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“I asked you what color your hair was.”
She frowned at him. “Is that why you sent for me, sir? It could hardly matter.”
A little saucy for a housekeeper, he thought with approval. This could be fun. “Does it matter why the master of the house sends for you?” he said loftily. “I wasn’t aware I needed to justify my request.”
She flushed. “Of course not. I beg your pardon, Lord Kilmartyn.”
“Pardon is granted. What color is your hair?”
“Brown,” she said flatly.
“Not it’s not. I distinctly see some lighter shades in there, now that it’s coming loose from that damnable arrangement you showed up in.”
She put a nervous hand to her hair, trying to smooth the escaping tendrils back. It was a lost cause—they had a mind of their own. “Sir, if I might be so bold, I have had a long and tiring day. Your household is in dismal condition, and I’ve
barely put a dent in it.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “You’re right; this place is abominable. If you’re tired then sit. It’s just you and me. No one to spy on us. We can do anything we please, break any rules we want to.”
She jerked, clearly unsettled. Was it the word “spy” or his very mild suggestion of bad behavior? “I believe I will stand, sir.”
Such dignity! She was playing her part very well, and it was a part. He wasn’t quite sure how he knew it, but nothing could shake his conviction. He smiled at her lazily. She could play the housekeeper, he could play the drunk. He could hold his liquor far too well, but she wouldn’t know that. “I must admit, Mrs. Greaves, that I have, in fact, forgotten why I sent for you,” he confessed, deliberately adding a faint slur to his voice. The Irish was more noticeable as well—it came out when he was drinking. “But you might oblige me by fetching me another bottle of this lovely stuff.”
She started, realization dawning on her. “You’re drunk.”
“That should be, ‘you’re drunk, my lord,’” he said reprovingly. “Or, ‘you’re drunk, Kilmartyn’ if you wish to be familiar. Or ‘you’re drunk, Adrian’ if you want to be more than familiar. And indeed I am,” he lied. “Very drunk. These things come up from behind and surprise you, and since I’m already almost entirely castaway I may as well finish the job.”
She stared at him for a long moment. She had very fine eyes as well, though he probably shouldn’t mention them. She moved across the room, picked up one of the small bamboo-style chairs, and sat in front of him. He smiled at her with deliberately boozy benevolence. He could see her shoes, and very fine shoes they were indeed. Not the shoes of a housekeeper.
“I believe, Lord Kilmartyn, that you’d be better served by going to bed. You’re going to feel miserable in the morning as it is.”
He laughed. “My dear Mrs. Greaves, I’m well acquainted with the bloody aftereffects of a night of debauchery. I barely notice it anymore.”
There was an odd expression in those dark blue eyes of hers. Presumably contempt, though he could fancy it looked like something else. She was most likely some sort of spy, he told himself, though for the life of him he couldn’t imagine who would have sent her. His worst enemy already had proof of all his secrets. And he was married to her.
“So tell me, Mrs. Greaves,” he said with an attempt to sound businesslike, “you started the day in my appalling household and found it dreadfully understaffed with a complement of six servants. By the end of the day we have only four. How is that progress?”
He was expecting faint color to blossom in her pale cheeks, but he’d underestimated her sangfroid. “The two servants I dismissed were unproductive and having a most unfortunate effect on the atmosphere.”
“And whom did you sack, Mrs. Greaves? I hope not that pretty, buxom creature who always gives me such welcoming glances?”
“Ruby? Yes, she was the first to go,” she said, and he could hear faint disgust in her voice. “Alfred, your very handsome footman, was the other. Unless he was the one giving you welcoming glances.”
Damn, she was saucy! “Not my style, Mrs. Greaves. My wife, however, might be upset.”
That startled her. So, she hadn’t yet realized that the beautiful Lady Kilmartyn was a libidinous harpy. It would be a happy surprise.
“I’m afraid that in my household the servants aren’t available to their employers for sexual trysts,” she continued primly.
“Are you included in that edict, Mrs. Greaves?”
For a moment she didn’t understand his meaning. And then she did color, just slightly, and he counted it a triumph. She was playing her part so well, so rigidly in control that he was determined to break her.
He smiled at her. She was pretty and she didn’t know it, which was always an enchanting combination. He pulled his attention back to the topic at hand, not giving her a chance to answer his purposefully outrageous question. “So, do you think you have a chance in hell of putting this wretched household in order?”
She wasn’t used to cursing, he noticed by the faint flicker in her eyes. So she’d had a sheltered upbringing. That made the whole farce even more intriguing.
“Of course,” she said calmly. “I am used to running far larger households. For a house this size I would expect no less than four footmen, a boy for lugging things, at least three parlor maids, perhaps more, a maid for the mistress, a scullery maid, and a valet for the master.”
