“Take off your bonnet and move into the light, if you please,” Lady Kilmartyn said, her voice sharp.
Bryony didn’t dare hesitate. She rose, pulling off her bonnet to expose the tightly braided hair, then moved toward the pool of light that escaped one dark curtain.
“What’s wrong with your face?” the woman demanded.
For a moment Bryony considered not responding to her rude question. Then again, if one was a servant then there was no such thing as rude behavior from an employer. “Smallpox, your ladyship. I had it when I was quite young.”
Lady Kilmartyn considered her for a long moment. “No,” she said abruptly. “Your face distresses me. I don’t like to be surrounded by ugly things.”
Ugly things. The words should have stung, but Bryony had heard them before. From her mother. From her own mouth as she stared into a mirror.
She stood frozen. She could hardly change her face, and begging would do no good. She nodded, temporarily accepting defeat, when there was a sudden shaft of light into the room, and Lady Kilmartyn let out a cry of pain that was as beautiful as she was.
“Close that door!” she demanded. “You know how much the light hurts me.”
“Indeed I do, my love,” came a smooth, elegant voice. “But I’m afraid I’m going to have to override you.”
CHAPTER THREE
LIGHT FLOODED THE SALON, and Bryony almost clapped her hat back on her head, but something stopped her. If she was going to work here he would see her face soon enough, and there was no chance in the world he would recognize her. Few people even knew there were three Russell daughters.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Adrian.” There was just the hint of a snap in his wife’s voice. “You’ve given me run of the household and promised not to interfere. Mrs. Greaves will not suit—”
“Mrs. Greaves will suit very well, my darling,” he said softly, but there was no mistaking the steel in his charming voice. “I’m afraid your delicate health is simply not up to the strain of ordering the household. Things are in such disarray that either something must be done or I’ll be forced to take rooms of my own and spare the household the added strain of my presence.”
Lady Kilmartyn reacted quickly. “You’re too thoughtful, my love. Of course there can be no question of you removing yourself. Alas, you’re right, I’ve been too indisposed to see to the household. If you believe Mrs. Greaves will suit then I wouldn’t think to suggest otherwise.”
“Mrs. Greaves will be a treasure, my love. When can you start?”
It took Bryony a moment to realize he had turned his attention to her. “As s
oon as you wish, Lord Kilmartyn.” Her voice was cool, unaffected, and she allowed herself a covert glance at him.
And she felt her breath stop.
He was beautiful, there was no other word for it. Tall and lean, with a slightly disheveled elegance that was both charming and impudent, he had eyes of such a deep green she could see them from across the room. He had high cheekbones, slightly slanted brows, and golden hair just a bit too long in a manner that looked dashing rather than unkempt, and his mouth was mesmerizing. A laughing, mocking mouth, made for wickedness. He looked every inch the charming rake he was purported to be, the seducer of beautiful women, yet he was looking at her with no sign of disdain for her ugliness.
She deliberately turned the scarred side of her face toward him, though she wasn’t quite sure why. The lord and master of the house would hardly trifle with the hired help when clearly a man like that could have any woman in London. And he already had one of the most beautiful in his bed.
He was watching her, that lazy smile on his face, with no reaction at all to the scarring on her face, and the light from the open doorway was merciless. Could the man possibly be a liar, a thief, and a murderer? Her own father had doubted him.
She met his gaze for a moment, then lowered her eyes politely, the perfect housekeeper.
“Then we would have you come to us immediately, Mrs. Greaves,” he said in that enticing voice. “You should take one of our carriages to collect your things.”
“There’s no need, my lord. It’s not a long walk.”
“Indulge me,” he said softly, and the words rippled down her spine. Her stiff, unbending spine, she reminded herself. He wasn’t looking at her anymore, and indeed, he’d probably never really seen her. Few people of their class actually looked at servants. It was little wonder the scarring hadn’t caused him to react.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said in the voice she had worked hard to perfect. Neither meek nor arrogant, upper class nor working class, it was a perfect blend of each, and it had been difficult to master just the right note of subservience without sounding weak. It wasn’t that she was naturally arrogant, but humility had definitely never been her strong point.
She stood there for a moment. “Go along then, Mrs. Greaves,” he said lightly, dismissing her. “The sooner you get your hands on this wretched hovel the better.”
“Adrian!” the countess objected. “It’s hardly that.”
“You have my permission to spend whatever you need, hire whatever servants you deem necessary,” he continued, flashing her his devastating smile, ignoring his wife. “And if you have any problems you may bring them directly to me.”
That was never going to happen. She’d underestimated the power of a beautiful man. Being around a devious charmer like the Earl of Kilmartyn was going to be the most difficult part of this entire venture, she realized with a shock. He most certainly gave that wicked, seductive smile to everyone without thinking. She managed the slight bow that befitted her station in the hierarchy of servitude. “Thank you, my lord,” she said again, and made her escape.