Lord Avery's Legacy

by Allison Lane

  He grimaced. “Enough! I warned you that such stratagems won’t work with me. I am not Aunt Olivia, who goes into a panic every time someone sneezes – you had her waiting on you hand and foot the last time you visited the castle. Nor am I Uncle Edward, who so fears scenes that he will give in at the slightest hint of opposition. That is how you wound up with his late wife’s Sevrés china, isn’t it? But you cannot manipulate me.” He rose to pace the floor. “We must do something about Millicent. The girl lacks all training.”

  “Her governess was deplorable.”

  “Then why did you employ the woman for eight years?”

  “Gareth hired her, but he refused to discuss the servants.”

  “That is no excuse. If you ever hope to find her a husband, she must learn decorum. I will enroll her in school. There is an excellent institution in Surrey that specializes in girls with deficient upbringings. If she applies herself, she will be ready to make her bows when she turns eighteen.”

  “Surrey! That is so far away!”

  “The distance matters not. She would return home only for breaks regardless of the school’s location. Consider how much she has to learn. Her deportment is deplorable, her understanding questionable, and her accomplishments on par with the average eight-year-old. She wanders the countryside unaccompanied and sees nothing wrong with such behavior. She knows little of the world and is incapable of running a household. All of that must change. I will not bring her out to have her embarrass the family with her antics. You did her no favors by allowing her to forego proper instruction.”

  “Do what you will,” she said with a sigh, reclining with one arm draped over her eyes. “I am sure I cannot make so many decisions.”

  Shaking his head, he left his aunt to her megrims.

  Chapter Eight

  Penelope frowned, deaf to the boundary stream gurgling nearby as she pondered the latest setback. Barring bad weather, the haying would be done in two days, so they could start the timber harvest on Monday – not that it would improve their finances. Consecutive cool years had stunted the hornbeam. But overcutting would make next year even worse. Her only hope was that the more affluent landowners would curtail their own harvest to allow their trees to reach full size, creating a scarcity that might drive prices up.

  In the meantime she must tackle the tangle of underbrush that had grown since last year’s harvest. Her father had sold the oaks whose shade should have kept down the shrubs – his last attempt to avoid mortgaging the estate. But the trees had never been replaced, leaving her without the security such costly hardwood could have provided and forcing a constant battle against brush.

  Enough! There was no point in ruing what could not be changed. The facts were clear. A reduced timber harvest left her short even more than the hundred pounds Michael had lost. Covering the deficit would wipe out her last insurance against foreclosure.

  A shod hoof struck stone, drawing her eyes across the stream. Lord Carrington emerged from Tallgrove’s apple orchard and glared.

  “Good morning.” The words sounded more like a challenge than a greeting.

  “My lord.” She nodded formally, noting that his black horse matched his hair and provided the perfect foil for his green coat, buff breeches, and polished topboots. The effect was deliberate, of course. London gentlemen chose everything for appearance. When a ripple of thigh muscles effortlessly curbed his horse’s nervous sidling, she forced her eyes back to his harsh face.

  “Calculating your harvest?” he asked cynically.

  “As a matter of fact, I was. We will be cutting next week.”

  Another ripple urged his horse forward. Hooves splashed in and out of the water, scattering sparkling droplets. “Those trees don’t look ready.”

  She bristled. “Those of us living near the River Tick must cut our tithe or starve. Only the wealthy can skip a year in deference to the weather.” She immediately regretted her bitter tone, but it was too late to recall the words.

  “I am not surprised that the job overwhelms you. Estate management is too complex for females. A proper steward could make this place pay.” His face conveyed disdain while his eyes teemed with anatagonism, anger, and determination – clearly declaring war.

  Refusing to surrender, she assumed her most supercilious expression. “Like the steward who has run Tallgrove into the ground?”

  He had the grace to blush. “Scott had his deficiencies,” he admitted in unbelievable understatement.

  “Among which were greed and dishonesty. How dare you question my management when your own is so lax that he was able to strip an estate supposedly under your control?”

  “How was I to know the man was a thief?” he countered sharply. “I have many responsibilities more pressing than Tallgrove.”

  “For three months?” Her incredulity scored a hit. Guilt flashed across his face, which he quickly suppressed. “Even if responsibilities kept you elsewhere, a competent trustee would have sent an underling to check the books and judge the steward.”

  “Perhaps,” he grudgingly conceded. “But the problem is resolved. Scott is awaiting trial, and we recovered all his booty.”

  “Hardly.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” He dismounted, those revealing eyes now blazing with irritation, though curiosity ran a close second.

  Her own emotions were less calm than she would have liked. His compelling masculinity was doing strange things to her stomach. She shivered. But her hatred for dishonesty burned stronger than her distrust of Lord Carrington. She owed him any information that might help prosecute Scott.

  “He was so anxious to wrest every possible guinea from Tallgrove that he threw caution to the winds, selling many crops for prices far below market value – the cherry and hay, for example.”

  “What?”

  “Did you not know about those?” she asked sweetly. “Surely you did not believe that the missing cherry trees had died! How did he account for losing thirty-five prime trees when no other landowner lost more than one or two? He sold them to a cabinetmaker in Exeter for half their value. He did the same with all of the hay Tallgrove cut six weeks ago and doubtless had similar plans for next week’s cutting.”

  “How do you know?”

  She knew of the hay because she had considered buying some of it, but in the end she had decided that the hedge against a long winter was not worth the cost. Michael’s news the following week made her thankful for that decision. But she was not about to discuss her own business with this arrogant lord.

  “Unlike you, my lord, I make it my business to learn everything that might affect my brother’s estate. Any competent trustee would do the same.” She fought to keep her face passive as he loomed over her, his eyes clearly furious. The fact that he stood uphill enhanced his menace, for it made him a full head taller. His heat burned through her thin gown to scorch her skin. He was deliberately intimidating her, she reminded herself, ignoring the sparks that sizzled along her nerves as a breeze enveloped her in the scent of horse, sandalwood, and male.

  * * * *

  Richard glared at Miss Wingrave. She was not wearing a cap today. Sunlight turned her hair to flames, the sight burning through his mind to brand his soul. Had she deliberately left it off to lure him into another indiscretion?

  But fairness acquitted her of that ploy. She could not have known that he would ride this way. He had not known it himself.

  Wrenching his thoughts from her bare head, he concentrated on her words. How dare she imply that Scott’s defalcations were his fault? Somehow she had turned the tables, twisting his words to make him appear incompetent. How dare she! He had been supervising estates since he was fifteen. No Marquess of Carrington in history had done it better. No Avery had even a tenth of his ability to recognize and solve problems. Every man, woman, and child in the family turned to him for leadership and advice. She was the one who should never have been left in charge of an estate. She was the one whose every action mocked a woman’s rightful plac
e in society. She was the one who was plotting to trick his ward into marriage.

  Her eyes sparkled with contemptuous challenge. He lowered his gaze to her neck – resisting the urge to wring it – then forced his eyes away when they noted its slim elegance. Immediately they collided with her bosom, which was again straining against a tight gown. Did the woman own no decent clothes? His loins stirred.

  Enough! Her words hinted that she knew more about Scott’s thefts than he did. Much as he despised the idea, he had to ask for details. His responsibilities to Tallgrove demanded that he uncover all pertinent information, no matter how infuriating he found the source.

  “Scott comes up for trial next week. I do not want to miss any charges. Will you tell me what you know about his activities?”

  “Certainly, but only because Alice’s comfort will be in your hands until Terrence turns five-and-twenty.” She flashed the most insincere smile he had ever seen.

  Chasing a lizard from a rock, she sat down far enough away that he must again absorb the full effect of her being – voluptuous body, blazing eyes, red curls tickling the side of her alabaster neck… He paced the bank so he needn’t look at her, scooping up a pair of pebbles that he rolled gratingly in his palm. A breeze rustled the trees, subsiding when she began to speak.

  “In the past three months, Scott has overcut all timber, sold half the sheep and a third of the cattle, and rescinded an order for seed that should have been planted in those two fields across the lake from the manor. I also suspect he removed items from the dower house. You might wish to consult the latest inventory.”

  “Is that all?” he asked sarcastically.

  “I already mentioned the cherry and hay. His other crimes predate your involvement by years.”

  “You knew of embezzlements but did not tell my uncle?” He stared at the sunlight winking on those fiery curls, forcing his feet to resume pacing when a wave of lust caught him. If he did not control this obsession with her body, he would reveal his foolishness, destroying his reputation as an impartial resolver of crises and his image as a man of good sense.

  “Lord Avery cared nothing for his estate, my lord. And he had an unpredictable temper, especially toward anyone who brought unwelcome news. Half the county knew of Scott’s predations, but few dared mention them. The last man who hinted that Tallgrove was ill-run mysteriously fell down a flight of stairs, breaking an arm.”

  Typical Avery, he fumed in silence. Why was he cursed with such an ill-bred family? And how galling to hear such truths from the lips of an unfeminine harridan. His groin protested the description, but he ignored it. “Do you know specific charges, or is this nought but innuendo?”

  “I do not know all the ways he cheated, my lord, for I have never examined the books or questioned the tenants. But for years he has turned a blind eye to three poachers who frequent the woods and park around Tallgrove. More than once I have seen him drinking with them in the village. I suspect they split the profits from selling game in Exeter. Tallgrove’s deer are long since gone. As are pheasant, partridge, and doves. Then there are repairs. My own tenants often mention the poor conditions endured by Tallgrove’s dependents, despite Scott’s boasting of his meticulous upkeep. And I doubt the family knows that he doubled the rents two years ago, though nothing warranted such an increase.”

  “My God!” He did not question her charges for an instant, though he was furious that she knew the details. It spoke of a long-standing plot to entrap Terrence. She must be planning to take charge of Tallgrove. And why would she not? His ward knew nothing and would welcome her involvement. She could have doubled or tripled his income while still diverting significant sums to herself. “I will thank you to keep your nose out of my business in future,” he growled.

  “I should have known better than to expect thanks for answering questions about how your employee was bilking you,” she murmured. “You are another who would prefer to kill the messenger so you can ignore the message.”"

  “Manipulative baggage. I wonder if I can believe anything you say?” he muttered. “After all, females are incapable of understanding, accepting the most lurid gossip as gospel. Your father must have been out of his mind to leave you in charge of two children.”

  “On what do you base your prejudices, my lord? Stupidity? Or the arrogance that decries that I can handle a task at which you have already failed?”

  “Jade!” He whirled to glare at her, rolling the pebbles faster. “I have never failed to perform a duty in my life.”

  “Then you have remarkably odd ideas of what constitutes duty. Under your guidance, your wards are running wild and your steward robbed you blind.”

  “Be fair,” he growled. “Scott’s thefts predated my arrival. I uncovered them and arrested him.”

  “Ah.” She smiled with even more insincerity. “I understand now. You always carry out your duties. But they only become duties when you feel like addressing them.”

  “Confound it, woman!” She had done it again. Twisted his words to put him in the wrong. “Keep your greedy sister away from my ward. And if you care a fig for your brother, find a steward who can make this place productive again.”

  She rose to glare at him, her heaving bosom scrambling his wits until he could hardly recall what they discussed. “Why don’t you follow your own advice and keep your nose out of my business? This entire exchange is absurd, for your mind is closed.”

  “Words may lie, but deeds tell a truer story. And your deeds proclaim your incompetence. Anyone stupid enough to waste land on ostriches that could be better used for sheep cannot be trusted to run an estate,” he sneered.

  “Never have I met anyone so anxious to trumpet his ignorance to the world,” she declared with scathing disdain. “What did I invest in my ostrich flock? How much income do they produce? What would it cost to convert that land to sheep? Which flock would return the most, both in absolute pounds and percentage return on investment?”

  “I can’t—”

  “Of course, you can’t say! You have never even considered the questions, let alone the answers! Yet you dare to stand there and tell me how to run my business. Foolish, foolish man. But even if you knew what you were talking about, you have no control over me or mine. Face it, my lord. Even a wealthy marquess cannot force others into the mold he considers proper.”

  “I don’t make the rules,” he snapped. “You cannot move into the world you covet without conforming to its expectations.”

  “You are insane! Why would I wish to consort with hypocritical fribbles like you and your friends?”

  “Drop the pretense, Miss Wingrave,” he ordered. “We both know your game. But you are deluding yourself if you expect to win.”

  She laughed, sending his temper even higher. “Delusions are your vice, my lord, not mine. Do you think you are God that everyone must bow and scrape and do your bidding? The great Marquess of Carrington! Bah! I refuse to bandy words with a close-minded fool who mistakenly believes he knows everything.”

  “I will not allow you to sidestep the truth again,” he swore, the pebbles clicking as his hand repeatedly clenched. “You forget that I have already learned your true nature from my aunt.”

  “And you believed her? That alone proves your incompetence. Your judgment has dry rot, my lord. Why else would you believe the ravings of a vindictive, prejudiced harridan?” She stalked away, leaving him by the stream.

  “Don’t you dare leave in the middle of a discussion,” he growled.

  “Discussion?” She glanced over her shoulder, showering him with scorn. “You rant and rave without listening to a word I say. That is a tantrum!”

  “Jade!”

  The pebbles sprayed dust on her hem before bouncing into a tree. He jerked her around to face him, throwing her off balance and slamming her into his chest. But his apology froze on his tongue. Soft skin burned into his hands. Long legs pressed against his thighs. Hard nipples stabbed through his jacket. Groaning, he lowered his lips in a kiss of raw n
eed. She tried to protest, but the attempt only gave his pillaging tongue access to her mouth.

  More than access. Mastery. He ravaged its moist recesses, exploring, teasing, and finally thrusting brazenly into its depths. He lost contact with time and place, washed away by waves of heat and desire the likes of which he had never before experienced. Was this what had driven Mark to raking? This overwhelming urge to plunder and possess? To challenge and conquer? To force submission while eliciting an equally powerful response? Never had he felt such exquisite agony. He shifted his arms.

  She freed a hand and slapped him. Shock loosened his grip, allowing her to slam one knee into his throbbing groin. “Lecher! Cad! And you dare to call yourself a gentleman!” Both fists rammed into his shoulder. Already doubled over and off balance, he sprawled to the ground. Stars flashed before his eyes. “Is the truth so painful that you must deflect it by ravishing innocents? How can you live with yourself?” Tears streaming down her face, she fled.

  Dear God! What had he done? He pulled himself to his feet and leaned against a tree, fighting nausea. Defeated by a lowly female. Jackson would bar him from his saloon forever. Every Corinthian in London would pillory him. He grimaced as new pains exploded through his abdomen. If word of this leaked out, he would become the laughingstock of the century, never able to live down the ignominy.

  He staggered to his horse. Riding was going to prove difficult, but walking would be worse, for his knees could barely hold him up. How could he have lost control so badly?

  Her charges echoed as he painfully mounted Jet. She was not a woman who could be bested by bluster, verbal attack, or male arrogance. Admitting that he had employed such tactics at all was humiliating. As was the ease with which she had pricked his pride. Her points had merit. Next time he criticized her, he had better be prepared to back up his arguments with facts. And if he could substantiate her accusations against Scott, he owed her his thanks. The idea both annoyed and excited him.

  Jet picked his way across the stream as Richard shifted to find a more comfortable position. At the very least, he would have to apologize for his latest attack. No matter how low her morals may have sunk, she had not invited that kiss. Nor could he believe that she knew much about full-blown ardor. She had responded – he had no doubt of that – and in a way that confirmed she harbored all the passion her flaming hair implied. But she had not yet experienced it. He had sensed fear just before she slapped him. Was she afraid of his greater strength – not that he would ever force her, he assured himself through a wave of guilt. In fact, that burst of fear was what had slackened his hold and allowed her escape. But perhaps she feared that she might succumb to her own nature. Yet that implied that she remained innocent, contradicting Lady Avery’s sworn statements.