Lily

by Patricia Gaffney

  Still grinning, Devon lay back against his pillows and contemplated the expert way she arranged her cards with her long, thin fingers, discarding and retrieving from the stock. What an elegant body she had—graceful, long-limbed, lithe. Looking at it distracted him, and partly accounted for why he lost most of the games they played. But only partly. The main reason he lost was because she was the best card player he’d ever met. Her sense of when to be cautious and when to be bold was uncanny and unerring. And her face confounded him utterly. Try as he might, he could never discover what she was thinking about the cards she held, no matter what game they were playing. Usually she maintained a pleasant, faintly bemused expression that revealed exactly nothing, but sometimes she might lift an eyebrow in seeming approval, or frown as if dismayed. But when he would raise the stakes or make a judicious retreat on the basis of these elusive visual clues, he nearly always lost. Thinking to outwit her, he switched to making wagers based on the reverse of what she seemed to be signaling—but with no better success.

  “Who taught you to play cards?” he inquired irritably after she’d scored for point and triplet without once varying the bland, artless look on her face.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d asked the question. Lily had always hedged before, not knowing how much she should tell him about herself. Her inclination was to tell him everything, but experience had taught her the bitter wisdom of caution. And yet it had been so long since she’d spoken naturally and truthfully to another person. “My father,” she answered. What harm could there be in telling him that?

  “Was he a gambler?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “What was he when he wasn’t a gambler?”

  “Mm … other things.”

  “What?”

  She frowned down at her cards, running her fingers indecisively along the edges. “An inventor,” she said finally. “He invented things.”

  “What did he invent?”

  “Nothing you’d have heard of.”

  “He wasn’t a successful inventor?”

  She couldn’t help smiling at the understatement. “You might say that.”

  “Tell me what he invented.” Just then she took the last trick and announced the new score—eighty-seven to seventeen—in a voice so determinedly neutral and devoid of gloating that it set his teeth on edge.

  Shuffling the cards for the next hand, taking her time, Lily thought to herself, Why not tell him? What harm could it do? She let him cut, then dealt again, twelve cards each. “Well, there was the self-sharpening knife. Then—”

  “The what?”

  “The self-sharpening knife.”

  “How did it work?”

  She resisted the easiest answer—“It didn’t”—and attempted to explain. “It was based on a theory of his that was more, um, metaphysical than physical, you might say. He though if you placed a knife in a particular way relative to certain stones, it would eventually sharpen itself.”

  “Certain what?”

  “Stones. Particular stones. With abnormal powers.” She looked up to see him smiling. “It wasn’t a great success, as I say. The portable folding furniture did better, but most people found it too heavy to lift. Especially the bed. I have repique, by the way—thirty-one.”

  Laughing, Devon threw down his cards. “I give up.”

  “My father also invented a version of two-handed whist; would you like me to teach it to you?”

  “No. You’ve cleaned me out of candle wicks.”

  “I’d be willing to take your marker,” she offered magnanimously. “Move over a little; we need more room for this game.”

  He obliged with a grunt. The pain in his shoulder was bearable now, but he was still stiff. He settled back and watched her shuffle the cards in her brisk, rather masculine way. “What else did he invent?”

  “He invented the ‘heatable clothes press.’ It was supposed to iron clothes in a matter of seconds, all at once.”

  “Did it work?”

  “Occasionally. But more often the garment inside would go up in flames. Then there was the ‘automatic door-opener,’ for the busy householder with no maid. It was very complicated, I remember, lots of ropes and pulleys and hooks in the walls. If you were upstairs and someone rang the bell, you could open the front door by pulling on the ropes. That one almost hanged the cat.”

  She continued to tell him stories about her father’s inventions, sometimes exaggerating their outlandishness to try to make him laugh again. Once she succeeded so well that he groaned in agony, holding his shoulder, and ordered her to stop.

  Soon after that the maid knocked, and Lily got up to speak to her in the hall.

  “Tell her I want something to eat, Lily! Real food this time, not that damn broth you keep pouring down my throat.”

  She sent him a look of pained forbearance. “Don’t peek at my hand while I’m gone,” she warned, and went out.

  He shook his head, still smiling. In the last four days she’d done everything for him—tended his wound, bathed and shaved him, fed him his meals. He didn’t know if it was luck, her diligence, or Cabby Dartaway’s noxious potions, but the gash in his shoulder was healing perfectly, without stitches, and for the last two days he hadn’t even had any fever. Now that he was almost well, he found it impossible to imagine what he’d have done without her.

  He though of the visit his housekeeper had paid him four days ago, after Polcraven and Von Rebhan had gone away and he’d sent Lily off to bed. Before he could tell the woman what he wanted, she’d announced with heavy self-importance that she would be nursing him from now on, having heard from “the Irish girl” that he was a bit under the weather. He’d eyed her with distaste, thanked her, and told her her solicitude was unnecessary. “Lily’s going to wait on me for a while, until I say otherwise. Tell Trayer. Don’t give her any other chores in the meantime.”

  “But, my lord—”

  “Why does she have only one dress? Get her something to wear, Mrs. Howe.”

  “Yes, my lord, but—”

  “And tell Stringer to send up a bottle of brandy. Immediately. The Nantes that my brother recently, ah, acquired. That’s all. Was there something else?”

  She’d clasped her sturdy, mannish hands and fixed him with a black stare. “My lord, your will is always my solemn duty to obey, but my loyalty won’t allow me to keep silent. I feel I must speak.”

  Bloody hell. “Speak, then.”

  “This girl—I’m suspicious of her. She does her work middling well, but she’s not what she seems.”

  “No? How’s that?”

  “To begin with, in my opinion she’s no more Irish than I am. And she’s devious—you can’t trust her. I haven’t caught her at it yet, but it’s my belief she’s stealing from the larder. I don’t think the character she gave is genuine, either. I think you might like to write to this ‘Marchioness of Frome,’ if there really is such a person, and find out if she ever worked for her.”

  Devon’s first impulse had been to dismiss the suggestion with a nod and a curt word. But after a moment’s thought, he’d answered instead, “Perhaps I will. Yes, I think I will.” Her look of smug satisfaction had annoyed him. “That’s all, Mrs. Howe. Don’t forget to send Stringer with the brandy.”

  He hadn’t gotten around to writing the marchioness yet, but he would. In many ways he was as interested in learning the truth about Lily Troublefield as his housekeeper was. He didn’t believe she was devious and he doubted that she stole food from the larder, but he was certain she was hiding something. He’d quizzed her repeatedly in the last few days, directly and circumspectly, trying to discover what sort of life she’d led before she’d appeared in Chard and asked Howe, in a phony Irish brogue, for a job as housemaid. But she always evaded him with vagueness. Where did she come from? Oh, she had no real home, she’d traveled around quite a lot with her father. When did he die? Not too long ago. And her mother? Many years ago. How had she come by her education? Oh, a little here, a little t
here, from a pupil-teacher her father had once hired when she was little, or an occasional book. How had she learned her ladylike manners? She’d pretended to be terribly flattered by that. She was a naturally good mimic, she told him, and simply tried to emulate the style and manners of her high-society employers. So the dowager marchioness hadn’t given her her first job? Oh no, there had been others before her. Who? Where? Different people, all over. They were dead now, or traveling, or they’d moved.

  He didn’t believe a word of it.

  She came back into the room then. Her new gray dimity frock was plain, but at least it was clean and unpatched. But he wanted to see her in something finer, silk or velvet, softest satin. Or better still, he thought slyly, in nothing at all.

  His expression mystified her. “Were you looking at my hand?”

  “Yes, and it’s clear you’re going to beat me again, so I forfeit the game. Lily, I’m as stiff as a plank; come and rub my back.”

  She made another clucking sound and put on her sternest expression while she gathered up the cards, muttering under her breath that she couldn’t abide a cheater. But these were merely diversions to disguise the flutter of nerves his request had set off. Lately he required a back or shoulder rub every few hours; it seemed, and the intimacy of the chore troubled her. No, that wasn’t quite it—what troubled her was the degree of pleasure she took in performing it for him. The last few days had been like an idyll for Lily, a lovely respite from the drudgery of housework and the loneliness of impersonation. It was a shock to realize how starved she’d grown for simple conversation, with someone she could almost be herself with. Devon, although far above her and by no means an equal, was at least closer in education and accomplishment and social adroitness than Lowdy. Lily was like her father—gregarious, a naturally sociable person—and the weeks of silence and isolation at Darkstone had oppressed her spirit. Being with Devon these last few days had revived it. He could be chilly and remote; he was often moody and melancholy. But beyond the wall of reserve that circled him, she sometimes caught glimpses of kindness, even warmth. That he trusted her was a source of deep satisfaction. In odd, tentative ways, it seemed to her they had almost become friends.

  But there was an edge to their friendship, a physical—well, say it, a sexual—consciousness that was never absent, never not there no matter how mundane the conversation or ordinary the situation. Sometimes he teased her, and then it was a relief because the tension was, more or less, out in the open. But usually it lurked under the surface, coloring everything, imbuing the simplest contact with an electric awareness that was as disquieting to Lily as it was thrilling.

  “Turn over, then,” she said brusquely as she perched on the edge of the bed, back straight, face prim. “What—what are you doing?”

  “Unbuttoning my nightshirt. Skin’s itchy; give me a nice scratch too, will you?”

  Ridiculous, she knew, to feel this agitated—she’d seen him all but naked a dozen times by now. She helped him ease his shirt over his wide shoulders, wondering at the variety of emotions aroused by just the sight of his hard, dark-furred chest. He pushed the pillows aside and carefully turned over on his stomach, crossing his hands under his cheek. She put her palms on his shoulder blades, and his groan of exaggerated ecstasy made her smile. “Silly, I haven’t even started yet.” She began at the base of his neck and worked downward very slowly, using her thumbs along each vertebra with just the amount of pressure he liked. As always, his strength amazed her. She loved the supple feel of his skin over ridges of muscle as hard and smooth as polished metal. His powerful body tapered to narrow hips, and sometimes it was an excruciating temptation to pull the covers down and satisfy her intense curiosity about what his bare buttocks looked like. Of course she did no such thing. But sometimes she was afraid she might, and it was the same sensation she’d experienced standing at the summit of the headland—that she might suddenly, for no reason at all, lose control and jump off. Today she conquered the temptation, as she always did, but her hands lingered rather longer than necessary on the intriguing strip of naked flesh below his waist and above his bunched-up nightshirt.

  “Don’t forget the scratch,” he murmured, eyes closed, his hard mouth relaxed for once in a dreamy half-smile.

  She used her nails in a light graze all over his back and shoulders, and again his hum of pure pleasure made her smile. It was no wonder he was strong, she mused, watching his hard muscles ripple and flex under her fingers. She’d known from the beginning that he was no idle country squire, but in recent days she’d discovered that he was as involved in the running of his estate as any workman he employed, and this period of enforced inactivity vexed and frustrated him. She’d also learned, from meetings she’d overheard in this room or in her capacity as message-carrier between him and Mr. Cobb, Francis Morgan, and others, that his authority was absolute, and yet his employees respected him for traits like fairness and consistency and farsightedness, not simply because he was “the master.” Lowdy had told her he was a troubled, unhappy man, at odds with the world. If that was true, she knew now that he did not allow whatever devils plagued him to intrude on his working life. He controlled them. But occasionally she wondered at what cost.

  Her musings reminded her. “I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you—Mr. Morgan would like to speak to you on a matter about the mine this afternoon. He sent a note, and wondered if four o’clock would suit you.”

  “Fine,” he grunted, pushing himself onto his back. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

  She plumped his pillows and stacked them behind him, and he sat up. She reached for the nightshirt at his waist, to help him put it on again, but abruptly he took both of her hands and brought them to his chest. It was a maneuver that forced her to lean over him until their faces were quite near. She’d learned by now that she was invariably the loser in anything approaching a physical struggle with him, and that a facade of imperturbability was her only defense. But he was opening her hands and pressing her palms to his chest, and the dark, tickly hair under her fingers was a disconcerting surprise. So was the strong, steady thudding of his heart.

  Her voice was anything but steady when she said, “I’d better go, then, and tell the footman to take your message. To Mr. Morgan. That you’ll see him at four—” She had to stop when he put two fingers on her lips.

  “You’re beautiful, Lily. You’re lovelier today than you were yesterday. Or the day before.” He was besotted, and yet he could swear it was true. Healthy color glowed in her cheeks, and her extraordinary eyes seemed brighter, greener.

  She knew she was blushing. “I’m eating better,” she blurted idiotically, “and—and sleeping more since I’ve been keeping your hours.”

  “Then we must make sure you continue to keep my hours.” He cupped his hand behind her neck to draw her closer. She smelled like no other woman he’d ever known: she smelled like soapsuds.

  His mouth was beautiful, and he was going to kiss her. She wanted it so badly it frightened her. “I don’t think you need me anymore,” she got out huskily. “I don’t think you’re very sick.”

  “Wrong,” he contradicted, shaking his head slowly. “I’ve never needed you more.” He surrounded one of her open hands with his and dragged it down the hard length of his chest, his flat belly. She only realized his intention when he murmured, “Let me show you.”

  She jerked her hand away and jumped up. Her heart was racing and she felt out of breath, and relieved and disappointed at the same time. It was hard to know what to say to him. How dare you? had an insincere ring; after all, this was only what their intimate game of advance-and-retreat had been leading to for four days. And it was hard to stay angry when he was grinning up at her with that cocky, utterly unapologetic gleam in his eye. Odd—what she wanted to do most was laugh at him.

  But she made her face stern and began to fumble with plates and glasses at his bedside. Turning away, she got halfway to the door with the tray, intending to leave without speaking at all, when he
stopped her.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  She made a quarter-turn toward him. “Downstairs.”

  “All right. You have my permission to leave.” He didn’t miss the tightening of her lips or the subtly acrid glare she shot him. “But come back in half an hour. I want you to help me get dressed. Then I think I’d like to walk outside. You’ll accompany me.”

  She made herself face him, concern momentarily overcoming her pique. “Are you sure you’re strong enough for a walk?”

  “Oh yes,” he said, folding his hands over his stomach and smiling suggestively. “I’m strong enough now for lots of things.”

  A lame double entendre, thought Lily. Nevertheless, it made her blush—which, of course, was exactly what he’d intended. “Very good, sir,” she said through her teeth. That only made his leer of a smile widen. She whirled around, dishes rattling. Something that sounded surprisingly like a chuckle followed her out the door.

  “Is it really necessary for you to hold on so?” Lily muttered, making her voice cross.

  “Why, certainly. I’m recuperating from a serious wound; I’m still desperately weak! If I fell, I could do myself a grievous injury.”

  She slanted him a disbelieving glare. He’d tucked her hand under his arm so that to an observer—and she imagined there were many, for as they strolled along the headland path they could be seen from any window at the back of the manor house—it might appear that she was supporting him. Since he was perfectly capable of maintaining this sedate, unhurried pace without assistance, she knew it was just one more of his tricks, an excuse to touch her. She ought to be annoyed. Annoyance was the farthest thing from her mind.

  But she couldn’t help wondering what he was thinking of. Not very long ago he’d been careful—insultingly so—not to be seen with her by anyone, even his staff. Now their roles seemed to have been reversed, for she was the one who worried about the appearance of impropriety that the intimacy of their new relationship created. Because she was not a Cornishwoman, she’d never really been accepted by the other servants, and nowadays she was more isolated from them than ever. No one insulted her to her face, but only because it was assumed that, as his mistress, she was under the master’s protection—at least for the time being. Trayer’s insolence took subtler forms, while his mother treated her with a silent, dangerous contempt. The maids twittered and gossiped when they thought she couldn’t hear; the male servants watched her covertly and exchanged knowing looks. Only Lowdy, broad-minded and unshockable, seemed indifferent to her fall from grace, although she badgered her all the time to know what was going on. When Lily would answer, “Nothing—he’s ill and I’m minding him, that’s all,” Lowdy would lift her eyebrows in a comically worldly-wise manner and say, “Mm-hmm,” with heavy skepticism.