Free My Dearest Enemy by Connie Brockway

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."
    "Good afternoon, Mr. Thorne."
Familiarity breeds contempt, familiarity breeds contempt
, she silently re-peated. Then an evil suggestion occurred to her. But what if it bred something else entirely?
    "I trust you found your chambers in order?" she said. "We generally keep that area shut off from the rest of the house, it being so remote and all, but we wouldn't want you to be unhappy in your room choice."
    Avery, in the process of prowling toward her, stopped a few feet away. She forced herself not to back up. He was so damnably tall. She could almost feel him; his body sent out some sort of energy field, some—
thing
she could discern with a hitherto unused sense.
    "I didn't mean to inconvenience you," he said, his smile fading. "It was the room I occupied when I stayed here as a child and thus the only one I remembered."
    "No," Lily said hastily. "No trouble."
    Avery's brows dipped as he studied Lily's stiff figure. Her smile was fixed, a subtle flavor of… fear in it? He frowned. What did Lily Bede have to fear from him? Except, of course, her imminent dispossession.
    The idea gave him no satisfaction. He looked down into her dark, wary eyes, noting the way her honey-colored skin glowed with a sudden flush. Too appealing by half.
    "Francesca, won't you have a seat?" he asked, turning away from Lily Bede.
    Francesca smiled in startled delight. "Why Avery, how thoughtful. When did you acquire social graces?"
    "I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Avery said, eyeing the heavy mahogany chair a second before lifting the entire thing out and away from the table. "I'm a gentleman. Of course, I'd hold a lady's chair."
    He secured Francesca's arm, pulled her into the place vacated by the chair and slipped the chair under her. Perhaps a shade too forcefully. She dropped into the seat, blinking up at him.
    "I may have spoken in haste—" Francesca said.
    "Miss Bede?" He rounded the table, pulled Lily's chair out, and held it dangling from one hand while he waited for her.
    Lily, also, blinked as if his actions surprised her. Was she such a stranger to etiquette that the simple act of being seated confounded her? Well, what could one expect of a household of women. "Miss Bede?" he urged.
    She swallowed and gingerly moved into position. He slid the chair beneath her, pushing it forward. The edge of the seat hit her behind the knees and for a second she teetered. He grabbed her arm to steady her, and went still with shock.
    Simple touch had never garnered from him such an intense physical reaction.
    Suddenly he was completely aware of Lily Bede. He felt not merely the firm, lithe muscle of her upper arm, but the warmth of her skin, the smooth, velvety texture of it, suffused with her vitality. He wanted to rub his hand up and down her arm. He wanted to touch more of her. Lily Bede. His nemesis. He snatched his hand away.
    Lily angled her head up. Her eyes looked brilliant. She'd felt it, too. She must have. She opened her mouth to speak as he bent nearer to her.
    "I'm sorry Mrs. Thorne is not here to receive you," she said. Her words left Avery unsatisfied, vaguely disappointed. "Had she known you were arriving I am sure she would have postponed her trip. I hope you like mutton?"
    He hated mutton. His distaste must have shown because Lily's expression became sharp. "Of course, it isn't exactly a Maori feast. But we do what we can."
    "Maori feast?" Francesca quizzed.
    "Mr. Thorne wrote Bernard a rather graphic account of a bushman feast he once attended, as guest of honor no doubt."
    "No, not at all," Avery muttered uncomfortably. Drat, he'd forgotten all those overblown descriptions he'd written to his young cousin. "I was just passing through."
    "And what did they have at this feast?" Francesca asked.
    Lily smiled. "Bugs, was it?"
    Francesca's mouth dropped open. "You ate
bugs
?"
    "And snakes,"