The Writer and the Rake Page 9

  She would also have given everything she didn’t own, allowed her name to stay on the mortgage, forever, indeed she would have paid the bloody thing, for one fag. One puff. One sniff of a fag end, never mind a fag. But Mitchell Killgower sat opposite. What else could she do but pretend every moment, every second of every moment, was sheer, unmitigated joy, when it felt as if she’d a sweeping brush stuck up her spine. She was here to help.

  Difficult when he was such an arrogant swagger. If he even thought about trying anything on later it would be over her dead body though.

  She was here to help him. Not the other way about.

  She slipped her gaze to the decanter in the middle of the table. A good slug of claret would make up for running out of fags. If she reached over, she’d burst out of this dress though.

  What was Christian trying to say? That there were smaller elephants? Despite her being a stick insect, Brittany hadn’t managed to fasten the bodice. Her chemise hung out. If Mitchell Killgower was more than a bag of wind his tongue would be hanging out. He’d supposedly been celibate for weeks.

  She understood celibacy. It was why she couldn’t help staring at his killer eyes and magnificent shoulders. His maroon neck cloth, the slash of white shirt, candlelit hair. She’d sworn off deadbeats, not sex. What was his story? Didn’t he ever gag for it? If his tongue had been hanging out, if he’d drooled when he’d made that remark about her lovers, her stomach would have churned. There hadn’t been so much as a salacious flicker. It made him a shade more interesting than most.

  “If ‘ee will excuse me, mestress?”

  She also understood elephants, especially as one bumped her with a dish of peas. Despite the coolness with which she flicked her gaze over the bowl, she was ravenous enough to eat an elephant. It jerked her thoughts from what Mitchell Killgower would be like in bed. She fixed on her most enigmatic smile, smoothed the heavy—it felt as if it was dead—velvet skirt, encasing her legs, waited as three peas were spooned by the middle aged serving woman with the face like a hatchet and arms like legs of mutton, onto the plate.

  She waited. She’d read somewhere about the endless way people stuffed their faces in Georgian times with parades of food and booze, meals that went on for hours. It was the sole reason she was looking forward to fortifying herself before she went looking for that portal. Silence stretched. The silence of the starving, their plates empty as their stomachs, waiting to be fed. She fought not to fidget. Three peas couldn’t be all she was getting? Could it? The serving woman didn’t move a muscle. It must be. Brittany wanted to demand more but she was here to help, remember?

  “Thank you so very much.”

  Actually, the hell with it. Three peas to go with the one slice of carrot wasn’t on. She’d eaten nothing all day. Her stomach was like a hollow vat. She grasped the serving spoon.

  “Mestress . . .”

  The woman, who certainly wasn’t on a starvation diet wrested it back.

  “Mestress, what do ‘ee think . . .”

  “Well, I don’t know about you, darling, but I’m eating.” Brittany grabbed the spoon and the peas. “It’s what food is for, isn’t it? Now then, what do we have here? Pork? Not exactly my favourite but then beggars can’t be choosers.” She heaped a slice on her plate. Why not have two? Three? It was one thing to stay here, another to starve. The aroma that wafted from the dish in front of her was passable. “And you’ve gone to such trouble, take it as a compliment to the chef that I’m actually having three slices. And I can’t wait either.”

  She lifted the fork and knife.

  “I’m sure you can’t but that’s the fish knife.”

  She glanced at Mitchell Killgower, his wavering reflection encased in walnut.

  “So?”

  “We’re not having fish that I know of. In fact . . .” His gaze slithered over the serving woman’s face. If Brittany had to think of one word to describe it, that word was brutal. “In fact I don’t know we will be having anything since you seem to have taken the three slices of pork.”

  She glanced at her plate. “You mean . . .”

  Mitchell Killgower’s darkly eloquent stare said yes. How the hell was he always able to express so much with a countenance like the north face of the Eiger? Once these slices were in her mouth what the hell was he going to do about it? Tear them out again? She was helping him, so surely he could forgive her for helping herself? The echoes of starving wolves prowled her stomach.

  Yet the spindle chair creaked as she edged back. He’d said something about Christian being in charge of the food here. Now she was in charge of the servants too, it might not pay to disobey.

  “But of course . . .”

  “Unless you’re eating for two?”

  “Oh, I’m hungry enough to eat for twenty two.” She set the fork down. “Oh, I see. Are you telling me—”

  If she was, it was acceptable to stuff her face? Perhaps. She needed to find that portal not be shown the door though. She mustered another enigmatic smile.

  “Not yet, my dearest. Do eat, my darling. You and Fleming, both. And do forgive my forward manners. Here.”

  A hefty flagon of wine stood in the center of the table. She’d soon overlook her growling stomach once she’d had a few small glasses. She stretched out her hand.

  Mitchell Killgower dug his fork into his pork. “You haven’t said grace.”

  “Grace?”

  “Yes. Grace.”

  “But, I don’t know Gr—” Her hand froze. “Oh. That grace? I don’t think the servants want to be here all night. Let’s give them it off. Then we can—”

  “Let Dodson do it.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She forced a smile. Largely for the benefit of the old man standing against the wall with the other suits of armor. Give them the night off? Or say grace?

  “What I say. Do please fill my wife’s glass, Dodson. But, in case she can’t say so, I should like to welcome you all to Killaine House. We both should. It is our humble place to thank Christian for her charity on this great and momentous occasion for us both. Uncle Clarence too.”

  Dodson reached for the crystal flagon. She’d sooner drink vinegar than red wine. Right now though? Right now she’d swallow a whole bottle of meths if there was one.

  She strove not to fidget with the loose strands of hair at the back of her neck. That would show her desperation, although, my God, on a sliding scale of one to fifty, with one being a dribble and fifty being a dribble, a dribble was what Dodson poured. Unless it was like drinking voddie shots?

  “Cheers.” She knocked it back, held out the glass. “Another if you don’t mind?”

  “Do you really think you should?” Mitchell Killgower’s fork paused half way to his mouth.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Perfectly.”

  As if Mitchell Killgower hadn’t had enough to say for himself already, he reached across the table and stuck his paw over the glass before Dodson could get anywhere near it. Her either. Her gaze widened. She spat more mouthwash than this into the sink every morning. Swallowed more alcohol in that too. She’d thought from what Fleming had said, Mitchell Killgower might be fun, not a killjoy. But he obviously meant to do this properly and she needed to stay here till she found the portal. So she’d do what?

  She set the glass down, pressed her palms on the table. Mitchell Killgower picked up his napkin.

  “You’re going somewhere?”

  When the night, awful as it was and enough to drive her to drink except there was none, was just beginning?

  “Yes. To bed.”

  If he thought he was joining her there he could think again. Of course she pulled men on occasion. Sometimes she woke up with them too. But only after she got off her face. With one sip of claret on offer a night that would tak
e till the next century. She wasn’t going to tremble in her non-existent boots. That’s what he’d be doing if he put a finger on her.

  By the time he came upstairs she’d be long gone.

  ~ ~ ~

  Brittany hobbled across the bedroom floor, feeling the door shut in the base of her spine. She’d have sort of been long gone anyway had Mitchell Killgower not come up the stairs behind her, two at a time. Remarkable for him. Was he coming down with something? Worried she was going to steal his valuables? Deface his etchings? Or just perhaps, find a room to hide from him in? Maybe even a room with a portal?

  “You won’t mind if I get these shoes off first before you start, darling? My feet are bloody killing me. How the hell do people walk in these things? They’re far too bloody tight and please, please don’t call these cardboard things soles.”

  She tried moving away but he reached for a footstool. As ever there was that aura of power, of cool unflappability and complete control, she could understand Fleming having such trouble with. Plus, candlelight haunted the hollows of his exquisite cheekbones, the silver pinpricks in his eyes.

  “Let me.”

  “Can we kindly get with the program here? I’m meaning start about that business at the table, nothing else.”

  “And I’m meaning nothing else. Sit down.”

  He set the stool down beside her. She’d mistaken this obviously. Mistaken herself rather. After Sebastian, she hadn’t been idle. There had been Pete who’d lied about a wife down south, then there had been Atholl who’d lied about everything, particularly his friendship with a fifteen-year-old girl. Brittany had found the texts in a discarded mobile at the back of a cupboard the morning he’d walked out on her. Such was modern life. Enough said. Except that it had perhaps made her a tad jaded. She gathered her skirts, sank onto the stool.

  He dropped to his haunches, tugged the shoe. It didn’t budge so she placed her hand on his shoulder to steady herself. Not a bad shoulder. Firm, strong beneath the soft silk of his waistcoat. She’d always had a thing about a man in a waistcoat. Men from the present day dressed so grossly. No sense of style. Their jeans hanging off their backsides.

  He tugged harder. If he had glanced up she’d have given a little shrug. She wouldn’t like him to get the wrong idea. But then he tugged harder and glanced, so now she did shrug. She clutched his shoulder harder too. It was very difficult trying to sit upright on this stool, although his care of her was certainly good. She could have done with him after a night out at Skinny Joe’s.

  “Your feet appear to be bleeding again.”

  “It’s just a little dye from the shoes.”

  “Well, it’s staining the rug.”

  “Oh, do please accept my apologies, I mean, here am I probably lucky to ever walk again and all you can think about is some bloody shitty bit of carpet that probably stinks worse than this dress does.”

  “That’s not all I’m thinking about.”

  She was only surprised when a second ago he’d complained about the rug. The situation, his touch, despite the fact he was wrestling that shoe off, the fact her body was bent over his and her fingers touched his back, all lent themselves to it, though. Then there was the fact neither of them had had sex for weeks. She was a writer. She understood these things.

  She considered the sheen on his short, dark, hair inches from her lips. She’d pulled much worse in her time. Some had been absolute dogs. In some respects, it was better being with a bastard, when she knew this in advance, when she didn’t have the things she’d eaten your heart out over before—expectations.

  If she slept with him, so what? What else did 1765 have going for it? It might prove difficult looking for that portal if he didn’t clear off afterwards, but there was such a thing as sleepwalking. There was also such a thing as tomorrow when it came to looking for that portal. Be calm, her beating heart. Even now it was calm. She was nothing like her heroines that way. She always kept her gaze enigmatic for a start. These people who called her Brash Brittany had no idea. Why either. She cleared her throat.

  “I see.”

  “If you think I mind what you do, you’re wrong.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.” He set the shoe on the floor. His gaze, sensuous as raw silk, met hers in the candlelight. “Provided you wait till you’re here with the door locked before you do it.”

  “Well of course I will. What do you think I am?”

  “Someone with very strange ideas, Miss Carter. Of course, I do admit, beggars can’t be choosers.”

  “Excuse me?” This could be worse. What if she’d made a move on him? Think of the crashing embarrassment. “Are you talking about yourself in that regard, or me? Because Mitchell, I’m not that big a— ”

  He rose, walked to the window. The shutters made a very precise noise as he stood with his arms outstretched, snapped them shut, like a clattering of souls. “In the first place Christian’s not exactly generous with her rations.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “In the second, your eagerness to wolf everything at the table isn’t the done thing.”

  “A fat bloody chance with you grabbing everything in sight.” She held the breath she’d sipped. She’d gone to supper in good faith after his cheek about his prowess which many women would have run a mile from. This was her reward. “But, perhaps you still believe I’m working with Christian and you hauled me in about to humiliate me?”

  “Oh, I don’t think you needed any help from me.”

  “And yet, you ran up the stairs after me. Why was that? Oh, let me guess. Could it just possibly be that despite all that, you need my help?”

  It was safe to say so. He didn’t have an apologetic bone in his body. So she might as well apologize on his behalf. He reached for the curtains.

  “If you want me to admit that you irritated me, that I was impatient, that I could find no earthly reason for your forward behaviour, other than that you are working for Christian, then I will. Because if you’re not, you’ll need to do better. So far what I’ve seen wouldn’t convince a fly it had wings, let alone her snooping servants that you’re my wife.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Really.”

  “If this is some kind of warped suggestion that there’s only one way for me to do that, there’s—”

  “Please don’t insult me. It’s enough my son already does that. If you’re hungry, as we all are here, there’s some apples on the table in the bowl.”

  “I don’t eat apples.” Although, she was hungry enough to consider it.

  “There’s brandy too. I took it from Fleming’s room earlier. It’s not as if he’s any use for the damn stuff. Just try and keep these things for here, will you? Look, I understand how much of a trial this is. I was stupid as you’re being, once too. But I can’t afford that now. So you’ll pardon me for not joining the fun when someone has to make this look real and that they’ve been reformed by their God-fearing wife, to the servants.”

  She straightened her spine. She hadn’t been about to insult him. There’s other ways to do this, like banging the headboard off the wall, mussing the bed in such a way, was what she’d been about to say. But not if he was going to persist in thinking she was loose, something that in itself suggested he couldn’t stop thinking about it. That she was stupid either.

  Despite the fact he couldn’t help himself and couldn’t think of any of these much more effective ideas, she’d done her level best to help him. That level best may be on a par with his apology, it was nothing to her what the servants thought. Tomorrow these thoughts like them, would be dust. And if they weren’t, if there was some kind of alternative timeline, then these thoughts would be that she’d cleared off. No bloody wonder.

  She glanced at the brandy decanter. Then she stood up and strolled to it.


  “He likes you, you know.”

  “Don’t try to tell me what Fleming likes.”

  She wasn’t. So far as she knew she was simply making conversation. A complete waste with this man. He’d said have a drink. She twisted the top off the decanter.

  “Fleming has never forgiven me for his mother.”

  “You mean he knew her? She didn’t die having him? It’s just . . . well . . .”

  A drip of brandy fell on the silver tray. Earlier, when she’d thought about his celibacy, she might have been interested to hear this. Now though? She licked the drop from her fingertip. Even if he thought she was being insulting, suggesting the reason he didn’t like his son was because having Fleming had killed her, she couldn’t care less. This didn’t interest her in the least.

  “Have you ever heard of the Hellfire Club?”

  She almost spilled her drink. For this she made an exception. “Sort of.”

  “Then you’ll know it’s a club women can go to. Drink. Take part in certain things.”

  “Lucky them.”

  “Why not? I have never believed in a society where women are not allowed to do certain things.”

  Here was to the rest of that society when he hadn’t even allowed her to eat these slices of pork. Unless, by ‘not allowed’ he meant salacious things? He thought because she’d licked her finger she might be interested? That was why he’d mentioned the Hellfire club at all? She lifted the glass to her lips.

  “Please do go on.”

  “There’s also caves—quite close at hand actually—where some of these parties, take place.”

  She fought not to hang her jaw but it did that anyway. “Are you meaning orgies, Mitchell?”