to untie her ribbons, resigned, as she moved closer to the windows.

“And will this be for your pied-à-terre near Bloomsbury Street, perhaps?” Mr. Peach inquired, peering into Bryony’s face. “I believe we already have the measurements on record.”

“Why do you have a place in Bloomsbury Street?” she blurted out. Too late sh

e realized why.

“To house my mistress of the moment, of course,” Kilmartyn replied. “But alas, Mr. Peach, my housekeeper is not currently in my keeping—I sold the house. This will be for my own rather spartan bedroom in the house on Berkeley Square.”

Not currently? She was going to kill him.

“I see,” said Mr. Peach, running a practiced eye down her body. He turned and called over his shoulder, “The Andalusian blue, I think, Jeffries.” He glanced back at her. “It would look spectacular on you as well, Mrs. Greaves.”

“I don’t wear blue.” It was the truth. Her mother had told her blue washed her out and Bryony had believed her. After all, if her French mother didn’t know about fashion then who did?

“You should,” Mr. Peach said briefly before turning his attention back to Kilmartyn. Once more she was dismissed, and she took a step back, listening as Mr. Peach fawned all over Kilmartyn.

She hadn’t seen him in broad daylight before, hadn’t had a chance to observe him. He was quite tall—next to Mr. Peach he seemed almost a giant, and his lean build only accentuated it. He had faint lines around his eyes and mouth, though whether they were signs of laughter or dissipation she couldn’t be sure. Knowing him, probably both.

Given her cloistered life, it was little wonder that she would find herself reacting inappropriately. She’d never been around men anywhere near her age or station. Even when she’d visited London to oversee the household there she’d remained out of sight, only leaving the house in the early hours of daylight, long before the fashionable left their beds, and always heavily veiled. She had never been the recipient of attention from a beautiful man, and she wasn’t quite sure what to do about it.

Because he was beautiful in broad daylight. Despite Collins’s best efforts he was still casually dressed, though his clothes were pressed, and his tawny hair was too long. His face was clean-shaven, unlike the fashion of the day, and she liked it. Liked the high cheekbones and the firm jaw and the teasing mouth.

Blast. Damn. Bugger. She had experimented with cursing one summer, with Maddy’s amused help, but it still didn’t come out naturally. Except at the worst time of all, in front of the Earl of Kilmartyn.

His eyes met hers suddenly, and she wanted to kick herself. He’d caught her staring at him, and that infuriating smile played around his infuriating mouth. “What do you think of this shade, Miss Greaves?”

Mr. Peach had unearthed a really luscious shade of blue, with just a hint of purple in it, almost a blueberry color, rich without being bright. Bright colors in a bedroom never suited. “I like it,” she said.

“Come here.”

She didn’t move. She found she had managed to wander a comfortable distance from him, far enough to breathe more easily. “I can see the color quite well from here, my lord,” she said in a dulcet tone.

“Come here.” The repeated command was quiet, but she didn’t make the mistake of thinking it was an option. If she didn’t move closer he would move her himself.

“Certainly, my lord,” she said with patently false meekness, and came back to him, shoulders braced.

He took the bolt of fabric and tossed a length of it over her shoulder, startling her, and then pulled her closer, lifting the fabric to cradle her face. He was looking down at her with a totally unreadable expression in his forest green eyes. Such deep, unfathomable eyes—she could fall right into them if she wasn’t careful. She stood very still, feeling like a cornered animal.

He tilted his head to one side, surveying her. “Yes, it suits her. An excellent match for her eyes, Peach. We’ll take enough for the room, the hangings, and the counterpane, and I want, oh, five ells extra for Miss Greaves.”