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

“Use your imagination. Pay attention, my sweet. I’m about to give you a lesson in the proper way to drink cognac.”

“I’m hardly likely to partake of it again.”

“Oh, you never know when you might be tempted to sneak down and pilfer the good stuff again,” he said lightly. “Of course I can always ask Collins to put it under lock and key from my tippling housekeeper, but that would be unkind. I’m more than willing to share.”

“I don’t—”

“Pick up the glass, Miss Greaves,” he said, and she did so.

“That’s right,” he continued in a softer, almost seductive tone. “Now, you cradle the globe in your hand, sliding your fingers around the stem of the glass. That way your body heat warms the liquid, just slightly, bringing it to the same temperature as your body.”

“That’s assuming the room isn’t freezing cold,” she pointed out.

“Are you cold, Miss Greaves? It feels quite cozy to me—the heat of the day’s cooking remains, but if you’re chilled I can think of a number of ways to warm you.”

His words alone could do that, she thought as she felt the heat rise in her face. She picked up the glass, letting her fingers wrap around the base, and he frowned.

“Why are you wearing gloves? Were you planning on going out in your nightdress?”

He would have to mention what she was wearing, she thought mutinously. A gentleman would have ignored it. A gentleman wouldn’t have put his hands on her and made her sit with him in the kitchen and drink cognac.

A gentleman would have fired her.

She immediately set the glass down again, trying to put her hands in her lap. “My hands were hurting—I was trying an old cure.”

She should have known he wouldn’t let her get away with it. He caught her arm and pulled her hand out, then proceeded to slowly peel away the white cotton glove, then reached for the other and did the same. He surveyed her hands with a critical eye, turning them over, and Bryony could feel herself blush. They were looking better—not as cracked and painful, but still rough. There was a long silence as he looked at them, and then, to her horror he caressed her hands with his, running his thumbs against her palms, his fingers stroking hers, entwining with them. “Much better,” he murmured softly.

She tried to tug them away, but he held them, almost a battle of wills, before he released them. “I’m pleased to know you’re so concerned with my welfare, my lord.” There was just the faintest emphasis on the last, and she did it to annoy him, to break this strange, heated atmosphere.

“Oh, I’m not, Miss Greaves,” he murmured. “I’m just looking forward to feeling them on my skin. This time when you know I haven’t really passed out.”

She could feel the heat drain her face. He’d known? He’d been awake when she’d touched his chest, when she’d pressed her lips against his on that very first night in his household? And then the heat returned, and she wanted to crawl under the table and slink away.

Denial was the only way to handle it. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Her voice was stalwart.

“Then why are you blushing?”

“You can’t see that!” she said, and then could have kicked herself. She’d just admitted to it, whether he could see it or not. She soldiered on. “Besides, the very mention of me touching you is indecent.”

“Not nearly as indecent as what we did in my bed last night.”

She tried to rise, but he caught her wrist and pulled her back down, his strength gentle but inexorable. “Stop running away from me, Bryony. There’s only so far you can go.”

“Don’t call me that. And I believe I can go anywhere I please. I can leave your employment—”

“But then you won’t have accomplished what you want to accomplish.”

She froze at his gentle tone. What exactly did he know about her? She pulled herself together, but even the small amount of cognac she’d drunk before he’d come in was having an unsettling effect on her. It warmed her bones, heated her flesh, stirred strange things inside her. Or maybe, to be truthful, those strange things had been stirring for days. Since she’d met Adrian Bruton, the Earl of Kilmartyn.

“Again, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I needed a position, and—”

“And what? You weren’t sent by any reputable employment agency. You sent a letter to my idiot wife, requesting an interview. A very simple way to infiltrate my household.”

She was feeling a little desperate. “Why would I want to do that?”

“You tell me.”

Before she could come up with an answer he picked up his glass, as if the subject no longer interested him. “You can scarcely warm the glass if you’re wearing gloves, my pet.”