My Dearest Enemy (19 page)

Passionately, fervently, she gave herself completely over to that kiss, growing light-headed, utterly in-volved, barely aware of what she did, where she was, of anything but his mouth.

Avery wasn't so fortunate.

He was aware, too damn aware, of every inch of Lily and most of it wasn't anywhere near as close as he wanted her to be. And there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

God knew why she was kissing him. He sure didn't. One minute he'd been congratulating himself on handling her insecurities with such delicacy
and
managing to pay her a rather nice compliment, the next she was kissing him—with far more anger than passion. At least that is how it started out, but in just a few seconds anger had burned into something a great deal hotter.

In some fascinated, near-panicking part of his brain he knew that somewhere, somehow, this had to be a trick. But he couldn't think, was barely functioning on a conscious level at all. Only a deep instinct for self-preservation kept him from dragging her off that rail and laying her on the ground and covering her body with his own. The craving to absorb her, to feel her melt beneath him, to feel her soft curves accommodate his hardness, nearly brought him to his knees.

He wanted her beneath him, her mouth
open
, by God, not dragging over his with soul-destroying tantalization. He shuddered where he stood.

But the will he exerted to control his limbs could not control his lips. Her kiss teased him, made him hungry, and like a man dying of thirst and bound staked in the desert, his mouth opened, seeking more of the rich flood of sweet sensation. He slanted his head, lining the soft velvet of her lips with the tip of his tongue. On a sigh, her mouth opened. With a throaty groan, he slid his tongue deep within, exploring with sensuous thoroughness the warm, sweet flavor of her, mating his tongue with hers.

Too much. Not enough.

He moved forward, just a step, until her breasts brushed him, sending jolts of furious need ricocheting through him. With each shuddering breath she took her nipples, firm pebbles, traced a line of fire across his chest. Her thighs grew lax in abandon and he took advantage, angled between them, moving closer until the pliant weight of her breasts rested fully against him, the promise of the lee in which he stood drawing him like a magnet.

Her head fell back and her throat arched. God help him, he needed to kiss that slender column, lick the salty sheen from the small indentation at its base, gently suck the delicate tender lobe of her ear as her intoxicating, throaty purrs reverberated in his mind.

But he could not touch her, no, he wasn't touching her. Not with his hands. At least he had that much discipline. But for how long? Panic and desire rode him hard. He wanted her beneath him, by God, not simply to stand here undone by soul-destroying tantalization. Yet he dared nothing more.

Because some tiny piece of his mind that was still operating sanely suspected that as soon as he actually touched her, she'd send him packing.

So he just stood, his arm muscles bulging with the strain of keeping them from her, his body hard with ungratified want, breathing deeply, accepting her mouth in a dazed attitude of suspension, his own wildly devouring the texture and taste and heat of her.

Don't touch her. Don't touch her. For God's sake, do not touch her.

Suddenly her eyelids snapped open. With a sound of utter horror her lips broke free. "Oh, my Lord!"

She jerked away, tumbling off the rail and landing on her back. For an instant he could not move, his eyes closed in frustration and anger, and then he followed her over, vaulting the stile and standing above her as she stared wild-eyed up at him.

"I didn't touch you!" he shouted.

"I know that!" she shouted back and began thrashing about, trying to get upright.

In her frenzy, her skirt hiked high above her knees, displaying lace trimmed undergarments—Lily Bede, lace?—and improbably embroidered silk stockings. Pins flew from her head and a cascade of gleaming black corkscrew curls fell around her neck and shoulders in an inky fantasy of abandonment.

She almost made it to her feet, but her boot got caught in her hem, upending her once more. Lying flat on her back, Lily's heels drummed the ground in frustration. Finally, after long moments of this utterly fruitless activity she stopped.

With an air of one exercising great restraint, she took a long, deep breath, pushed the hair out of her face and glowered up at him. "Well," she said in a fiercely controlled voice, "you're always going on about being a gentleman. Help me up!"

"Ah. Yes." He eyed her warily. "Certainly." Hesitantly he held out his hand. With a snarl or a sob—for the life of him he couldn't have said which—she pulled herself to her feet.

"You might want to fix your… petticoats."

She snapped her skirts down over the tops of her boots and began dusting off the grass and leafy bits clinging to her derriere.

"And your hair."

"What of it?"

"It's down."

"Oh!" Her hands collected the unruly mess. She stabbed some pins into it, utilizing some sort of arcane womanly power to make it look all tidy and neat where seconds before it might have been a talisman for wantonness.

Then with another of those deep breaths, she hitched up her chin and looked him squarely in the eye. Fascinated, he waited to see what she would do next.

"I apologize." Fiery color seared her face.

Whatever he'd expected, it had not been that.

"I have no excuse for my actions. I acted like a complete… like a…"

"Like a cad?" he suggested, utilizing the name he'd been giving himself.

"Yes! A cad!" She enthusiastically fell on the word. He should have known a gender-crossing appellation, even a negative one, would appeal to her.

"I apologize and ask that we forget this unfortunate little incident."

The way she said it, so primly, so impersonally, made him see red. He'd withstood temptation before but nothing compared to what he'd just withstood. His body still ached with frustration. He could still smell her on him, taste of her, and feel her. Oh, no. She wasn't getting off that easily. Just because whatever little game she'd concocted hadn't come to fruition didn't mean she wasn't obliged to pay the price of playing.

"You might. I certainly won't," he said.

She gaped at him. "But… how can I make amends?"

"Amends?" Lily being beholden to him had its definite appeal. "I don't know that you can make amends for having"—he had paused for dramatic effect—"accosted me. But then, since you're a woman, I have no choice but to accept your apology, do I? But Lord, if the roles were reversed we would hear a hue and cry, wouldn't we? Don't let it trouble you that I find this incident hard to forget."

Her glorious dark eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You won't be able to forget?"

God. If she only knew. No. But not for the reasons he was giving out. The vision of countless ice cold baths filled his thoughts, making his voice rough. "Why so surprised? Women haven't cornered the market on sensitivity. Just because I'm a man doesn't mean I can't be offended. But since you, a woman, offer the offense, it shall be summarily disregarded."

"That's not fair," she blurted out and then looked immediately as though she wished to recall the words.

He smiled virtuously. "I agree. But then, surely
you
know that matters between our genders are seldom 'fair.' What you've apparently ignored is that women are not always the ones to suffer from those disparities."

"Surely there must be some way I can make recompense? If a man were to offer you such an insult—"

"My dear Miss Bede," he said, "if a man were to offer me an insult similar to the one you have, at the very least there'd be blood on the ground right now."

"That's not what I meant! I meant that if a man offended you and then apologized, wouldn't you accept it?"

"But Miss Bede," Avery said equitably, "you didn't simply offend me. You took advantage of my assumption that I would be safe from untoward behavior in your company."

For a second he feared he had gone too far. Her eyes narrowed, her brow lowered, and her mouth compressed. But then her hand flew out in supplica-tion and he saw that what he'd taken for suspicion was mortification. He almost took pity on her then, her distress seemed so real, but he reminded himself that whatever game she'd been playing, she'd undoubtedly designed so that he would come out on the losing side.

"There must be some way to deal with this!" she exclaimed.

"Well, if a
man
took a potshot at another man—"

"Potshot?" she asked.

"Yes. A potshot. A blow delivered to one's enemy when his back is turned or he is unawares. Considered very poor sportsmanship."

She paled at his censorious tone. "Yes?"

"Well, should I have received a potshot from a man I would simply warn him that he could expect similar treatment from me at some future date. In the interest of fair play, you understand," he explained. "At least, that's how we gentlemen would do it."

He watched her consider his words. Though he'd kept his tone kind, his thoughts were far from benevolent. He'd thought he knew this woman. That four and a half years of correspondence made her familiar to him. Damn it, that one letter she'd written after Karl's death had spoken to his very soul! He hated being wrong.

He'd expected her to be a girl as unused to male company as he was to female, but her passionate kiss related experience—with how many other men?— which for some reason angered the hell out of him.

"Well?" he said.

She lifted her chin and gave a short, clipped nod. "Fine, then," she said bravely. "I consider myself forewarned."

Lily was mortified. She could feel Avery Thorne's eyes on the back of her neck and the answering fire of humiliation spreading up it. She pressed her knuckles to her lips to stifle her moan. With each step she had to restrain herself from breaking into a dead run. She gazed imploringly at the heavens.

What in God's name had possessed her? It had seemed, at least for one instant, to be such a good idea, such a liberated idea. Now it only seemed cheap and tawdry and oh! He'd been so
offended
by her.