My Dearest Enemy

by Connie Brockway

  Avery smiled ruefully. Even as a lad, he’d thought it a charming piece of vanity to include a ballroom in what was ostensibly a working farm. He wondered how many balls had actually taken place there. He entered the room just as Bernard flung back the last of the ivory satin drapes covering the floor to ceiling windows.

  In near stupefaction he looked around.

  An adult water buffalo was caught forever by the taxidermist’s art, pawing the shining floorboards; likewise a stuffed tiger prowled between a mannequin in Maori warrior dress and one in Bedouin clothing; a crocodile basked in the light streaming through the windows, its glass eyes gleaming malevolently. Curio cabinets and long tables carrying row upon row of neatly labeled artifacts surrounded the perimeter.

  Everything he’d ever sent to Bernard was in this room. The frailer items were carefully protected by bell jars, and those open to the air were recently dusted. Labels identified the artifacts by year, region, and circumstances of acquisition, written in a familiar, unmistakable feminine hand.

  He couldn’t speak, had no answer for the challenging expression on Bernard’s young face. The lad didn’t understand what he’d done to him. No woman through a sense of duty alone would invest such time and effort into chronicling the life of a man for whom she had no regard. Here was indisputable proof that Lily Bede cared for him and had cared for him.

  But it didn’t make a damn bit of difference. What future could they possibly have? He wanted a family, one to carry his name.

  Without a word, Avery strode from the room, the enormity of his loss hounding his footsteps.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Bernard did not go to the Camfields’ party, after all. Pleading extreme fatigue, he nonetheless made his mother promise to attend without him. Unable to think of an excuse to stay behind, the rest prepared for the festivities.

  Consequently, the ladies entered the carriage that would take them to the Camfields looking as strained as if they were going to an inquisition not a party, which reflected Avery’s own mood to an amazing degree. The ride over was silent, except for his own vexing bouts of sneezing. These eventually escalated to such intensity and frequency that Lily broke her silence.

  “Whatever is wrong?” she asked in exasperation.

  In just as much exasperation he answered. “It’s the damned horses.”

  “The horses?” He could barely make her out in the dark interior. A deep-hooded cloak shadowed her face, only her dark red lips were illuminated by the lanterns swinging outside the carriage window.

  “Yes. I’m allergic to the wretched creatures,” he flung out. What difference did it make if she knew of his weaknesses? She already owned his heart, an atrociously defenseless organ.

  His admission for one instant shook her from her self-containment. She leaned toward him. “But I thought—”

  Whatever she thought he was not to be privy to because her lips clamped shut and she turned away from him to remain stubbornly silent for the rest of the drive.

  Upon arrival Lily fled through the opposite door while Avery assisted Francesca and Evelyn to alight and escorted them to the door, by which time Lily had disappeared inside.

  Avery entered, looking carefully around. Camfield had obviously done extensive renovation. An ornate staircase curved up from an inlaid marble floor. Banks of flowers stood in great urns on either side of a set of double doors leading into a conspicuously vast drawing room where all the furniture—at least that which Avery could see—had been set against the walls to accommodate the guests.

  Too many guests. A good hundred of them jostled and chittered and strutted with the studied self-consciousness of courting cranes—necks high, chins tilted out, eyes rabidly assessing those they passed even as they themselves were assessed.

  Amazingly, the herd seemed to be enjoying themselves. Faces were bright with anticipation, lips curved into smiles, and occasional laughter broke out as the tinkle of glass and china played like a backdrop of wind chimes to the racket.

  And Lily was nowhere in sight. Glumly aware of his duty, he shepherded Francesca and Evelyn through the reception line, nodding at Camfield, bowing briefly over the hands of his sisters and finally, with much relief, reaching the end.

  Now, where was Lily?

  He missed her in the receiving line and soon after the Camfield chits attached themselves to his sleeves. Only their brother’s intervention freed him from their attentions. He checked his pocket watch. They’d been there an hour and he was already bored.

  “I must say, Avery, you look very well in evening dress,” Francesca remarked playfully. “And how delightful to find a tailor to fit you out so quickly.”

  “Hmph.”

  “Ah! Eloquent as usual. Who does write your stories, dear?” She didn’t expect a response. Her color was high; her eyes glittered as she scanned the crowd putting him in mind of a cat loosed in a dovecote. “I know this is tiresome for you, but please try and be charming. It will make things easier for Lily if the county knows she has your endorsement.”

  “I am always charming,” he said. “Besides, Lily doesn’t need my endorsement. She obviously doesn’t give a rap for these people or their approval or she wouldn’t traipse around the countryside in trousers—don’t argue with me, Francesca—and annoy their servants with her propaganda. She’s probably wearing the damn things right now. Only in pink.”

  “Hmm.” Francesca’s smile looked suspiciously like a smirk.

  “Where the devil has she got to, anyway? You’d think she’d spend some time with you.”

  “Careful, darling,” Francesca advised. “You sound pettish. If you’d just look over there, you’d see her.”

  He looked around. Across the crowd he saw Martin Camfield. His face was animated with pleasure as he spoke to a black-haired woman whose long, svelte back was nearly naked. No wonder he looked animated. The lady began to turn. Avery only wished Lily was witnessing Matthew’s salivating attention to—Lily?

  It was Lily. Lily dressed—no, Lily undressed in some horrifyingly erotic-looking thing of sheer black silk tissue over a gleaming underskirt of flesh-colored satin. Jet beads winked in the appliqued black roses on the skirt and bodice. Her throat and shoulders rose like moon polished amber above the gown’s dusky, shimmering embrace. Where the hell were her bloomers?

  “Your eyes, darling,” Francesca murmured in amusement. “Strive to keep them in your head.”

  “Where did that come from? Lily can’t afford a dress like that.”

  “No. But I can. We had it remade to her figure. I hate to admit it, but what with all that inky hair, it suits her far better than it ever did me.”

  “No. It does not.”

  “Lower your voice, dear. You sound like a husband. And I’m afraid it does.” Francesca tilted her face up to his and grinned. “The manner in which the other gentlemen are watching her in no way connotes disapproval.”

  Other men? Avery’s head snapped up and he scowled fiercely as he noted the interested gazes of a half dozen gentlemen in Lily’s vicinity. “Impudence. Doesn’t anyone in the country have any manners? How dare they stare at her as though she were a—a—”

  “Woman?”

  For a moment he couldn’t answer. He was too occupied struggling to overcome the urge to shrug out of his coat, stalk to Lily’s side, wrap her in it, and carry her out the front door.

  “She looks delicious, doesn’t she?”

  Delicious. Damn Francesca, that’s exactly what Lily looked. Dark and exotic and gorgeous and as alien in this group as a black swan amongst a flight of egrets.

  “You shouldn’t have forced her into that thing, Francesca. She’s bound to be damned uncomfortable attracting attention like that.”

  Francesca shrugged. “She doesn’t look uncomfortable. She looks as if she’s enjoying herself.”

  She did, damn it. Her eyes glowed and her lips parted slightly as though she were about to speak, or whisper, or be kissed, which was ridiculous because they were stand
ing in the middle of a ballroom, for God’s sake. He ran his hand through his hair and compelled by a need to reestablish their previous relationship, and afraid that he would not be able to do so, he excused himself to Francesca and made his way through the throng.

  Musicians at the far end of the room began tuning their instruments. He could dance with Lily. Take the opportunity to hold her, clasp her lightly in his arms. She was alone for the moment, though several men watched her surreptitiously.

  “Lil—Miss Bede?”

  She turned toward him with an expression of relief shaded with apprehension. “Avery.”

  He couldn’t recall her having spoken his name before. It sounded wonderful, intimate, it bespoke knowledge and history, both of which he wanted desperately to continue.

  “Your dress.”

  “Yes?” Her brows rose and when he remained silent she prodded, “What about my dress?”

  “It’s …” Delicious? He could hardly tell her that. Nice? Too insipid. “Francesca said it suited you better than her. I believe she was right.”

  An amused spark lit her dark eyes. “You sweet-talker, you.”

  He felt his cheeks grow warm. “I only meant that you look very nice this evening.”

  “Like a proper lady.”

  Proper? In that backless gown? “Well, very feminine.”

  She laughed and all the wariness he’d felt from her dissolved as she shook her head. “You really are incapable of the least diplomacy, aren’t you? I mean, you will always say exactly what you think, when you think it.”

  He frowned. “Do you … do you think that a defect in my personality?”

  Again she shook her head. “No. It might make others uncomfortable, and I’m not sure it’s proper social deportment, but I’d sooner have the truth from you than lies.” Her smile grew bittersweet. “At least I know where we stand with each other.”

  He moved forward to touch her arm and jostled the woman next to him. “Lily—”

  “Mr. Thorne!” the female cooed. “I am so glad to meet you again, though I suspect you’ll think me naughty for admitting as much.”

  Avery looked upon a wealth of white-blond curls and then into the green eyes of a young woman. Who the bloody blazes was she? Behind her stood Francesca, an apologetic look on her face, with Camfield.

  “Ah, er, yes? Miss?” he said.

  Her rosebud mouth pursed. “Mr. Camfield here introduced us half an hour ago.”

  He waited.

  “Andrea Moore? Lord Jessup’s daughter?” the girl said, her expression dancing with amusement. In the meantime Camfield had secured one of Lily’s gloved hands in his own and was pulling her toward the dance floor. Blast! Sure enough they began to dance.

  “Mr. Thorne?” He looked down at the blond chit. Her lashes were fluttering up and down. Must have a piece of lint in one.

  “Jessup? Oh yes. What do you want?” he asked.

  She looked at him in confusion. “I … I …”

  Why didn’t the blasted girl speak? He glanced over at Francesca, who shrugged. The Moore chit’s gaze followed his and latched on to Francesca in relief.

  “I am sorry, Miss Thorne,” she said, “I didn’t see you there. How are you?”

  “I manage, Miss Moore,” Francesca said sweetly. “Have I congratulated you yet on the numerous placards I see in London’s shop windows bearing your lovely image? You’ve quite routed all the other London beauties.”

  The girl simpered. Avery looked past her to where Lily and Camfield had been dancing. They were gone.

  “Isn’t it a wonder, Avery?” Francesca asked.

  Where the devil could they have got to? he wondered. Suffragist or not, Lily still should have a care for her reputation—

  “Isn’t it?” Francesca demanded.

  “Isn’t what what, Francesca?” Avery asked impatiently.

  “Isn’t it delightful that Devon’s very own Miss Moore is the most popular of all the professional beauties?”

  “Professional beauty? Honestly, Francesca, I have always accounted you a reasonable woman but I haven’t a clue as to what you’re babbling about. Now, if you’ll excuse me, ladies?” He did a nice bow to Francesca and the opened-mouthed blond chit and went in search of Lily.

  “Well!” Andrea Moore, Lord Jessup’s daughter, London’s reigning toast, and the comeliest creature to ever escape Devon said as soon as he was out of hearing range. “What a rude fellow. He’s not at all what I imagined him to be from his stories.”

  “He’s looking for Lillian Bede,” Francesca explained. “You may have seen her. Jetty hair, skin like buttered cream, eyes black as midnight, figure like a Greek go—”

  “Doesn’t he know who I am?” Andrea cut in brusquely. “Why, I am told, Miss Thorne, that there are no less than five private gentlemen’s clubs in Kensington where I am toasted nightly.”

  “I’m sure there are, dear.” Francesca patted the outraged girl’s hand. “But Avery doesn’t get to town much. Too bad, isn’t it?”

  Avery spent ten minutes looking for Lily and Camfield before moving into the hallways. He began opening doors. A few of the smaller anterooms had been set up for cards, one had been secured as a cloak room, and a white-haired dame made him understand in no uncertain terms that the room he’d been about to breech had been reserved for ladies. Though he surprised at least three couples in situations they’d later regret he didn’t find the couple he sought.

  There was only one more room on this floor he hadn’t been in and then—he glanced up at the elegant curving staircase—he couldn’t believe she’d be so rash as to go up there.

  He opened the door into a dark room and poked his head through. Sure he’d caught a furtive movement out of the corner of his eyes, he strained to listen, moving halfway through the door. If Camfield had her in here, in the dark—

  “Let me get the light for you, old man.”

  Avery wheeled around, nearly colliding with his host. Camfield reached past him for the gas wall sconce. The room leapt into illumination. It was a library crammed full of leather furnishings, hung with heavy burgundy draperies and olive striped wallpaper.

  “Won’t you come in?” Camfield asked, extending his arm before him. Avery entered.

  Camfield pulled a cigar case from his inner breast pocket, flicked the inscribed silver lid open and held it out. “Cigar? Cuban.”

  There wasn’t the least animosity in the man’s face. He looked thoroughly benign, the consummate host. If Avery had found some chap lurking about Mill House, opening closed doors and such, he certainly wouldn’t be treating him to cigars. Apparently they were going to behave like gentlemen. For once, Avery cursed the role.

  “Thank you,” Avery said, accepting it and a light. He drew on the cigar with short, quick puffs. Good cigar.

  “Brandy?” Camfield asked.

  “No, thank you.”

  “I suppose these sorts of events seem rather tame and boring after your adventures?” he said, lighting his own cigar.

  “Not at all.”

  “My sisters are, in case you hadn’t noticed, smitten with you.”

  “And you wish to warn me off?” Avery asked expectantly, happily anticipating a nice row. Finally a reason why Camfield and he were having a civilized discussion in the man’s library.

  “Heavens, no,” Camfield exclaimed. “Not at all. I’d be frankly relieved if at least one of them got leg-shackled. Can’t think of any objections I’d have to you. Good name, fine old family. By all means, do your damnedest if you’re interested.”

  “Oh.” Deflated, Avery took another long draw on his cigar. “Well, I’m not interested.”

  “No,” Camfield said sadly, “I didn’t think so.” Then, after a moment, “What do you think of my home?”

  “Very nice.”

  “Been in the family … four years now.” He gave a bark of laughter. “We Camfields are Derbyshire family. My family’s manse is entailed. Thus I’m having to begin my own dynasty. Must say, I�
�m doing rather well. In fact, I’m ready to increase my holdings. Problem is all the land here about is owned. Except Mill House.”

  “Mill House has an owner.”

  “Yes,” Camfield allowed. “But who is it? Miss Bede or you? I guess in a few weeks I’ll know with whom I have to deal.”

  “Who told you that?” Avery asked.

  “Miss Bede.”

  “Chummy with her, are you?” Avery took the cigar from his mouth and nonchalantly knocked off the ash into a silver tray.

  “Chummy?”

  “You and Miss Bede. In each other’s confidence and all.”

  “Oh.” Camfield blinked as though the direction of the conversation had caught him off-guard. “Yes. Fine woman. Very intelligent and quite up on current agricultural methodology.”

  Avery wasn’t buying it for a moment. He had a duty as Lily’s—as Lily’s nothing, Avery thought angrily. He’d no right at all to be questioning Camfield about his relationship with Lily. Not that that was going to stop him.

  There was only one reason a man would pursue a chummy relationship with a woman he knew intended never to marry. For his own good, Camfield had better not know Lily’s views on matrimony. Damn him to hell.

  “What are your intentions toward Miss Bede?” Avery ground out, impatient with all this oblique chatter.

  “My intentions toward Miss Bede?” Camfield’s eyes went round and his lips slack. The cigar drooped from his lower lip. “I don’t understand.”

  “Come now, man. Miss Bede doesn’t have anyone to look after her interests and since she’s living with my family …” he trailed off.

  “I don’t have a relationship with Miss Bede,” Camfield said, still looking dumbfounded. “I admire her and I respect her, that’s all.”

  “Then why did you come round with your family to see her?”

  Camfield blushed.

  “My sisters came to see, ah, you and that necessitated meeting Miss Bede. I told them they were being insufferably top-lofty,” he hurried on. “I mean, it isn’t like anyone was asking them to become bosom buddies with the girl, is it? But an occasional visit, invitations to the larger, more egalitarian festivities, that sort of thing could hardly hurt them and might certainly aid me.”