Lord Avery's Legacy

by Allison Lane

  Setting aside her fear, he relived those few moments of bliss when her soft lips had parted, molding to his. She had tasted of peaches and honey and warm summer sunshine, her breath sending fire into his veins hotter than any dragon’s. And her tongue! Its first tentative tickle had changed to a bold, seductive sweep, turning his knees to jelly. In three-and-thirty years he had never been so affected. The witch!

  * * * *

  Penelope closed the door to her room, thankful to have slipped upstairs unnoticed. Her face was still streaked with tears. Lord Carrington was becoming more than just a problem. He was a menace – to her reputation, to her family’s future, and to her peace of mind.

  Horrid man!

  Why had he kissed her? The caress in the lane might have reflected his normal behavior, but that could not explain this kiss. He knew who she was and showed every sign of despising her. Was he trying to compromise her so that he could overturn her father’s will? A court might accept immorality as an excuse to appoint a new trustee.

  She paced the floor, forehead furrowed in thought. Such a course could only matter if he applied for the position himself, but even his arrogant assumption of omnipotence would hardly prompt him to take on an estate and wards unconnected to his family.

  So he must have another scheme in mind. If her banker ever doubted her competence, he would demand a steward. And she would have no choice but to comply, though they could not afford such a luxury. Hiring a steward would prevent Michael from finishing school and could force them to sell the estate.

  Lord Avery had wanted Winter House. She had sometimes wondered if he wished to get rid of the ostriches, for he had often questioned her sanity in raising the birds. But his first offer had occurred fully six years after Ozzie and Cleo arrived, by which time most of the neighborhood had grown accustomed to her eccentricity and had ceased worrying that they would all be murdered in their beds.

  Memories of those early battles made her smile. She had been able to counter the worst fears by pointing out that ostriches were native to the holy land and by getting the vicar to admit that they were mentioned in the Bible. People had still looked at her askance, but at least the lower classes no longer considered her an agent of the devil. Moving the birds to an out-of-the-way pasture once they outgrew the barn had also helped. As did the fact that their field was surrounded by an ancient hedgerow so choked with thorns that even songbirds could not penetrate it. Jeremy Jacobson had been the most vocal critic. The chicks had arrived just after he had sworn his love, undoubtedly contributing to his change of heart.

  But ancient memories of Jeremy could not withstand Carrington’s overpowering masculinity. He posed a serious threat. And not just to the estate. If he continued his assault on her virtue, he might easily win, for she found his touch all too enticing. The sensations remained – instant warmth when he pulled her into his arms, well-muscled legs pressing against her own, strong hands stroking her back, the bulge that had noticeably thickened as he dragged her closer.

  “Enough!” she gasped, fighting for breath as new heat swirled into the pit of her stomach. But her treacherous mind refused to listen, instead reliving how his mouth had ravished hers with the intensity of a condemned man suddenly faced with reprieve. She staggered to the washstand to splash cold water on her flaming face. Had she responded?

  She had.

  Her knees collapsed. An experienced lecher would have noted so mortifying a truth. It had taken well over a minute to summon the will to pull away. Her fury had been aimed at herself as much as at him. But he could not know that, and he would never forgive those humiliating blows. It did not bode well for their next encounter.

  She should not chastise herself for responding, she decided, pacing the floor in an attempt to stiffen her knees. It was a natural reaction to his expertise. And she was not proof against such attentions. Her world had rarely contained even the pretense of affection. Her mother had died when she was four. Her father had ignored her existence. Only after she assumed charge of her siblings did he occasionally greet her.

  And so it was natural that Carrington’s kisses would awaken a desire to be loved and cherished, held and petted. But he was not the man to do so. At best he wanted her for dalliance during his stay in Devon, but she would be no man’s mistress. More likely he was preying on her sensibilities to force her either to abandon her support of Terrence’s betrothal or to sell Winter House.

  She could never admit that she had lied about her support, and she would never sell, so she would have to circumvent his plot. To start with, she must never again be alone with him. Awakening even mild desire could only hurt her.

  Other problems finally drove Lord Carrington from her mind. She might oppose a match with Terrence, but Alice was of marriageable age. Somehow she must amass a dowry. And then there was the mortgage. To negate Carrington’s schemes, she must make this quarter’s payment immediately.

  Composing her face and straightening her hair, she headed for the bookroom, resigned to selling her first editions. With luck, her mother’s pearls could wait until the next crisis.

  It was hard to admit that the children she had raised for fifteen years were nearly ready to step out into the world. Alice would soon be gone. Michael was so much older than his years that he would probably marry young. And she could not disapprove, for he needed an heir. But a shiver tumbled down her spine as she pictured the inevitable future – Michael in charge of Winter House, his wife running the manor, Alice happily ensconced elsewhere, and Penelope—?

  Where would she be? Playing aunt to various nieces and nephews, most likely. And biting her tongue when those in charge of the house or the estate made decisions different from her own. She shuddered. Or perhaps the pottery would expand enough to support her in a cottage. Running a business full-time would bar her from local society, but she had no future there anyway. She was already firmly on the shelf with no dowry and no prospects. Even without Lady Avery’s antagonism, the polite world would never accept her, for she lacked beauty, fortune, and feminine accomplishments, had acquired a markedly blue education, and had long engaged in unacceptable pursuits – Carrington was right about that. Years of doing a man’s job left her dangling between classes while belonging to none. She might as well resign herself to life alone.

  Chapter Nine

  Choking out renewed sobs, Lady Avery raised accusatory eyes to Richard’s. “Have you no respect for the dead? How dare you invite a stranger into my home with poor Gareth still warm in his grave? If only he were here to berate you for tormenting me. You care nothing for my feelings.” She sniffed, again dabbing at her eyes. “How am I to survive without my dearest husband? I suffer, but you care not, rejoicing in my sorrow and gloating at my grief.”

  “That is quite enough, Aunt Mathilda,” snorted Richard. “You should consider a career on the stage.”

  She sobbed harder. “What can I expect from the son of my odious brother? I am surprised you have not thrown me out on the highway, though forcing me to entertain an uncouth stranger is nearly as bad.”

  After his morning confrontation with Miss Wingrave, the last thing he needed was another scene, but Lady Avery had neatly trapped him in the morning room. He sighed. “No one expects you to join us. But I want to see what manner of man your daughter has befriended.”

  “How pointless! Forbid her to see him and that will be the end of it. You are her guardian, so she must obey you.”

  “Hardly,” he snapped, ignoring her recourse to smelling salts. He had humored her megrims too long already. If only he had recalled her manipulative frailty earlier, he would have handled her differently. Terrence was right. She was pretending grief to garner attention and ignore her responsibilities. “Millicent has learned nothing in sixteen years. Does she obey you? Did she obey Gareth? Of course not, though you are her parents. She would ignore any strictures and slip off to meet with him anyway. Is that what you want?”

  Anger flashed in her eyes, momentarily banishing tears and
weakness. “There is nothing wrong with her training. It is the same as my own, the same that any gently bred female receives.”

  “Hardly. I cannot imagine Grandfather hiring incompetent governesses and ignoring your behavior. Whatever his shortcomings, he was a stickler for propriety.”

  “Don’t blame me for Millicent’s intransigence. She has always been willful. Was any lady ever cursed with such unnatural children?” she wailed rhetorically, regaining her pathos as she dabbed her eyes with well-rehearsed abandon. “They have no sensibilities. That callous girl ignored the death of her own father. Ignored it! Not a single tear did she shed for him. I heard her laughing with a maid not twelve hours later. Cruel! And Terrence did not return home for six weeks, preferring to cavort with his friends rather than grieve. You care nothing for my loss, either!”

  “I would never mock genuine grief, Aunt Mathilda,” he said on a long sigh. “But society does not expect children to mourn as long as a wife would. Children look to the future, easily setting the past behind them. And that is good, for living in the past is suited only to the elderly. Millicent’s period of deep mourning is over. Moving into half-mourning will ease her back into the world. Receiving afternoon callers in no way insults the memory of her father.”

  “That may be, but the wretched girl has been wandering the countryside for weeks, as you yourself admitted. Her rightful place was at my side, comforting me for my loss, not arranging assignations with unsuitable gentlemen.”

  “If she had been properly trained, we would not have to deal with such misbehavior.” The steel in his voice raised another flash of anger in her eyes. “She will leave for school in two weeks. In the meantime we must end this friendship, and the best method is to discourage Mr. Darksmith, something I cannot do until I meet him.”

  “Then go to his lodgings,” she demanded. “Millicent is too young to receive gentlemen callers. You corrupt her by playing out this charade.”

  “Corrupt her?” he demanded incredulously. “She has been receiving a gentleman caller for at least a fortnight without even a chaperon in attendance, a fact that will ruin her if it becomes public. She has wandered the countryside unescorted since her governess eloped nearly a year ago. Were you even aware of that, madam?”

  Her white face was all the answer he needed. “All the more reason to prevent this unacceptable liaison,” she countered. “You should call on him and warn him away.”

  He had considered doing so but preferred to observe Darksmith and Millicent together. A fortune hunter would have much to worry about during this proposed call, for he would share the room with two people who must be treated quite differently. “The arrangements are made,” he told her with finality.

  “You care nothing for me,” she wailed, again breaking into sobs. “How can you invite a stranger into my home during my mourning?”

  He had endured enough histrionics. “Madam, you forget yourself. This house belongs to Lord Avery. Like his sister, he is no longer in deep mourning and is looking to the future. If you must continue to wallow in the past, perhaps you should remove to the dower house.”

  Leaving her gasping in shock, he headed for his room. The idea of moving her was not a new one. She must eventually make the transition. Though sparsely furnished, the dower house was a charming Restoration structure that remained in excellent condition. Terrence would not marry for years, but he had no real need to keep his mother in the manor. She was doing nothing to order the place. Of course, she would be equally inept at running her own establishment, so it might be better to keep her where she was. The new housekeeper answered to the steward. Terrence and Millicent would be away at school.

  He nodded. The dower house would remain closed. He was well on his way to resolving the problem of Millicent, which left only Terrence. Miss Wingrave would soon abandon her plots. Despite her blustering, she was too astute to wait five years for any financial rewards. So he need not fear that Alice would elope with his ward. That relationship would die a natural death. But Terrence was nearly as nonsensical about women as their cousin Reggie had been and would undoubtedly fall top over tail for some other chit. Thus a servant must keep an eye on him when he returned to school. As long as Terrence held the romantic notion that he could live without an allowance, he could be counted on to behave stupidly.

  Richard shook his head, praying that no one could see past his reputation. He would never really cut the boy off, even if he eloped with the scheming Alice Wingrave.

  Pushing the admission aside, he summoned Kesterton and changed for tea.

  * * * *

  “Mr. Mortimer Darksmith,” announced Barton.

  “My dear Miss Avery,” Darksmith gushed, lifting her hand to his lips and bringing a rosy glow to her face. “You rival the sun, the moon, and the stars combined, that golden gown providing the perfect setting for a diamond of the first water.” Richard frowned at the realization that Millicent was not even wearing half-mourning this day, but Darksmith’s effusive words swept on. “It is stunning but cannot do you justice, my dear. You should be arrayed in silk and satin, not simple muslin. But we will speak of that another time. Your invitation overwhelmed me with delight. I trust you are well today.”

  She simpered. “Of course, dear sir. And I am pleased to entertain you properly at last.” She poured tea.

  Darksmith’s face twisted into sadness at this reference to mourning. “The recent months have been difficult for you, as I well know. And for me also. Your father was a good man who will be sorely missed. But it is time to move on, to face the future free of tears, to take your place in a wider world than this small corner of Devon. Entertaining callers such as my poor self is but the first of a string of social triumphs, for you will surely put London’s top hostesses to shame.”

  “How kind of you to think so, but no occasion will mean more than today. No gathering can surpass one that includes you,” she responded boldly, sending Richard’s spirits into his boots. “My dearest Mortimer, allow me to introduce my guardian, the Marquess of Carrington.”

  Richard acknowledged the visitor coolly. Darksmith was clearly trouble. The man was handsome, though his clothes were flamboyant enough to make Brummell cringe – a close-cut blue coat with hugely padded shoulders and enormous lapels, a gaudy blue-and-red striped waistcoat, skintight buckskin breeches, and gold-tasseled Hessians. Seven fobs dangled from his waist, and his cravat pressed his shirt-points dangerously close to his eyes.

  But if dandyism was not a crime, his expression should be. A green chit like Millicent would interpret it as all-consuming infatuation. But a more experienced eye saw an oily rogue of great cunning, a poisonous snake who lived by his wits, a determined trickster who would allow nothing to divert him from his goal.

  What did the man want? Darksmith’s eyes roamed the room as he exchanged light talk with his host. But they displayed no sign of greed. They were looking for something – and not marriage. He might enjoy dalliance with Millicent – she was bold and good-looking – but that was not his primary purpose. Millicent’s claims aside, he must be well past thirty and would not enjoy the charms of a sixteen-year-old for long.

  Richard made another bland observation on the weather while he considered his guest. Eloping with an heiress or expecting an irate guardian to buy him off did not fit the man accepting a slice of seedcake from a blushing Millicent. So Darksmith was not the usual fortune hunter. But that left only the more sinister motives. Perhaps the man hoped to injure Gareth’s family by ruining its daughter. Richard knew of nothing that might invite revenge, but he was not well-acquainted with this branch of the Averys. Or maybe Darksmith wished to gain access to the house for the purpose of theft. Yet Gareth possessed nothing of value, and Darksmith would be the first suspect if anything went missing.

  “You are in the area on business, I hear,” he commented when they had exhausted the usual drawing room subjects and Darksmith had put him off his food with flowery effusions comparing Millicent’s beauty to a spring da
y, her freshness to dew-drenched violets, and her charm to any number of well-known society ladies – some of whom possessed so little charm that the man could not possibly have met them. Millicent basked in the insincere words, preening and simpering like a besotted fool.

  Darksmith donned a somber expression. “It is most distressing. My uncle recently died, leaving me his estate. But I cannot yet take charge of it, for a stranger swears that it actually belongs to him. It threw my aunt into hysterics, as you can imagine. His claim is clearly preposterous, but proving it is becoming a tedious chore.”

  “Is the estate in Devon?”

  “No, no. It is in the North Riding of Yorkshire. A small estate that I would not expect you to know, my lord. Our ancestors purchased the land from an Exeter family who now deny that any sale took place. Lord Avery was helping me prove the transfer.”

  Richard raised a quizzical brow. A solicitor would be far more qualified to handle a legal matter, but he held his tongue. “I would not have thought my uncle was either canny enough or philanthropical enough to have done so, but I obviously do the man an injustice.”

  Darksmith nodded.

  “But where is your own home?”