Lily

by Patricia Gaffney

  Scrubbing away, Lily saw his long black shadow fall across the floor. She jerked up, the brush sliding from her slick fingers. She sat back on her heels and plucked nervously at her skirts. Her petticoat was soaked, but she’d tied the hem of her gown up with ribbons to keep it off the wet tiles. She felt dowdy and disheveled and unattractive. “I couldn’t come,” she blurted out before he could say anything. “Mrs. Howe says I must finish this and then help the parlor maid with the polishing. I’m sorry. I meant to come but I—couldn’t.”

  “Stand up.”

  She searched his face. It was more than stern and remote now; it was angry. She hadn’t expected that. She scrambled to her feet, wiping her hands on her coarse hessian apron.

  “You seem to be laboring under a misconception. You don’t work for Mrs. Howe, you work for me. If you intend to continue, you’ll learn to follow my orders, not hers—at least not when they contradict mine. Is that clear?”

  Her chin went up, her shoulders back. “Yes, my lord, that is perfectly clear.”

  Watching her try to control her temper, Devon felt some of his own begin to fade. “Good. Then let’s begin again. Meet me at the park gates in ten minutes.” He raised one eyebrow and waited.

  “Yes, my lord.” She dropped a sarcastic curtsey.

  The brow went higher. But he said no more, only turned on his heel and stalked out.

  Lily thought of all the mild, ineffectual curses she knew. They helped to soothe her temper, but did nothing for her nerves. When Mrs. Howe had refused her request for an hour off this afternoon—to post a letter in the village, she’d fabricated—her first reaction had been heartfelt relief: now she wouldn’t have to meet the master, it wasn’t her fault, and it couldn’t even be called cowardice. She’d never imagined that he would actually come here and fetch her. What did he want with her, anyway? A “walk,” he said. Ha! Did he take her for an infant? A walk had been the last thing on his mind last night; she had no reason to think things had changed because the sun was shining.

  Well, she would soon find out. And regardless of what he expected, a walk was all he was going to get. She would not be defenseless, naked, and vulnerable today, and acute embarrassment would not be a weapon he could use against her. She went outside, untying the strings that held her skirts up as she went, trying to shake out the wrinkles. Useless, of course. And silly, too; if she wanted to attract him—which she didn’t—it would take considerably more than an unwrinkled gown. Or considerably less, she amended wryly, knowing it had been her lack of clothing that had stirred his interest in her to begin with. No matter—let the master see her in full daylight in her one and only gown, every patch and wrinkle in place; let him see her work-red hands and freckled nose, her bedraggled hair tucked up into Lowdy’s ancient gray cap. That should cool his interest quickly enough, and then her life could go back to what she was forced these days to call normal. She straightened her cap with a combative jerk and strode off toward the deer park.

  Devon saw her coming from a good distance away. She was taller than average, and she had an unusual long-legged stride, graceful and purposeful at the same time. He knew the exact moment she saw him because she shortened her steps, self-conscious, and looked away as if something fascinating had caught her attention at the side of the path. Her profile was lovely, and his ill humor dissipated a little more as he considered that perhaps he hadn’t lost his mind after all, or not completely, when he’d insisted on this assignation. When she reached him, she stopped a good six feet away and bobbed another curtsey—this one perfunctory, not sarcastic—murmuring, “My lord,” in an undertone.

  “Stop my-lording me,” he snapped. “No one calls me that except my valet and my housekeeper.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it makes them feel important.”

  Nervous, Lily fought a strong impulse to laugh. “I meant, why does no one call you ‘my lord?’”

  “Because I don’t wish them to.”

  He looked so very lordlike, his voice matching the frostiness of his turquoise eyes glaring down the length of his bony, arrogant nose, that this time she did laugh. But she instantly sobered when he scowled at her, unamused.

  “Why is it you’re not the least bit Irish today, I wonder? Nor last night either, as I recall.”

  Stupid, stupid, she berated herself, ruing for at least the hundredth time the foolish scheme that had caused her nothing but trouble. Even though she’d half expected something like this from him, the suddenness of the question addled her. Stalling, she started to walk, and he went along the path beside her, hands clasped behind his back. Hawthorn and wild nut trees bordered the track. A thrush twittered somewhere close by; overhead a lark sang. “Well, you see, sir, I was desperate for a job,” she began—truthfully. “When I first saw Mrs. Howe in the inn at Chard, I—I thought she was Irish.”

  “Mrs. Howe? You thought my housekeeper was Irish?”

  “Yes—um, black Irish. Indeed, sir, I though she was, and from a distance it seemed to me she even sounded Irish. So I said I was Irish, so that she would like me, and I used my father’s accent to try to convince her. He—he was Irish,” she finished witlessly. She’d though her explanation to Lowdy had sounded lame, but compared to this one it had the ring of Holy Gospel. But she could hardly tell her employer she was no housemaid at all and that she’d forged her reference! “But everything else is true, sir, I swear, and my last lady did give me an excellent character. I’m a good girl, truly I am, and a very hard worker. You wouldn’t turn me off for fibbing a bit to get hired, would you?” She looked up at him through her lashes, head tilted appealingly. He had that eyebrow cocked again, and under it his cool blue gaze was the color of pure skepticism.

  “No, not for that,” he answered—with menace, it seemed to Lily, and immediately she thought of all the other things he could fire her for. Or send her to gaol for. “Where do you come from?” he asked abruptly, scattering her thoughts again.

  “From Lyme Regis. Most recently.”

  “And before that?”

  “Oh, all over. My father was a wandering man.”

  “Was your mother a wandering woman?”

  “She was … a reluctant wanderer. She died when I was ten.”

  “I’m sorry. What’s your last name, Lily?”

  She mumbled her silly name.

  “What?”

  “Troublefield,” she repeated distinctly, looking him straight in the eye.

  He knew she was challenging him, but to what end he wasn’t sure. To laugh? To call her a liar? “An honest name,” he said carefully. “Not particularly Irish, though, I’d have said.”

  “No—my father’s mother was an O’Herlihy.” That at least was true. When a full minute passed and he didn’t reply, she began to hope that the subject of her ethnic heritage was closed, finally and forever. They were walking through an overgrown copse of fir and alder trees whose arching branches thwarted the last rays of late-afternoon sun and plunged the path into murky near-darkness. Mr. Darkwell’s park was not particularly well kept, Lily noticed. He must be more interested in maintaining his farmlands, cattle herds, and copper mines than in perfecting the accoutrements of a rich squire’s manor house. Much about him intrigued her, and there were many questions she wanted to ask—but of course she couldn’t. It would be fatal to forget her role and attempt to speak to him on a near-equal footing, as a lady might speak to a gentleman. A housemaid would know her place at all times and never presume to ask the master anything about his private life. But how frustrating—especially since he could ask her anything he liked about her private life, and she was expected to answer every question or risk being reprimanded, even fired, for impertinence!

  Just then he reached out and took her arm, pulling her down a narrow side trail that branched off the main one. Before the trees closed off the prospect, she caught a glimpse of a man rounding a corner of the main path and coming toward them. “That—wasn’t that Mr. Cobb?”

  “Yes.”


  His tone was brusque and quelling; she said no more. Minutes later they came out of the dark wood and into a clearing at the top of a cliff. The salt wind whipping at her skirts smelled fresh and wild. Sea birds cried and swooped above the pale, opal-green water, and far away she could see a pair of fishing boats bobbing like toys on the horizon.

  Rough steps carved out of the rocks zigzagged down to a narrow, boulder-strewn beach below. Devon pointed to the largest rock. “Do you see that boulder down there, the one with iron rings in the side?”

  Lily shielded her eyes with one hand and squinted. “Yes, I see it.”

  “It’s called the ‘drowning rock.’ And this is the ‘drowning cove.’ Years ago, on stormy nights—so the story goes—men from the neighborhood would light lanterns on this spot and wave them at passing ships. If they were in trouble, the ships would make their way in toward what they though was safe harbor. But the rocks here are invisible and deadly, and the ships broke up and foundered in the surf.”

  “Wreckers! I’ve heard of them.”

  “Any sailor who had the misfortune to survive was tied to that rock down there and left to drown in the rising tide. Meanwhile the wreckers plundered and looted whatever they could salvage from his battered ship.”

  Lily shivered, imagining it. “I’ve heard stories like that about the wild Cornish coast, but I never really believed them.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well… why tie sailors to a rock and let them drown? Why not murder them straightaway in some quicker, cruder fashion? And couldn’t the metal rings have been put there simply to tie up boats?”

  He smiled slightly. “You’ve a cynical nature, I see.”

  “No, I haven’t—sir. I think it’s much more cynical to believe that men would treat each other with such cruelty.”

  He was thinking how pretty she was with her long lashes and fine eyes, a dazzling green now in the soft glow of the sunset behind his shoulder.

  When he didn’t answer, Lily asked, “Do you believe the story?”

  He looked out across the choppy, white-lipped waves, remembering when he and Clay used to play pirate in this cove. They would explore the caves in the cliffside and then pretend to tie each other to the drowning rock when the tide was out, scampering up the stone steps in feigned panic when it returned. Years ago, that had been, when he hadn’t had a care in the world.

  The girl was waiting for his answer, but suddenly he was tired of talk. He wanted to see what color her hair was in the daylight. Without warning, he plucked her cap off and watched dark red curls tumble down around her shoulders.

  Lily was so surprised she put both hands on top of her head—as if he’d just snatched off her wig. “Sir!” she got out before he pulled her, again without asking, into his arms. She strained away automatically, but he held her firmly and kissed her on the mouth. She stood perfectly still.

  Devon pulled back, frowning. “I would like to kiss you.”

  He was a few seconds late with that, she reflected hazily. “I believe you already have.”

  His frown faded and turned into a wary smile. “I would like to kiss you again.”

  If he had then said, “May I?” she would have said no. But he didn’t ask, and she lost her opportunity to refuse. He moved in more slowly this time, and although she meant to keep herself as stiff as before, soon she found herself softening to him. His lips were warm—that surprised her. They brushed hers with a light, stroking pressure, and when he kissed the corners of her mouth they made a soft, indescribable sound that thrilled her. She pulled back and murmured something in surprise when she felt the wet tip of his tongue slip between her teeth. His big hand moved to the back of her head, holding her steady. She said, “Oh,” again, but it wasn’t a protest at all. For a few heartbeats she tried to feel detached, to assess her reaction to this new, intimate kind of kissing. Then she forgot. His bream on her cheek was soft and seductive; his closed eyes prompted her to close hers. A delicious warmth began somewhere in the middle of her and then spread, thick and slow like honey, everywhere. Moments passed and she sighed and opened her mouth to him when his lips demanded it, and held on to his hard shoulders when her knees began to wobble.

  He broke away so abruptly she almost fell against him. Disoriented, she watched without comprehension while he jerked his arms out of his coat of brown broadcloth and laid it on a soft-looking spot of ground a few feet away. She understood his intention at the moment he reached for her hand. She snatched it away and backed up. Her cap lay on the ground at her feet. She bent to pick it up, then turned her back on him and stared out across the darkening swell of the Channel. Overhead, a single gull screamed repeatedly in mechanical, matter-of-fact fury.

  Devon took advantage of the moment to get his breathing under control. As he studied her rigid back, remembering with graphic precision how she had looked last night, wet and naked, he felt his surprise change into annoyance. He’d wasted enough time wooing this girl, it seemed to him; they should have arrived by now at the heart of things. He’d brought her here for only one reason—a quick leap up the ladder, as Clay would say. Whether this sudden shyness was real or pretended didn’t interest him; what he wanted was to come to an understanding with her, one way or another, quickly.

  He circled around her so that she had to look at him. “What is the matter?” he asked without gentleness. “Will you lie with me or not?”

  Lily was distraught. She struggled to answer, still reeling from the aftereffects of the kissing, and straining against pride and bruised emotions and a quickening undercurrent of anger. “No, I will not,” she managed to say without crying.

  Devon stared at her for a full minute, hands on his hips. “Right. Come on, then.”

  He scooped up his jacket and set off at a fast walk, back through the trees to the path. She followed automatically for a moment or two, thinking of nothing. Then she stopped. Anger was bubbling closer to the surface and she started to tremble all over.

  Twenty feet ahead, he glanced around. After a few seconds’ hesitation, he walked back to her. “Why not?” he demanded, reluctantly.

  “I don’t even know you!” With a tremendous effort, she reminded herself that she was supposed to be someone like Lowdy. “And I—I have a young man,” she tacked on hastily. “He would not like it.”

  Devon nodded slowly. That made sense. She made a half-turn to put her cap on again, pushing all her glorious hair under it. He was baffled by the regret he felt over what he was about to lose. God, she was a tasty piece. She finished and faced him, greenish eyes downcast. He couldn’t resist. “But he doesn’t mind kissing, does he?”

  “What?”

  He caught her up in his arms again. “Your young man won’t care if we do this,” he whispered, and kissed her hard.

  Lily’s resistance crumbled at the first touch of his lips. It was as if they had never stopped, as if that interruption had been some perverse mistake they both regretted and were making up for now. She wound her arms around his neck and pressed against him, every sense engrossed and besieged by his mouth and the fervent stroking of his hands on her back. He dragged her cap off again and filled his fingers with her hair, never stopping the kiss, and she moaned her perfect willingness against his lips and into his mouth.

  Devon muttered half-coherent words of praise and wonder while he slid his hands down her back to her buttocks. They were exactly as strong and pert and luscious as he’d imagined, and his one regret was that they weren’t naked. But that could be remedied. That she had a lover bothered his conscience for less than a second, and after that he started to pull her skirts up in back, drawing them in handfuls over her calves, her knees, her sleek thighs. Lily gasped when she realized what was happening and tried to push him away. He had to drop her skirts and grab her around the waist to hold on to her. He kissed her again, ruthlessly, and rejoiced when he felt her weaken. “Lily, Lily,” he whispered, seducing her with the strength of his need. He located the buttons at the fro
nt of her gown and started unfastening them. He was half finished when he lost patience and sleeked his hand inside to hold one soft, full breast.

  With a light cry, of self-denial as much as alarm, Lily broke away again. She spun around, breathing hard, almost weeping, holding the front of her dress together in two shaky hands.

  Devon closed his eyes and listened to the heavy thudding of his heart in his ears, louder than the sea, louder than anything. Philosophically, that’s how he must take this second rejection. And it was a rejection, not missishness or flirtation. She was struggling with frustration as much as he was—that alone gave him a little comfort. When she turned around, he felt a most unfamiliar impulse to apologize. He suppressed it easily. But she looked so unhappy. “Do I take it, Lily,” he asked lightly, “that in all likelihood you’re not going to change your mind?”

  She blushed furiously. He was the most direct man she had ever known. She only wished that the answer to his question had leapt a little more swiftly to her tongue; but in due course it did, and she replied, “No, sir, I will not change my mind.”

  “Ah, too bad.” His regret was genuine. “I think you might have enjoyed it. I’m quite certain I would have.” She blushed again, and that almost made him smile. “In that case, why don’t you go back to the house? I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

  All at once she understood. She knew why he’d sent her to the park alone, and why he’d pulled her out of sight before Mr. Cobb could see them—why he wanted her to go back to the manor house now without him. He was ashamed to be seen with her.