My Dearest Enemy (9 page)

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.

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 ringers.

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, con-ven-tion-al 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, sir-ing,"
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."