Never Trust a Pirate (Scandal at the House of Russell 2)

“Were you asleep, sir?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Is that any particular business of yours?”

She was gaining back some of that steel he’d detected beneath her cool exterior earlier today. Now she was more like the young virago who’d kneed a man in his privates without hesitation. Perhaps it was a good thing he didn’t poach the staff for his bed—he valued his privates too much. But who the hell was she?

“No, sir. Beg pardon, sir.”

He knew his expression showed nothing of his thoughts—another talent earned young. “I presume Mrs. Crozier has already filled you in on my particular preferences. I drink coffee, not tea, in the morning, and I like it strong and sweet. Do not wake me up unless I request it, never think to enter my library or touch my papers. In all, do what Mrs. Crozier tells you and stay out of my way and we’ll get along fine.”

“Is there any reason we shouldn’t, sir?” she asked, another inappropriate question. If this girl had been a maid before, then he was a landlubbing pig farmer.

He looked at her with complete indifference. “I see no reason.” He could recognize it, even in the shadows, that glimmer of confusion in her eyes. She had been certain that he’d recognize her, but now she was unsure, which was exactly how he wanted it. As far as she knew he was in the habit of kissing any pretty girl he met, and one was much like the next. Except for this one, his truthful self admitted, but he ignored the notion. No, he would play it this way for both their sakes. He’d never met her, never tasted her virginal mouth, and he damned well never would again. At least, not until he remembered where he’d seen her before.

“Very good, sir.” Her voice was drifting into Mayfair territory again. There was a perfectly acceptable reason for that, of course. Anyone in service with ambitions would work toward bettering herself, and the first step would be her accent. Voices placed you in society, and the girl would want to ape her so-called betters, not sound like a country lass.

He had an ear for accents—he could take and discard any of them at his pleasure, and every now and then he liked to let the sound of the London docks into his voice to shake up the Havilands. They wanted his money, of course—old man Haviland had lost a fortune when Eustace Russell had decamped, and Luca had no doubt he wouldn’t have gotten within ten feet of his precious Gwendolyn if he hadn’t come equipped with a relatively staggering amount of money. Haviland knew to a penny what he was worth, and probably did daily calculations, and that wasn’t counting the priceless items he kept hidden. It didn’t matter—if money could buy an exquisite porcelain doll like Gwendolyn, he’d decided he was willing to pay the price. And the smartest thing he could do was ignore his present doubts.

He moved into the hallway, heading toward the pile of rubbish at one end, and he heard her start after him. She was just about to close her door in his face when he turned, presenting his offering.

She looked down at the broken tennis racket that had belonged to some indolent creature who’d lived here long ago. “Did you want me to mend this, sir?” she asked blankly.

“No, I want you to play tennis with me,” he drawled. Her hair had come free from her half braid now, and it was truly glorious hair, the moonlight sending a warm glow into its rich depths, and he wondered what it would smell like. Bleach and carbolic? Or the heady scent of flowers?

Not now, he reminded himself. “It’s to drive any stray visitors away,” he said casually. “Just open a window and knock them outside.”

“If I open the window, won’t more bats come in?” It was stuffy up here, despite the damp chill. That explained it then.

“You close the window, in between dispatching them. Who knows, you might develop an impressive backhand in time.”

She shouldn’t know what he meant, but apparently she did and she wasn’t amused. Interesting, when most women found him irresistibly witty. “Yes, sir,” she said in not much more than a disgruntled mumble. “Will that be all, sir?”

She was dismissing him. He found the thought so amusing he almost moved back toward her, crowding her, pushing up against her… no. Not now, he reminded himself.

“Yes, M-Mary.” If she truly had a stammer that was unconscionably cruel of him, but he knew she didn’t. She simply wasn’t sure which name she’d chosen to use. He was almost at the top of the open stai

rs when she spoke, halting him.

“Sir, you look a bit familiar. Have we met before?”

He turned to look at her. So she was going to go there, was she? He needed to set her mind at ease. “I don’t think so. But then, I meet so very many people. Too many, in fact. Part of your job will be to lie and tell people I’m not at home.”

“Yes, sir.” She didn’t bob a curtsey, which was just as well. She looked ridiculous clutching that thin blanket around her, her bare feet just peeping under the hem of her nightgown. Her feet were going to get cold. They were very pretty feet.

“Get back in bed, Mary. Morning will be here sooner than you think.”

“Yes, sir,” she said again, but he could see the relief in her eyes. So she didn’t want him to remember that kiss any more than she wanted to remember it. Easier said than done, my girl, he thought, clattering down the narrow staircase. It was going to be a long time before he forgot her taste.

Maddy looked at the battered tennis racket in her hand. She hadn’t held one in years, not since she’d started spending so much time in London with her father, learning the business. Oh, not that he’d expected her to take over. She was only a female, after all—not a fit heir to the empire he’d built so carefully, she thought with that trace of bitterness she’d never been able to stifle completely.

Bryony had chosen to retire from life—she’d insisted she was never going to marry—so their father been looking to Maddy to find a husband and produce a suitable heir to the business. There’d been no particular hurry—Eustace Russell had intended to live forever, and he could wait until her offspring grew up. In fact, he’d only been in his late forties when he’d died, far too young.

Her father hadn’t particularly cared for Tarkington, but apart from a word of warning he’d said nothing. Jasper Tarkington had been charming, devoted, and Maddy thought she’d loved him. Oh, she’d been reasonable about it—she was an heiress and he was a younger son of an ancient family. He needed her money, but he loved her, he truly did.

Or so she thought. What would have happened if things hadn’t changed so dramatically? Would their marriage, because it had been inevitable, have been a happy one? Unlikely. He’d proven himself untrustworthy, abandoning her the moment the scandal became known. Taking just enough time to relieve her of her virginity before heading for South America, out of her reach and any consequences of that awful night.

There’d been no consequences, thank God. She’d gone to him, alone, desperate, needing proof that he wasn’t going to abandon her, that he truly loved her no matter what her father had done. And she’d been so determined to prove her own devotion she’d let him have what he’d been trying to get from the very beginning. She’d gone with him to his bed, willingly, certain it would cement their relationship. In the morning he’d been gone, with nothing but a note expressing polite regret that their relationship was at an end.

Cowardly bastard that he was. She’d wept private, bitter tears of shame and regret and yes, longing, until she’d finally grown disgusted with her own weakness. She moved on to berating herself, thinking she’d somehow been found wanting, but common sense told her otherwise. He’d used her body and enjoyed himself, so thoroughly that while she took little pleasure in the act, holding him afterwards, stroking his damp hair had given her a wonderful sense of fulfillment. Until he left.