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“Because you can’t bear the sight of me,” she’d responded.
Her mother didn’t waste time denying it. “There’s a new doctor in Basil—”
“No more treatments,” Bryony had said sharply. “The scars aren’t going away, Mama.” She looked into her mother’s beautiful face, the face she’d passed on to her three daughters, looking for any sign of love or affection. All she saw was thinly veiled disgust.
She reached up and pushed the crumbling makeup off her face, and it dusted the plain, slightly oversize dress she wore. “I suppose I’m simply going to be the madwoman in your attic, Mama.”
She’d embraced that role with enthusiasm, locking herself in her rooms, refusing to come out despite her sisters’ blandishments, despite her father’s pleas. She’d sat and stared at her reflection in the mirror, until something inside of her broke, and she took up her fire poker and smashed every mirror in the room. She had been sixteen at the time.
There had been three mirrors. Twenty-one years of bad luck, Bryony mused, and she’d barely made it through the first twelve.
They’d reached the library door, and she lifted her hand to knock sharply when she heard Collins’s swift intake of breath. “What is it?” she whispered as alarm spread through her.
Mr. Collins cleared his throat. “I think perhaps this isn’t a wise idea. His lordship is clearly—”
“Clearly what? You can’t see beyond a closed door,” she hissed.
“I have a particularly strong sense of smell.”
She looked at him in frustration. “And what do you smell?”
“Anise. Fennel. Flames. Burning sugar.”
“Good God,” Bryony said. “He must have thrown something into the fire…” Her voice trailed off, as she realized on such a warm evening no fire had been laid in the library. “More reason for us to intervene.” And before Collins could stop her she rapped sharply on the door, then pushed it open.
Just as the Earl of Kilmartyn ordered her to go away. She paid no attention, trying to take the heavy tray from Collins’s strong hands, but the man simply shrugged, entering the room and setting it down carefully on the desk where Kilmartyn sat. He had a tall glass in front of him, filled with an odd, milky-looking mixture that was slowly turning green.
“Mrs. Harkins has prepared a marvelous dinner for you, Lord Kilmartyn, and I know you would never think of offending her by ignoring her efforts.”
He just looked at her, his face impassive. Then he turned to Collins. “If you ever barge into my library again I’ll throw you out the window,” he said in a deceptively charming voice.
“Yes, my lord,” Collins said meekly, not missing the menace beneath that tone. He started to back out, then paused, as he realized Bryony hadn’t moved from her place beside the earl’s desk.
“You may go, Collins,” she said calmly. “There’s no need to protect me from his lordship. He’s hardly likely to throw me out the window.”
“I might be tempted,” he muttered, letting his green eyes move over her in an oddly assessing manner.
She made a shooing gesture, and Collins left, clearly reluctant, closing the door behind him. She removed the covers from the dishes, and the odors were wonderful, filling the room, overcoming the strong, not unpleasant scent of anise. What in the world had he been eating before they came in? Some sort of confection?
He looked at her, then down at the tray. “You brought enough to feed a horse,” he observed.
“You’re too thin.” The moment the words were out of her mouth she realized her mistake. No servant should ever comment on her employer’s physicality, except in discreet praise.
He didn’t seem surprised at her slip. “So are you,” he said. “I have little appetite. I eat when it pleases me.”
“As do I,” she said, bitterly aware of her own body. She wasn’t precisely skinny, but she was a far cry from the lush curves popular nowadays. She had breasts and hips, but her flesh was undimpled. Maddy had described her as “coltish” in an effort to ameliorate her frustration, and in return Bryony had simply neighed.
His lids drooped over lazy eyes. “I’ll make a bargain with you, Mrs. Greaves. You’ve guaranteed that Cook’s meal is outstanding enough to interrupt me in my library. If you expect me to partake of it, then you’ll have to share it too.”
“I’ve already eaten. And her name is Mrs. Harkins, not ‘Cook.’” She didn’t bother to keep the note of censure out of her voice.
Instead of being offended, Kilmartyn looked amused. “I’ll do my best. I suppose that means I’m to call John Coachman by his real name.”
“Do you have a coachman?” she asked, startled. One more person to oversee.
“He lives back in the mews and takes care of his own meals, and for that matter his name is Taggart. He’s an extremely bad-tempered soul, so I suggest you steer clear of him. He’s under my authority, not yours. Pull up a chair, Mrs. Greaves.”
She considered it, and him, for a moment. He was a very unsettling employer, alternating a devastating charm with flashes of brooding temper. In her relatively sheltered life she had met few Irishmen, and they were notoriously volatile.
