Never Kiss a Rake (6 page)

“Absolutely no valet,” he said quickly, a little too quickly for someone supposed to be castaway. “I’m not some fey Englishman who can’t dress himself. I’ve done so since I was six years old—I don’t need someone fussing at me. If society doesn’t like the way I dress then they can go fuck themselves.”

He’d shocked her with his language, but she didn’t waver. He saw the almost imperceptible rise of one eyebrow as she chose to ignore his deliberate crudeness. “Aren’t you English, my lord?”

“It’s an Irish title. I’m a fish out of water in this bloody place.” He shouldn’t tell her that. She was a spy, and he was confiding in her. That was the trouble with drinking too much, he thought.

“Nevertheless, right now you are a gentleman living in London society. A valet will simplify matters, and if you end the evening… indisposed he’ll be able to help you retire.”

Oh, lovely
, he thought, hiding his expression behind half-lowered eyelids. It hadn’t even occurred to him until she mentioned it. Mrs. Greaves was going to have to help his supposedly drunken carcass to bed. That was full of possibilities. “I’ll consider it. As for the rest of the staff, do as you please. I trust you.” Now there was a lie of monumental proportions.

She nodded, all dignity. “I won’t betray that trust.”

A magnificent lie in return. They were well matched. “I’m afraid my wife can prove difficult. If you have any problem simply come to me.”

“I will endeavor not to give cause for disturbing her.”

“She already has cause. She’s a jealous woman.”

The woman… what was her name… Brianna? Bryony? Something like that. She just stared at him. “You’ve had even more to drink than I thought, my lord. I’m hardly the sort of woman men are attracted to.”

He laughed, just a soft sound, but said nothing. He cocked his head, surveying her. Beneath that astonishingly frowsy dress she was a little thin, but even in his slightly inebriated state he could see curves. Respectable breasts, the faint flare of hips. He wondered how the late Mr. Greaves performed in bed. Not well, he suspected. She held herself like a spinster.

A sudden thought struck him, and he frowned. “Are you a widow, Mrs. Greaves? Or is the ‘Mrs.’ merely a courtesy title taken on by housekeepers?”

He could see her flash of hesitation. “A widow, my lord. My husband died.”

“How?”

He’d flustered her. “A carriage accident.”

Another mistake. It was unlikely the husband of a housekeeper would be riding in a carriage. A coach or a wagon, perhaps, but carriages were mostly reserved for the upper classes.

To which this woman clearly belonged. He managed to focus on her. Definitely a spinster. In which case a virgin. Too bad—virgins were best left entirely alone.

“You’re going to have to take me to bed, Mrs. Greaves,” he said. It was difficult to hide his amusement as a look of shock and horror washed over her face. “Don’t jump to conclusions, my dear. While I’m never too drunk to perform, I suppose I ought to leave the staff alone. It’s damned hard to find a decent housekeeper.”

She rose, effectively shielding her reactions now. “I’ll call Bertie.”

“I want to go to bed now, Mrs. Greaves. I don’t wish to wait for the footman, and if my memory serves me Bertie has never been remarkably swift. If we wait I’ll pass out and be too heavy even for him to move. I’ve fallen asleep on this settee before and it’s damned uncomfortable. I’m going to feel miserable enough in the morning—I want the comfort of my own bed. I’m not going to molest you, my dear woman. I merely need your support.” And to emphasize his demand, he pushed himself up to his feet, weaving slightly. Deliberately.

She caught him, and he draped his arm around her shoulder as she braced his waist. “Just… guide me to my rooms,” he said, letting himself slur, “and then you can leave me to suffer the results of my indulgence.”

“Overindulgence, more like,” she muttered beneath her breath, and the slight northern accent she’d been using had vanished, giving her the same clear tones of society he was used to.
Caught you, my girl
.

He tried not to put his weight on her—she was stronger than she looked, but he weighed a good amount more, and if he was going to knock her over beneath him he wanted to wait until there was a mattress handy. He concentrated on the warmth of her, the feel of her as she slowly guided him down the hall.

His rooms were on that floor, while Cecily kept quarters on the floor below, so they didn’t have to navigate the stairs. Like a good housekeeper she already knew which were his rooms, and she guided him into them.

He was expecting cold and darkness. Instead the gaslight had already been lit and there was a fire burning in his bedroom for the first time in months, taking the damnable spring chill off the place.

Christ, he didn’t care if she were a spy; as long as she was this good at seeing to his comfort she could have all his secrets.

Except for the one, he reminded himself. Couldn’t let that one go—too many people depended upon him. Cecily had managed to find out, and used that knowledge to try to control him ever since, but he was too old and too cynical to risk letting that dark knowledge out to anyone else. He hadn’t been careful enough. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

The darkness was closing in as they approached the bed. Damn, he’d drunk more than he realized. For a brief moment he wondered if he could manage to hold on to her as he fell, and what she would do. She smelled… delectable. He wanted her beneath him, he wanted to kiss that prim mouth into soft acquiescence. He wanted a thousand things he couldn’t have.

He let go of her, falling onto the mattress, his grasp slipping free, and he closed his eyes.

Bryony looked down at the Earl of Kilmartyn. He was half on, half off the bed, and she managed to push him onto the mattress with an undignified grunt. The man weighed a ton, for all that he seemed too lean. She stared down at him then, trying to summon the appropriate disgust for an inebriate. She’d seen servants the worse for wear, but never a gentleman, and she
had to admit he held his liquor well. Even on the edge of passing out he had barely slurred his words, and it had taken the brightness of his eyes, the deliberateness of his gestures to realize just how drunk he was.

He should have looked revolting, lying there on the bed. Instead he looked beautiful, like a young boy, his overlong hair tousled around his face, the lines momentarily relaxed, the cynical tilt of his mouth softened.

Did you kill my father?
she thought, keeping the words silent.
Did you betray his trust, rob him blind, and then have him murdered? All for the sake of money?
She reached down and brushed the hair away from his face. He didn’t move—she could probably get on the bed and jump up and down on it and he wouldn’t awaken.

She looked at him and tried to summon hatred. Anger, disgust, contempt. All she could feel was sorrow for the darkness that infused him. He looked like a boy, despite the lines around his eyes and mouth, like a man who’d lost his way. And she was being ridiculously romantic. At best he was a drunkard and a lecher. At worst, a man who would betray and murder his friend.

She knew what she wanted the answer to be. She didn’t want this man to have taken everything from her. He was probably like every other aristocrat in London society, interested in women and wine and gaming and little else.

She unfastened his cravat, pulling it loose, then plucked the gold studs from his shirt, placing them on the table beside the bed. As she removed each one the white shirt fell away, exposing his chest, and she stared at it, momentarily mesmerized.

She’d occasionally glimpsed shirtless men—farmworkers at her father’s estate in Somerset. They’d been burly men, covered with hair.

Kilmartyn’s chest was different. His skin was smooth, a white gold, with just a faint tracing of hair. His nipples were dark, flat… and she flushed. Why was she doing this? She’d never even considered nipples before. She removed the last stud, then pulled the shirt free from his trousers. He needed to eat more, she told herself, trying to be professional. He was too thin.

But she could see why one of the most acclaimed beauties of the London season had married him. A woman would throw away almost anything for a man who looked like this, she thought. She found herself reaching out to touch the skin of his stomach, her hand seeming to have a will of its own. His flesh was smooth, warm, alive, and for a moment she let her fingers slide across the skin in an unthinking caress. And then she pulled her hand back as if burned.

Shoes, she told herself, practicality rearing its head. She was hardly going to be rhapsodizing about his toes. She yanked them off, dropping them on the floor, leaving his hose alone. There. He looked as comfortable as he was going to be.

She glanced around the room with a practical eye. The man was clearly drunk, and imbibing too much had certain well-known effects. There was a bowl of fruit, untouched, on a table near the fire. She dumped everything out of it and brought it back to the bed. If he were going to cast up his accounts at least he might manage to use the bowl. It would make cleaning up easier on the servants, and they had far too much to do right now while they were understaffed and trying to catch up with months or perhaps years of neglect.

She took one last look at him, trying to steel herself. He could be the man she hated most in the world, the author of all the pain and sorrow life had visited on her sisters. Instead he looked like a fallen angel, doomed and sad.

If she’d ever managed to conjure up a dream lover he would look like Kilmartyn, with the warm skin and the haunted eyes and beautiful, cynical face.

But she was never going to have a lover, conjured up or real. She was never going to feel the touch of a man’s lips against hers, never feel him cover her in the darkness, take the love and ease she could offer. She couldn’t move, staring down at him. He was drunk. Unconscious. He would never know if she gave in to temptation.

She had kissed her sisters, kissed her father. She had barely spoken to men, living in seclusion as she had. And she would go back into seclusion once she restored her father’s name and his fortune.

But she could take this. No one was watching, he’d said. No spies here. Take just this much, and no one would ever know.

The bed was high, but she was tall, and she pulled herself up to kneel on the mattress. He was breathing softly, steadily, in a drunken stupor, she reminded herself. And she leaned over and pressed her lips against his.

His lips were firm beneath hers, almost as if he wasn’t in a drunken stupor. It must be very close to what a real kiss felt like.

But she’d read more than her share of French novels over the years. She could let her lips trail down the side of his face, nibble at the edge of his mouth. She could taste the smoky flavor of the whiskey, feel the warmth of his breath against her, and she wanted to kiss him again, harder.

For a moment she almost imagined a response, as if he were reaching up for her with only his mouth, and she pulled back in a panic. He lay as he had been, unconscious, unknowing. She scrambled off the bed and practically ran for the door. What an idiot she’d been! He was married, he was the enemy. Why had she risked everything with that one moment?

She closed the door very quietly behind her, even though slamming it wouldn’t have woken the drunken earl, and she moved toward the back stairs. She was exhausted, every bone and muscle of her body aching with weariness, but she had to go back down to the kitchens to ensure everything was finished for the night, everything was set for the morning. Her bed called to her, and she wanted to weep with tiredness.

Squaring her shoulders, she started down the stairs.

Kilmartyn slowly sat up in bed, rubbing his fingers against his mouth, as if he could hold the kiss there. How very odd of Mrs. Greaves. How very delightful of her. He’d had her totally convinced of his inebriation, and he’d felt her hand touch his chest. It had taken all his concentration to lie still, hoping she’d investigate further. The soft, feathering touch of her mouth, with its delightful innocence, was almost obscenely arousing. One shouldn’t lust after an innocent. He’d lifted his hand, prepared to slide it
behind her neck and hold her still for a kiss of complexity and desire, but he’d let it drop, continuing on in his feigned stupor. He’d have time. Most clearly he’d have time enough to savor Mrs. Greaves.