she said in a soothing voice, glancing over at the wide copper sink where a young woman was scrubbing pots. “I’m sure you’re the best judge of your own kitchen.”
The cook beamed at her, clearly pleased her own area of power wasn’t threatened. Bryony continued. “Would you like me to present the menus to Lady Kilmartyn or would you prefer to do it?”
Mrs. Harkins looked skeptical. “Her ladyship usually just waves me away when I try. She says the thought of all that food makes her ill.” There was no disguising the hurt in Mrs. Harkins’s voice. “I’ve been taking it to the master the last few weeks. At least he looks at it, and I know I’m not going to lose my place for ordering venison from Scotland and oranges from Spain.”
“You won’t lose your place—this household is lucky to have you,” Bryony said firmly. “Let’s start with her ladyship. When does she usually wake?”
“She’s already had her first tray. We bring her hot cocoa first, then follow it with a breakfast tray that she never touches. Emma was just about to carry it up.”
“Then I’ll go with her,” Bryony said decisively.
Facing the haughty countess was not high on her list of preferred duties but anything was preferable to the fascinating earl. She doubted she could look at him without remembering the forbidden feel of his skin beneath her hand, his mouth beneath hers. What kind of madness had filled her last night? One would have thought she was the one who was drunk, not Kilmartyn.
The countess was reclining in state in the sitting room Bryony had first been taken to when she arrived there, following the dutiful Emma. It was on the second floor, and her first impression was heat and cloying perfume. It took all her strength not to cough.
Mademoiselle Hortense, the countess’s haughty maid, barred her way, her thin body rigid. “Her ladyship has not asked for you,” she said in her heavily accented English.
“Oh, never mind, Hortense,” Lady Kilmartyn’s airy voice floated to the door. “I may as well see her. Come in, Mrs. Greaves. How can I help you?”
Cecily, Lady Kilmartyn, looked as beautiful as ever. Today the dark curtains were pulled back, and Bryony could see her quite clearly. It was little wonder Kilmartyn had fallen in love with her.
Cecily was staring at her with cool disdain, though she was keeping her gaze carefully focused on Bryony’s right ear, the furthest part of her face from the scars that marred her, and suddenly Bryony thought of her mother. Her mother had managed to never look at her directly once she’d recovered.
She took a deep breath and managed a pleasant smile. “I’ve brought the menus for the week. Mrs. Harkins did an excellent job of planning, but we need your approval, and it would help to know if we’re to expect any guests in the next fortnight.”
“I fail to see why that’s any of your concern.”
“We want the household to be ready if you do have guests. So you can take pride in your surroundings.”
Cecily Bruton’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t give a tinker’s damn about my surroundings. You think you have me fooled, Mrs. Greaves, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I know why you’re here.”
Sudden tension ripped through Bryony. How could the woman know? Was Kilmartyn the true villain, and his wife his accomplice? And was her disguise so poor that it took less than a day to penetrate it? She kept her face impassive, saying nothing.
“You’re here for my husband, aren’t you?” Lady Kilmartyn said accusingly.
Well, in fact, that was the truth, though certainly not in the way Cecily Bruton meant it. “I’m here to serve you, my lady.” The words burned her tongue, but her tone was just the right side of servile.
Lady Kilmartyn had shifted her gaze to Bryony’s shoulder. “Women love my husband,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard Bryony’s words. “He’s irresistible, and I’m afraid servants have always been fair game for the master of
The cook beamed at her, clearly pleased her own area of power wasn’t threatened. Bryony continued. “Would you like me to present the menus to Lady Kilmartyn or would you prefer to do it?”
Mrs. Harkins looked skeptical. “Her ladyship usually just waves me away when I try. She says the thought of all that food makes her ill.” There was no disguising the hurt in Mrs. Harkins’s voice. “I’ve been taking it to the master the last few weeks. At least he looks at it, and I know I’m not going to lose my place for ordering venison from Scotland and oranges from Spain.”
“You won’t lose your place—this household is lucky to have you,” Bryony said firmly. “Let’s start with her ladyship. When does she usually wake?”
“She’s already had her first tray. We bring her hot cocoa first, then follow it with a breakfast tray that she never touches. Emma was just about to carry it up.”
“Then I’ll go with her,” Bryony said decisively.
Facing the haughty countess was not high on her list of preferred duties but anything was preferable to the fascinating earl. She doubted she could look at him without remembering the forbidden feel of his skin beneath her hand, his mouth beneath hers. What kind of madness had filled her last night? One would have thought she was the one who was drunk, not Kilmartyn.
The countess was reclining in state in the sitting room Bryony had first been taken to when she arrived there, following the dutiful Emma. It was on the second floor, and her first impression was heat and cloying perfume. It took all her strength not to cough.
Mademoiselle Hortense, the countess’s haughty maid, barred her way, her thin body rigid. “Her ladyship has not asked for you,” she said in her heavily accented English.
“Oh, never mind, Hortense,” Lady Kilmartyn’s airy voice floated to the door. “I may as well see her. Come in, Mrs. Greaves. How can I help you?”
Cecily, Lady Kilmartyn, looked as beautiful as ever. Today the dark curtains were pulled back, and Bryony could see her quite clearly. It was little wonder Kilmartyn had fallen in love with her.
Cecily was staring at her with cool disdain, though she was keeping her gaze carefully focused on Bryony’s right ear, the furthest part of her face from the scars that marred her, and suddenly Bryony thought of her mother. Her mother had managed to never look at her directly once she’d recovered.
She took a deep breath and managed a pleasant smile. “I’ve brought the menus for the week. Mrs. Harkins did an excellent job of planning, but we need your approval, and it would help to know if we’re to expect any guests in the next fortnight.”
“I fail to see why that’s any of your concern.”
“We want the household to be ready if you do have guests. So you can take pride in your surroundings.”
Cecily Bruton’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t give a tinker’s damn about my surroundings. You think you have me fooled, Mrs. Greaves, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I know why you’re here.”
Sudden tension ripped through Bryony. How could the woman know? Was Kilmartyn the true villain, and his wife his accomplice? And was her disguise so poor that it took less than a day to penetrate it? She kept her face impassive, saying nothing.
“You’re here for my husband, aren’t you?” Lady Kilmartyn said accusingly.
Well, in fact, that was the truth, though certainly not in the way Cecily Bruton meant it. “I’m here to serve you, my lady.” The words burned her tongue, but her tone was just the right side of servile.
Lady Kilmartyn had shifted her gaze to Bryony’s shoulder. “Women love my husband,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard Bryony’s words. “He’s irresistible, and I’m afraid servants have always been fair game for the master of
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