Page 7 of The Confessions of a Lady
She is a maid, and I am supposed to be a gentleman.
He tightened the iron chains around his libido and tried to focus on the repast in front of him.
‘Would you like something to drink? Wine, perhaps? Brandy?’ Her gaze stayed locked on the table. In any other servant, Liam would take this as a sign of deference, but something in her stance, her stiffened spine, the way she clenched her jaw and pressed her lips together made it very clear she did notwantto look at him. If pushed, he would guess Miss Smith distinctly disliked him despite their well-matched verbal sparring earlier. Which shouldn’t bother him.
If she doesn’t like me, she should leave. I didn’t request her help.
But she was his servant. His request was not required. Her job was to anticipate and meet his needs regardless of whether or not he voiced them.
What Ineedis for her distracting presence to be gone.
Butwhydid she display such obvious disdain toward him? It was a riddle tickling his brain. Liam read people well. It was one reason he was so good at his current job. But even a blind man could sense her derision. The layer of polite deference she cloaked herself in as securely as her wrapper didn’t hide thesharp edges of her contempt. For him. Contempt she seemed to have forgotten during their initial exchange.
She’s remembered it now.
The mystery of her ire created an itch he felt compelled to scratch. Generally speaking, Liam cared little for other people’s opinions of him unless those people were close, respected friends. Lieutenant General Robert Killian, Duke of Covington, for one. Major General Beaufort Drake, for another. They had been through two years of hell together in the war prisons of Afghanistan and come out of that endless torture still alive, if not completely intact.
His brother had been with them, suffering alongside Liam. A fact causing him acute pain. He had hoped a kinship would grow between himself and Reynard during their time in service. An understanding of their shared horrifying childhood and a commitment to battle their demons together. But the war only further fractured their relationship.
Still, he would never have guessed his younger brother capable of sinking so deeply into darkness. But the evidence was irrefutable. And the reason Liam’s new mission was even possible.
The Queen believed Reynard’s treason against human decency had created a unique invitation to infiltrate the Devil’s Sons. An invitation only Liam could accept. After all, he was Reynard’s brother. They shared a troubled upbringing at the hands of a corrupt lord. Certain members of the peerage might believe Liam shared the same moral flexibility of his father and brother. A belief the Queen cultivated with judicious whispers sprinkled throughout the beau monde during the months Liam remained in the country.
Reynard’s lack of money made him desperate and easy to control, but Liam’s wealth and power gave him influence within the higher echelons of the beau monde. An influence the Devil’sSons were sure to appreciate. The Queen saw all of these possibilities in Reynard’s unfortunate death. And while Liam wanted to disagree, she was annoyingly right.
He should feel remorse. Grief. Loss. But Reynard left Liam long before his heart stopped beating. Their father had driven a wedge between the boys since they were old enough to walk. They were not brothers, but instead, competitors in an endless battle to claim the elusive gift of their father’s approval. A prize neither of them would ever attain and, as Liam came to realise, one he didn’t even want. He tried to convince his brother of this truth, but the constant competition twisted something in Reynard.
While they both grappled with rage born from pain, Reynard knew no boundaries in his quest for power. The Devils’ Sons offered Reynard something Liam could not. A chance to let his broken moral compass point in whatever direction it wished as he scrabbled to attain his worth in wealth. Even if that wealth was earned on the backs of young girls.
When news of Reynard’s death reached Liam, he was ashamed to admit relief eclipsed every other emotion. What kind of brother felt such things at the death of a sibling?Not a very good brother. Not a very good man.
Miss Smith’s exasperated sigh reminded Liam he’d been quiet far too long. She’d asked him a question. What was it? Ah, yes. Did he want something to drink. ‘Ale, if there is any?’
Mild shock flashed in Miss Smith’s eyes before she schooled her expression to be carefully blank. Ale was the drink of the common man, but Liam had developed a taste for it during the war and made sure it was stocked in each of his households.
‘Ale.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘For the low and dejected. Of course, my lord.’
Her clear sarcasm amused Liam. The itch was back. To unravel the tangle of her dislike.
Miss Smith disappeared again. This time, she descended into the cold room below the kitchen. She returned with a tankard and plunked it down in front of him. Astonishing, to feel like a complete arse in his own kitchen while she politely served him. Which is exactly what she wanted him to feel, he was certain.
‘Thank you, Miss Smith.’
She blinked her response, crossing her arms over her chest once more. This close, he couldn’t ignore the drastic dip where her small waist met much more generous hips. His first assessment had been wrong. She wasn’t stout, but rather a fascinating blend of strong limbs and soft curves. He couldn’t help wondering what less clothing and more light might reveal.
Absolutely not. I am a gentleman, and God damn it, I will behave as such.
It was far past time to dismiss the young woman to the safety of her room. ‘I’m certain you’re anxious to get whatever sleep you can tonight. Please, feel free to take your leave.’
Miss Smith bit her lip, assessing him before she seemed to remember herself. She uncrossed her arms, ducked her head, and dipped into a shallow curtsy.
‘Goodnight, my lord. Though good morning is closer to true. I’m sure the household will be exuberant to know you’ve arrived so much sooner than expected. We do so love an opportunity to flurry about.’
There it was again. Innocuous words wrapped in the tart acidity of lemons. Reprimanding the lord of the manor for returning early to his house. Liam’s lips twitched as she turned and exited the kitchen. Belatedly, he realised he should have offered her the lantern, but something about Miss Smith made him think she preferred to sneak her way back in the dark.
Something we have in common.
He had always preferred the darkness. An odd kinship to find with the intriguing woman.
