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.
And he’d better damned well stop thinking such thoughts or he’d embarrass himself in the middle of Saint James’s Street. The poor darling spy was looking apoplectic, and he wondered what kind of excuse she was going to come up with for her delightfully shocking word. So far she’d been absolutely silent.
She took a deep, audible breath. “I do beg your pardon, my lord. I can only cite the extremity of the circumstance that caused me to utter such an inappropriate word. I’d almost been killed, and I was overwrought.”
“You only said it when you saw it was me, Mrs. Greaves,” he pointed out gently.
There was a faint stain of color on her cheeks. “Delayed reaction,” she said firmly. “As for where I heard the word, I must assure you that I haven’t lived a rarified life, and during my work with tradesmen and such I’ve heard any number of words, including some even you might not know. But it was unforgivable of me to have uttered it.”
He tucked her arm under his, not without a small fight on her part, and began steering her down the street once more. They were attracting a great deal of attention, and if it got back to Cecily she could make life miserable indeed for her housekeeper. “First,” he said, “it wasn’t unforgivable. I’m the only one who was the recipient of it, and I forgive you.”
She was regaining her amour propre, and she made the most quiet noise of derision possible. Damn, he liked this woman. “Secondly,” he continued, “I sincerely doubt you know any naughty words that I don’t. We can have a contest over dinner tonight, but it probably wouldn’t do to try it in the street. Someone might overhear and get the wrong idea.”
She gave a small tug, but he held her fast. “Don’t bother,” he murmured. “I’m not going to risk you taking a tumble beneath a carriage again. They drive much too fast down Saint James’s Street, and I’d rather not end up beneath the wheels of a coach while trying to rescue you.”
She gave up fighting, and he was almost sorry. Until he looked into her dark blue eyes and saw the fury she was trying to hide. “I wouldn’t think of bothering you, my lord. I’m certain you have a great many important things to do and you can hardly waste time shepherding a clumsy housekeeper through the streets of London.”
“It’s odd,” he mused, “but you never struck me as particularly clumsy. In fact, you have a certain delicious grace about you, the way you move, the way you scowl at me.”
She rose to the bait like a sun-dappled fish. “I don’t scowl!”
“You do, particularly when you think I’m not looking. The problem with that, my dear Miss Greaves, is that I always find myself looking at you.”
He could feel the tension in her arm, the way she tried to hold herself away from him. He could feel the slight tremor that washed over her at his words. So she wasn’t immune to him.
Then again, he already knew that. He knew women well enough to read the signs that they usually didn’t bother to hide. The faint wash of color, the sudden intake of breath, the heat of their bodies, even their scent. But Bryony Greaves wasn’t like those women, none of them, not the cheerful, inventive whores or the randy duchesses. He’d had a great many women, both before and after his disastrous marriage. He was a man of strong appetites, and carnality was simply a part of him.
He doubted his deceptive, innocent housekeeper had ever had a carnal thought in her life. At least, not until she met him.
“Mrs. Greaves,” she corrected in a frosty tone. “And you didn’t answer my question. Don’t you have more important things to do than find yourself consorting with a servant in the middle of Mayfair?”
“Is that what we’re doing? Consorting? Would that make you my consort? The idea has a certain appeal. I wonder if the Queen would approve of having both a wife and a consort.”
“You know perfectly well what I meant,” she snapped, all attempts at servility vanishing. “Even if you don’t have anything to do, I am not similarly blessed. Now if you will please excuse me, your lordship.” It was a good push this time, but he’d felt her muscles tense a moment before she shoved, and he simply tightened his grip.
“You’re on your way to Mr. Peach, the draper, to choose new coverings for my room, and it seemed only logical that I accompany you. I wouldn’t want to end up with poison green walls, and I imagine when you think of me the thought of poison dances longingly through your head.”
“How well you know me in such a short time.”
“I’m very discerning.” He was having the best time he could remember in years. She was such a delicious, contrary little bundle, and in truth, he wanted nothing more than to lead her into an alley, slam her up against a wall, and take her, hard and fast, breathless completion for both of them until they returned home to continue their mutual exploration in leisure.
That would have to remain a fond fantasy. For one thing he knew damned well she was a virgin, and you didn’t introduce a novice to the art of making love by hard and fast and semipublic. And she wasn’t ready to fall. She was at that delicious point where she didn’t know which end was up. She despised him, yet she trembled at his touch, and her eyes grew heavy as she watched him, and maybe the alley wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
“You’re woolgathering,” she said sharply. “You’re the one more likely to steer us both in the path of a carriage. Why don’t you return home or retire to your club or something while I deal with the draper? I promise I won’t put up anything worse than what’s already there.”
“You couldn’t find anything worse.” He steered her around the corner to the equally crowded Piccadilly. “And I find I have a sudden interest in what my bed contains.”
He thought he heard a low snarl coming from somewhere inside that horrible dress. She had her head down, trying to hide her face, and he took pity on her. “My dear Mrs. Greaves, you needn’t worry about anyone jumping to the wrong conclusion about my escort. You look like an ancient crone in that shapeless dress and oversize bonnet. People will simply assume I’m being a gentleman for once, and mistake you for an indigent relation.” His eyes narrowed. “In fact, that’s what that dress looks like. Not the sort of dress worn by housekeepers and their ilk, but more like a well-brought-up young lady in penurious circumstances, forced to earn her living catering to the insidious likes of me.”
“Bugger,” she said succinctly, deliberately. “That’s not a word proper young ladies know.”
“Oh, I don’t think you’re proper at all, Mrs. Greaves.” He made his voice low and caressing, and he could feel another shiver run through her. Delicious. “I think all you need is the right encouragement.”
“All I need is to get to the draper’s, take care of my business, and return to the house. The staff isn’t used to behaving like proper servants, and I need to keep an eye on them. In another month it should be so ingrained that it’ll be second nature to them.?
??
“Are you planning to leave us in a month?”
To his surprise she colored. “Of course not!”
So whatever she was up to, she expected it to be done in a month. Why had she picked a deadline, and what exactly was she hoping to find? If she knew who he was all she had to do was announce it—once suspicions were aroused the police would be able to find proof no matter how well he’d covered things up. No matter how hard he tried to atone.
If the woman beside him knew who he was it would explain her highly entertaining lack of respect for him, but he didn’t think that was the case. She was simply chafing at the restraints of servitude, and he was doing his best to needle her. It was working beautifully.
“You can take a deep breath and relax, my dear Mrs. Greaves,” he said lightly. “I have no intention of assaulting your honor on a public street. Truth be told, I’m bored, and I’d rather accompany you to the draper than deal with business.”
“Business, my lord? I can’t imagine an aristocrat would have anything to do with business.”
“Then you’d be surprised. I find business quite fascinating, and I have an odd gift for making money. Unfortunately one of the businesses I had a partnership in has hit a difficult patch. The founder embezzled a fortune from the place, and then was killed in a carriage accident as he tried to make his escape. I’ve been trying to shore things up, make certain the investors are satisfied, see to it that any money left by the wily old fox gets returned to the company.”
“Interesting,” Bryony Greaves said in a neutral voice, and he got the sense that she meant it. “What about the man’s heirs?”
“His heirs don’t matter,” he said, “because he left nothing to inherit. Everything was confiscated by the crown. So not only has Russell destroyed his business and his good name, he’s ruined his family as well.”
She was even stiffer than she had been before, but she didn’t try to pull away. “Russell? Was that the man’s name?”
“Don’t you read newspapers, Mrs. Greaves? You strike me as someone who would. If so, I’m certain you heard of the nine-day’s wonder that was the Russell case and the ensuing bank panic?”
“It sounds vaguely familiar. So did you lose a great deal of money in all this? I would think you’d be very angry at… Mr. Russell, did you say?”
“I didn’t have time to be angry with him—I heard of his death before we realized he’d embezzled such a vast sum of money from the company that he left it on the edge of ruin, destroying two banks in the process and nearly causing a panic. By then it was too late.”
“What about his heirs? Couldn’t you have extracted your pound of flesh from them?”
“You like Shakespeare, Mrs. Greaves? Now why doesn’t that surprise me? And you’re perfectly suited to the Merchant of Venice. You’re such a stern, judgmental creature.”
She opened her mouth to refute him, then snapped it shut again, and he wondered what she’d do if he simply leaned down and tasted that luscious mouth as he so wanted to. “I most certainly am not,” she said finally.
He just laughed. “And I hold no personal grudge—if anything my finances are in better heart thanks to Russell. For some reason he left my shares completely untouched. The other investors weren’t quite so fortunate.”
“For some reason,” she echoed, sounding skeptical. “And did the police look into that? I do assume the police were involved?”
“Of course they were. Did they scrutinize my finances? Of course not—I’m a peer of the realm.”
“Not this realm, apparently. I didn’t know Irish lords received the same careful treatment from Scotland Yard.”
“You’re forgetting my charm.”
“I’m—” She stifled herself, and he wondered exactly what insult she’d been about to hurl at him. The bonds of servitude certainly chafed.
“Oh, don’t hold back, Mrs. Greaves. I assure you, I don’t mind if you speak freely. I find it quite refreshing.”
“I beg your pardon, my lord. I wouldn’t think of insulting you.”
Oh, you’d think it, my girl, he thought cynically. It’s killing you not to lash out at me with that sharp tongue. “Always the perfect servant,” he murmured.
She knew a goad when she heard one, but she had mastered her reactions. “I do my best to please, my lord.”
Oh, that he couldn’t resist. He leaned down, and his mouth brushed her ear. “Oh, my sweetness, you most certainly will.” He pulled back, looking ahead of them on the noisy street. “I believe we’re here, Miss Greaves.”
Peach’s Emporium was just a few doors away, the word Drapers written beneath the sign in neat, gold ink. She pulled her arm free, and this time he let her go, watching with amusement as she struggled to pull herself together. She turned to face him, her expression a mask of politesse. “I thank you so much for accompanying me, your lordship. I should have no trouble from here on.”
“Of course you won’t, my dear Mrs. Greaves, because I’ll be with you.” The door to the shop had already been opened by one of Mr. Peach’s subordinates, and he waved her in.
She looked up at him, all stubborn defiance. She was a charming woman but a terrible spy. Didn’t she know her best bet was to encourage his advances instead of trying to drive him away? She was much more likely to ferret out his secrets by curling up next to him. There was nothing to be gained by searching the house or questioning the servants. Only old Taggart knew the truth about the money he’d sent, and he’d go to the stake before he’d utter a word.
He didn’t move. It was a contest of wills, but they were on an uneven playing field. She could scarcely defy her employer in front of witnesses and expect to continue in her job. And she knew it.
Her shrug was almost imperceptible, and she preceded him into Mr. Peach’s emporium.
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.