My Dearest Enemy (30 page)

He was telling the truth. There was not the slightest bit of chagrin in his expression or tone.

"What do you want to do, Bernard?" Avery asked, sitting down on the arm of the chair.

The boy's head dipped shyly. "I'd like to be an actor."

"An actor?" Avery asked in astonishment.

"Yes," Bernard said. "I should like to try on any number of roles, hundreds of different men, hero and villain. Someday, I might even write plays. I think I could write a decent sort of play." Chagrin touched his smile. "You think it's foolish, don't you?"

"No," Avery said carefully.

It wouldn't have been his choice but after his own youth and the years of Horatio's bullying he knew he would never try to force another into a prescribed mold. Whatever Bernard wanted, he'd stand behind him in his seeking it. "It's never foolish to work toward something. It's only foolish to strive for something you haven't a chance of attaining."

He frowned uncertain of whether he spoke of his desire for Mill House, Lily's desire for Mill House, or his desire for Lily. He could not deny it any longer. She was in his heart. He'd always accounted himself an honest man and he would be honest with himself.

He leaned over and rubbed the glass window with his sleeve. From this vantage one could see most of the Mill House property. Below them the apple orchard spread in a wedge from the mill pond. Beyond, sheep bloomed like ripe cotton in a green pasture. Avery looked south where hay rucks the size of small houses dotted the field close to the stables.

He'd always thought of this place as his. His gaze traveled toward the paddock in which a dappled gray, sway-backed nag chomped contentedly. And Lily Bede thought of this as hers.

"Your ambitions are worthy, Bernard," Avery said. "Mine are not so laudable. I've allowed myself to be forced into a competition with a woman whose future depends on acquiring the one thing in the world I've ever wanted."

"I don't see that you had a choice."

"There's always a choice."

"You won't hurt her," Bernard said quickly. "If you win, you won't let anything bad happen to her?"

He should have taken affront at the very suggestion, but the boy's sincere concern for Lily could not be gainsaid. "I'll do whatever needs to be done," he said wearily. "She shan't be displaced, I promise you that."

"Have you"—the boy darted a quick glance at him and fitted his eye to the telescope lens before continuing—"have you given any consideration to my suggestion?"

"What suggestion was that?" Avery asked.

"That you and Miss Bede marry," Bernard said. "It would solve so many problems."

"I don't think so."

Avery shook his head. "We are as unsuited as oil and water, as bees and wasps, as fire and ice. I have little in the way of family, Bernard, but what I do have is irrevocably bound and represented by the name 'Thorne.' I am proud of that name. It represents something important to me, something worth sustaining. Miss Bede doesn't give a rip for name or station or any of the things I hold dear. She'd burn the family archives for tinder and call it a fair use of wasted paper."

"No, she wouldn't."

"She doesn't value any of the things that I value." He said the words to purge her from his heart and hopes. To make himself realize how futile his—his love was. "Lily Bede doesn't value anything I am, anything I have done, anything I will do."

"That's not true."

"Really?" Avery asked, his voice sounding desolate.

Bernard had risen, his young sallow face in stubborn lines. "Come with me."

"Really, Bernard, I don't much feel like—"

"Come with me." His insistence so surprised Avery that he complied, trailing the lad slowly down the ladder, past Teresa's closed door, out of the servants' wing and into the abandoned corridors directly beneath his own rooms.

"Where are we going?" Avery asked.

Bernard didn't answer, but simply led him through the empty wing until they reached a double set of doors leading into what Avery remembered was the ballroom. The boy disappeared inside.

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.

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?