Adrian Bruton, Earl of Kilmartyn, turned to look at his frail, beautiful wife, laid out so temptingly on the rose-colored chaise that set off her dark beauty to perfection. She was looking at him mutinously, and he knew he was going to pay for his interference.
“She’s hideous, Adrian! I don’t want her around me. You know how sensitive I am!”
Sensitive as one of the water buffalo he’d seen in India when he’d travelled there. “Don’t be absurd, my darling.” He always used extravagantly affectionate names for her. It was his small indulgence, a needle to her overweening vanity, when she knew she was the furthest thing from his darling. “There’s nothing wrong with Mrs. Greaves.”
“Nothing wrong! Did you see her face?”
“Of course I did. She has a few scars from the pox. So does half of England. It hardly signifies.”
“Well, you might not mind being surrounded by ugliness, but I do,” she snapped.
He was already surrounded by ugliness, the ugliness of human nature at its worst, and he’d been chained to her for close to a decade. He gave her his most loving smile. “Then I’ll have her report directly to me on all matters and you won’t have to see her,” he said softly, knowing it would goad her.
“No!” Her voice shook. “I know you too well. You lust after her.”
His smile was derisive. “Either she’s abominably ugly or so irresistible a piece that I want her the moment I see her. Make up your mind, Cecily. She can’t be both.”
Cecily looked up at him, her lower lip trembling. She seemed to have forgotten her manufactured headache.
He should have known it wouldn’t last. “Why won’t you come to me, Adrian?” she murmured, attempting a winning smile. “I miss you in my bed.”
“You surprise me, my love. There are usually so many occupying it that I wouldn’t have thought you’d notice.” The retort wasn’t a wise move on his part, but there were times he couldn’t resist.
“You’re such a bastard,” she snapped, forgetting her headache. “If you won’t satisfy me you can hardly blame me for looking elsewhere. Since I have no intention of letting you out of this marriage you might at least take advantage of its pleasures.” She stretched one leg out on the chaise, her rich skirts riding up over her perfect, plump ankles. Ten years ago it would have driven him mad with desire.
Today it simply seemed like an absurd affectation. He could find pleasure anywhere he turned, and without the poisonous afterbite of this black widow spider. “I wouldn’t think to trouble you when you have the headache, my precious,” he said, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. And he walked from the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
He headed straight for his study on the first floor, as far away from her as he could get, barring the kitchens in the basement and the servants’ quarters at the top of the house. He went to the cabinet he always insisted be kept full, reaching for the bottle of Irish whiskey. It was eleven in the morning and he didn’t give a damn. He could do what he bloody well pleased and today it pleased him to get drunk. He poured himself a glass, then drank it down without ceremony. He felt unsettled, uneasy, and he couldn’t pin down why.
And then it came to him. The new housekeeper, with the pulled-back hair, the prim mouth, and downcast eyes. She hadn’t the faintest idea how oddly tempting she was. There was something about her that had struck an odd chord inside him. Was it lust? He was accustomed to that. He found many women desirable, and while the stiff Mrs. Greaves was hardly his usual sort, he found himself wondering what kind of body she had under that hideous dress. And whether he was going to ignore convention long enough to find out.
He poured himself a second glass, taking the time to savor its smoky flavor, the warm afterburn of it against his tongue, and then he dropped down on the sofa where he’d slept many a night, stretching his long legs out in front of him. He had a great deal to think about. There was the usual—how to divest himself of his despised wife before he strangled her. How to end this tedious existence without having his entire life be brought to ruin around his ears for one stupid mistake, one idiot act of trust.
And now one more question to trouble his mind. Who the hell was the woman he’d been fool enough to hire as his housekeeper?
He’d always liked a challenge, and she was so tightly buttoned up she might as well be wearing armor. How hard would it be to strip off that armor?
She was a little thin for his tastes, when he liked women to have curves, but he could overlook that. The few pockmarks were scarcely noticeable, and he didn’t give a damn about them. It was her eyes that drew him, the eyes she tried to keep hidden, downcast like a proper servant. Dark blue, almost indigo, and while she tried to look subservient he could sense her impatience.
She wasn’t a proper servant—he’d guessed that immediately. It was clear in the way she carried herself, the tilt of her head, her manner of speaking. She was no down-on-her-luck widow looking for a job, he was willing to bet his life on it. And she had no intention of letting him get anywhere near her.
Yes, he did like a challenge. He wasn’t sure whether he was going to seduce Mrs. Greaves, or simply see if he could make her smile, but he was always interested in a challenge.
Who the hell was she? And why had he invited her into his house, a house filled with so many secrets? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer was an adage that had been drilled into him from early on; perhaps that was the reason.
His wife didn’t want her here. That should have been recommendation enough, for he had no greater enemy than the beautiful woman he’d once loved to distraction.
Perhaps he’d been imagining danger where none existed. She might simply be a gentlewoman, forced to earn her living by catering to the whims of people who should have been her equal in this bloody, convoluted society that ruled England and therefore the Ireland of his birth and his soul. Why should her sudden appearance have anything to do with the dark stain on his honor?
There was no harm in erring on the side of caution—he would have to keep an eye on her. Though in truth the cautious thing would have been to let Cecily simply dismiss her. But there was something about the mysterious Mrs. Greaves that interested, no, fascinated him. Despite the unflattering hair, the prim expression of her mouth, she was a pretty woman trying to look plain. Not a beauty—the marked side of her face would always preclude that—but a far cry from Cecily’s horror.
But she was so tempting, and he seldom bothered to resist temptation. Besides, any attention he paid her would infuriate his wife, always a benefit.
He rose, crossing the room to pour himself his third glass of Irish, then glanced at his reflection in one of the many mirrors Cecily had placed in the house. The man he saw was a stranger, a charming, golden, slightly drunken English lord. He raised a mocking toast to the man. “Here’s to you, lad,” he said, slipping into the lilting Irish of his forebears. The ones he’d tried to honor, and instead shamed.
He drained the glass, and turned away.
CHAPTER FOUR