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She stiffened her back, managing a polite smile. “Indeed, and that is one of the many reasons why I hired Collins. As to whether you decide to kiss him, that will be between the two of you.”
Kilmartyn hooted with laughter. “I don’t think I’d ever get that drunk, Mrs. Greaves. And I thought you put out an edict that no member of the family bed the staff.”
“I did.”
“Tell me, Miss Greaves, does that apply to you?” His voice was soft, almost a purr, and she wanted to drift closer, into the warmth he seemed to emanate. Yes, the man was very dangerous to her peace of mind.
She stayed right where she was. “Of course.”
He smiled. “Good to know. In the meantime, may I count on you to make my bedroom more habitable?”
Startled, she looked around her again. “If you wish, sir.”
“Oh, I wish. So tell me, what kind of colors do you prefer?”
“That should hardly signify.”
He looked at her dreamily, his eyes half-closed, a lazy expression on his face. “You have very pale skin, with just a hint of soft rose. I could see you surrounded by a shade of blue. Perhaps a rich, indigo blue to set off all that lovely, creamy skin and your beautiful eyes.” He paused, looking positively lascivious. “Yes, make them blue. And every time I slip into bed I’ll be thinking of you.”
She managed a frosty look, her insides roiling at the image, and he laughed.
“In gratitude, Miss Greaves. God forbid I should think of you in any other way.”
She managed a nod. “It will be seen to, sir.” There was no way she was going to oversee the transformation of his sleeping quarters, his huge bed. It would be too unsettling. She really should make Collins deal with it. But she knew she wouldn’t. “It can be arranged fairly quickly, but I’m afraid the actual work will take a number of days. Where will you sleep while the workers are here?”
“As you pointed out, there are any number of available bedrooms in this household. Who knows, I may even make a few conjugal visits. It’s been a while since I’ve sampled my wife’s abundant charms, and she’s been making demands.”
This time Bryony did blush. She suspected he’d said it simply to see her reaction, but that didn’t mean she could control her normal bodily reactions. In fact, her normal bodily reactions were in a turmoil any time he was near, whether he was saying outrageous things or not, and she was having a hard time pulling herself together. “That’s hardly any of my concern, my lord,” she said in a stilted voice.
“I beg you pardon, my dear Miss Greaves. I’ve embarrassed you. Consider me all repentance.”
He looked about as repentant as a jackdaw. She bowed her head again. “Certainly, my lord.”
“How many times are you going to bow at me? How many times are you going to call me ‘my lord’ when I’ve directed you to call me Adrian?” he said, that soft, seductive note in his voice once more. And for some wicked reason she thought of the bed behind her.
“When I am no longer employed in your household, sir. At which point there will be no reason for our paths to cross, so in truth, I expect the answer is never.”
“You are so bracingly forthright for such a young woman, Miss Greaves. And you are young, aren’t you? Your papers said you were thirty-five, but I calculate you’re about ten years younger. And yet you seem to be able to manage the servants and the household much more efficiently that any of my previous employees have. What accounts for your frightening maturity?”
“I beg your pardon, sir, but this has nothing to do with my duties, which are being neglected as we speak. If you don’t mind I should go check on the kitchen…” She moved toward the door, all determination, but of course he remained where he was. Leaving her close, much too close.
“Your first duty is pleasing me,” he said, and she felt a little frisson of uncertainty run down her backbone. His half-closed eyes opened suddenly, green meeting her own dark blue, and for a moment she froze, staring up at him, unable to move.
And yet how could she say she froze, when she was suffused with such heat? Never had she felt anything like this. He wasn’t even touching her, and yet she felt invaded, taken, seduced, and enraptured, all from the deep, piercing look that caught between them, pulling her like a riptide, and she swayed toward him, wanting to feel his body against hers. Her breasts were hot, there was a tight feeling in her belly, and she wanted… she wanted… she couldn’t name what she wanted. She could only feel it.
And he was feeling it too, she knew it. That look was holding him captive as well, unable to move, staring down at her with fathomless emotion, need and doubt and surprise. Need won out, and he moved his head down toward hers, and she knew he was going to kiss her, really kiss her, going to take her, and she would let him, God, she would let him, and…
The sharp rap on the door was a shock to them both, and the tension broke. She fell back, almost stumbling, and he moved away from the door, barking out a sharp “What?”
“Begging your pardon, my lord,” came Emma’s breathless voice. “But we’re looking for Mrs. Greaves. There’s been a calamity in the kitchen.”
“I’ll be right there, Emma,” Bryony said, shocked at how normal her voice sounded. She reached up to smooth her hair, but it was still neatly coiffed, she touched the neck of her dress, expecting it to be unbuttoned half to her waist, but it was intact. It had been the most erotic moment of her life, and he hadn’t even touched her.
He said nothing, watching her out of his intense green eyes, so different from the languid ones he presented to the world. She opened the door, and it seemed as if sanity rushed back in with the light from the hallway. “If there’s nothing else you need, my lord, I’ll go see to the kitchen. And you can be assured your drapery and wall coverings will be changed to your satisfaction.”
“There’s that word again,” he murmured, so low that Emma couldn’t hear. “Satisfaction. And there’s a great deal I still need from you, Mrs. Greaves. But we’ll attend to that later.”
She didn’t show her reaction, the frisson of heat that rushed through her body. Stone-faced, she nodded, and left for the blessed relief of a kitchen catastrophe.
