This, her, Lily Bede, was another matter entirely.
Lily Bede had read his words for over four years. He had for her a deep respect, one reserved for worthy opponents, and a certain bizarre appreciation for her undeniable wit. Dangerous enough without having her look like the distillation of his every carnal dream. And very dangerous—not to mention stupid—to give that sort of power to a woman who had stated quite openly that she intended to rob him of his inheritance. Clearly, she mustn’t be allowed to know what weapons she had in her grasp.
For a long moment he traded speculative looks with the tall dark woman. For nearly five years she’d filled his imagination, been antagonist, irritant, and amusement. Why the hell did she have to be so achingly beautiful?
“How long are you staying?”
He came out of his reverie feeling angry. “Excuse me?”
“I said, how … long … are … you … staying?”
He stiffened. She smiled, a touch of triumph in her full lips. She might look as soft as summer passion, but she had a razor blade in place of a tongue. If given half a chance, he’d no doubt she’d use him as her strop.
Over the years he’d been in many perilous situations. On instinct alone, he’d made decisions that had meant life or death. Time and again those instincts had proven right. Right now they were screaming a warning.
God help him, he was attracted to Lily Bede.
Avery Thorne cleared his throat and replied, “Until I get what I came for—Mill House.” Then he turned and walked away.
Chapter Six
Stunned speechless, Lily stared at his departing back. Even though he’d all but thrown down a gauntlet, practically threatening her with his intention, she found herself capable of only one thought: Francesca had been right. Avery Thorne had, indeed, filled out.
The seams of his tight, ill-fitting jacket strained to contain his shoulders. The top button on his shirt had to be left undone to accommodate his wide throat and the wrists stretching the white cuffs were broad and supple-looking.
She leaned sideways and watched him stride down the hall, tallying up his too long hair curling over his shirt collar, his too broad shoulders and his too long, too muscular legs. He disappeared around a corner.
Unaware she’d been holding her breath, she collapsed back against the window, her shoulders hitting it with a thud. She glared at the portrait across from her. The skinny, awkward-looking youth posing so self-consciously stared back. He’d grown into the oversized hands the painter had depicted. Strong hands: wide palms, long tensile fingers.
Her gaze traveled up to the painted face. Bold nose, gem-brilliant blue-green eyes, and a wide mouth. The right features were all accounted for but it didn’t look like the man she’d envisioned writing those letters. She’d pictured him as being Ichabod Crane-like. He ought to be excitable, not confident. His movements ought be abrupt and nervy, not loose-limbed and self-assured.
And he hadn’t sounded like Avery Thorne should have sounded: the type of nasal masculine voice that set her teeth on edge. Instead, his voice made her shiver. It was as rich as custard, as low as a courtier’s bow, and its appeal went far deeper than simple hearing. His voice petted her psyche, stroked some deep auditory core. His voice made her feel all smoky.
With a sound of annoyance, she pushed herself upright. It wasn’t fair. Avery Thorne shouldn’t have the physique of an athlete, the jeweled eyes of some ancient tribal icon, and a voice like a big old tomcat after a successful night on the prowl. Avery Thorne was simply the most—
Her hands dropped. Her eyes widened in surprised recognition. She inhaled deeply. The most masculine creature she’d ever seen. And the most attractive. There.
She lifted her chin, congratulating herself on such dazzling honesty. At the very same time, she shivered.
She shook her head to clear her thoughts of Avery Thorne. She had her future to protect. She couldn’t afford to lose a single penny because of distraction. She’d barely managed to keep the books in the black since the wheat field had flooded.
Clearly Avery Thorne had arrived anticipating her failure. A bit premature for the vulture to be eyeing the corpse, she thought, and darn him, she wasn’t a corpse yet. Nor did she intend to be.
This distraction would pass, she assured herself. After all, she’d experienced something like this before.
At fifteen she’d become enamored of one of her father’s young protegees who had stayed at their apartments for the summer. She’d thought him the most gorgeous, fascinating man in the world. It had taken only one week in his constant company to discover that he felt exactly the same way about himself.
There was her answer! She halted again, smacking her fist into her open palm. She’d spend as many hours as possible with Avery and voila, this brain fever would disappear.
She headed for her room, satisfied with her prescription. The mood lasted while she washed her hands and re-pinned her hair and changed her blouse for something with a bit of lace at the throat. Half an hour later she went down to lunch.
The dining room was empty except for Kathy, one of the three maids currently employed by Mill House. Kathy was a very short brunette creature with a propensity for skirts too snug in the hips. At six months pregnant she still managed to squeeze into the one she’d arrived in. Much to Lily’s consternation.
“What are you doing?” Lily asked.
Kathy placed a silver fork carefully beside the best china, her face taut with concentration. She nudged the demitasse spoon into alignment above the serving plate. “Have you seen ’im, then?” she finally asked.
“Seen who?”
“Mr. Avery Thorne. He come back from Africa or some such place and is ’ere, in this very ’ouse, at this very minute.”
“Yes. I have,” Lily said coolly.
“Coo! An ain’t he every inch the bold adventurer? I’ve read every story written by ’im. Every one. He’s committed feats of darin’-do that would curl your toes. Looks it, too, ’e does. All big and strong and—”
“That will do, Kathy.” Lily had encouraged a peculiarly democratic household. Consequently, the maids often voiced opinions, sometimes unsolicited ones. “Now please explain to me why you are using the good china for lunch. Is Miss Francesca expecting company?”
Kathy positioned the last of the butter knives. “Not that I know. Missus Kettle told me to set best for Mr. Thorne. She said now that Mr. Thorne is home things is going to be run more in the way of a prop—er, conventional manor.”
Now that Mr. Thorne was home? Like a proper manor? Lily felt a nerve seize up at the corner of her mouth.
Kathy took a step back. “I’m sure no ’arm was meant, miss. Missus Kettle says five years without no one to test her cul-in-ar-ee skills on ’as been right disheartenin’ for a chef of ’er status. Least,” she ended meekly, “that’s what she always says when she’s ’ad a nip of the port.”
“Does she?” Lily asked, pleased her voice remained so calm and reasonable. “Well, in spite of Mrs. Kettle’s alcohol-infused visions of Mill House’s return to its former glory,” she raised her voice a bit—simply to emphasize her point, “I’m running this house and shall do so for at least the next two months!”
Kathy gaped at her.
“Now.” Lily smoothed her skirts. “There’s no time to reset the table but henceforth we shall use the everyday ware. Also, since apparently Mr. Thorne will be staying on with us for a while, I need you to make up the corner bedroom for him. I’m sure he’d appreciate a place to wash before—”
“He asked for the blue bedroom up top, the one shaded by the cedar.”
“No,” Lily said decisively. “That entire floor has been put in sheets. I won’t have extra work made because of a man’s whim. He’ll do just fine in—”
“He’s already there,” Kathy said sheepishly. “You wasn’t about when he arrived so Missus Kettle asked ’is preference and Mr. Avery said ’as ’ow he always ’ad that room and might as well not change �
��abits at this late date and so me and Merry turned it out.”
Not two hours here and already Avery Thorne had undermined her authority, appropriated her power, and upset her household.
“Didn’t take much time, miss.”
“No. It didn’t, did it?” Lily agreed before realizing that Kathy was referring to the making up of the blue bedroom. “You can go now, Kathy.”
Kathy bobbed a curtsey and fled. Lily stared at the array of silver, china, and crystal for a minute before realizing what she’d just seen: Kathy had curtsied to her.
No one curtsied at Mill House. Women did their work, they did it respectfully, and they were treated respectfully in return.
She’d thought her own attraction to Avery Thorne was her most pressing concern. It wasn’t. He threatened every one of the advancements of women she’d worked so hard to install here at Mill House. He had only to arrive and the staff she’d so carefully transformed into emancipated, self-governing women became curtsey-bobbing, “yes, siring,” family retainers! Which was absurd since none of them had been here long enough to have a place to retain.
A few minutes later the hall clock chimed noon and Francesca entered the dining room, a half-emptied glass of sherry in her hand, cheerfully humming a little Gilbert and Sullivan ditty. She spied Lily.
“I think,” Francesca said, “that there is something so aesthetically appealing about a man with bronzed skin and broad shoulders.”
“You’ve seen Mr. Thorne.”
“Yes. A short while back. Which reminds me, we shall certainly have to send word to Drummond to have a lamb butchered.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer a fatted calf?” Lily asked dryly.
Francesca carefully placed her glass above the china plate at her seat. “From the look of him, Avery will add substantially to the monthly grocer’s bill.”
“He won’t be here that long.”
“Won’t he?” Avery challenged as he came through the doorway. “Good afternoon, Francesca. How pleasant to see you again so soon.”
Lily turned. Avery Thorne had dressed for luncheon. He loomed in the doorway, all of his breadth and width contained by an immaculate, if outdated, jacket that looked a good two sizes too small. He’d taken the opportunity to wash his hair and it had not yet dried. It still coiled dark with moisture, dampening his white shirt collar, accenting his strong, bold features with a boyish air of haste. Lily strove to overcome her unwilling appreciation.
Avery kissed Francesca’s cheek and then, like a sated lion unable to resist the allure of easy prey, his bright eyes drifted toward Lily and came to rest with unsettling purpose. A devastatingly attractive smile curved his wide mouth. The corners of his eyes fanned in deep laugh lines and his teeth gleamed white against his dark skin. “Miss Bede, we meet again.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Thorne.” Familiarity breeds contempt, familiarity breeds contempt, she silently repeated. Then an evil suggestion occurred to her. But what if it bred something else entirely?
“I trust you found your chambers in order?” she said. “We generally keep that area shut off from the rest of the house, it being so remote and all, but we wouldn’t want you to be unhappy in your room choice.”
Avery, in the process of prowling toward her, stopped a few feet away. She forced herself not to back up. He was so damnably tall. She could almost feel him; his body sent out some sort of energy field, some—thing she could discern with a hitherto unused sense.
“I didn’t mean to inconvenience you,” he said, his smile fading. “It was the room I occupied when I stayed here as a child and thus the only one I remembered.”
“No,” Lily said hastily. “No trouble.”
Avery’s brows dipped as he studied Lily’s stiff figure. Her smile was fixed, a subtle flavor of … fear in it? He frowned. What did Lily Bede have to fear from him? Except, of course, her imminent dispossession.
The idea gave him no satisfaction. He looked down into her dark, wary eyes, noting the way her honey-colored skin glowed with a sudden flush. Too appealing by half.
“Francesca, won’t you have a seat?” he asked, turning away from Lily Bede.
Francesca smiled in startled delight. “Why Avery, how thoughtful. When did you acquire social graces?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Avery said, eyeing the heavy mahogany chair a second before lifting the entire thing out and away from the table. “I’m a gentleman. Of course, I’d hold a lady’s chair.”
He secured Francesca’s arm, pulled her into the place vacated by the chair and slipped the chair under her. Perhaps a shade too forcefully. She dropped into the seat, blinking up at him.
“I may have spoken in haste—” Francesca said.
“Miss Bede?” He rounded the table, pulled Lily’s chair out, and held it dangling from one hand while he waited for her.
Lily, also, blinked as if his actions surprised her. Was she such a stranger to etiquette that the simple act of being seated confounded her? Well, what could one expect of a household of women. “Miss Bede?” he urged.
She swallowed and gingerly moved into position. He slid the chair beneath her, pushing it forward. The edge of the seat hit her behind the knees and for a second she teetered. He grabbed her arm to steady her, and went still with shock.
Simple touch had never garnered from him such an intense physical reaction.
Suddenly he was completely aware of Lily Bede. He felt not merely the firm, lithe muscle of her upper arm, but the warmth of her skin, the smooth, velvety texture of it, suffused with her vitality. He wanted to rub his hand up and down her arm. He wanted to touch more of her. Lily Bede. His nemesis. He snatched his hand away.
Lily angled her head up. Her eyes looked brilliant. She’d felt it, too. She must have. She opened her mouth to speak as he bent nearer to her.
“I’m sorry Mrs. Thorne is not here to receive you,” she said. Her words left Avery unsatisfied, vaguely disappointed. “Had she known you were arriving I am sure she would have postponed her trip. I hope you like mutton?”
He hated mutton. His distaste must have shown because Lily’s expression became sharp. “Of course, it isn’t exactly a Maori feast. But we do what we can.”
“Maori feast?” Francesca quizzed.
“Mr. Thorne wrote Bernard a rather graphic account of a bushman feast he once attended, as guest of honor no doubt.”
“No, not at all,” Avery muttered uncomfortably. Drat, he’d forgotten all those overblown descriptions he’d written to his young cousin. “I was just passing through.”
“And what did they have at this feast?” Francesca asked.
Lily smiled. “Bugs, was it?”
Francesca’s mouth dropped open. “You ate bugs?”
“And snakes,” Lily added, unable to control a mischievous impulse. He looked nonplussed for the first time since she’d met him. Almost shy. “Cuisine de rigueur for gods, I expect. Were they delicious?”
“Couldn’t get enough of the little blighters,” Avery said, meeting Lily’s gaze and relaxing.
She was teasing him. He couldn’t ever remember a woman actually teasing him. It was a novel experience. Not altogether unpleasant. He took his seat. “I strongly suspect that should Englishmen ever discover the culinary delights lurking beneath their dahlias the sheep industry shall forthwith collapse.”
She laughed. A lovely sound, open and natural and inviting. And then, as if he’d caught her off-guard and tricked her into dangerous territory, her expression grew closed, her laughter faded. She turned toward Francesca, who was attending the conversation with an openly delighted expression. “Will you be going to the Derby again this year, Francesca?”
Still smiling, Francesca took a healthy swallow of sherry before answering. “I don’t know. I’d thought to leave next Tuesday but there’s really no reason to rush off. The Derby isn’t for three weeks. Don’t worry, Lil, I promise I’ll find out the names of all the retirees for you.”
&nb
sp; “Retirees?” Avery cocked his head inquiringly.
“Lily collects retired race horses.”
“Horses?” Startled, Avery glanced at Lily. She stared fixedly at her plate. Of course she would collect horses. What else would Lily Bede collect but his bête noir, the one remaining tie to the asthma that had molded and cursed his earliest years? Horses, to which he was amazingly, horribly, disastrously allergic. Of course, he would never allow her to know of this weakness.
“A few,” Lily mumbled just as the hall door swung open, framing a woman sitting in a wheelchair. One leg stuck straight out before her, cotton batting cocooning the limb. Her brown eyes gleamed with triumph beneath a broad, moist forehead fringed by gingery curls.
With a grunt she grasped the wheels, heaved her weight forward, and popped the chair over the threshold. Avery scrambled to his feet.
“If you would be so kind as to make room for me?” the newcomer asked. Her voice was deep and resonant with the lilt of the northern province.
“Allow me,” Avery said.
“And who are you?” the woman asked as he went to her aid, her head falling back to take in all of him.
“Avery Thorne. Miss Thorne’s cousin.” He pushed her ahead of him toward the table.
“Avery Thorne?”
Lily, apparently recalled to her duty as hostess, pushed away from the table and scooted over to the woman’s side. Carefully, but with the air of one who is unmuzzling a potentially dangerous dog, she helped to ease the woman’s wheelchair into place.
“Miss Makepeace, I had no idea you would be joining us for lunch,” she said. “However did you manage the stairs? Should you have managed the stairs?”
“A woman only does herself and her gender a gross disservice by pretending to be less than she is, or incapable of what she is not,” Polly said, unfolding her napkin and arranging it on her lap. Her gaze, leveled on Francesca, said clearly that she considered Francesca to be guilty of at least one and probably both of these flaws.
Francesca yawned. “Excuse me, I was, er, up late last night.”
My Dearest Enemy Page 6