Lily by Patricia Gaffney Read Free Book Online Page A

direction from nude Mr. Darkwell, and scampered out. Just before the door closed, she heard him start to guffaw.
    She stood in the silent hall looking straight ahead, face flaming, reliving it all. The irony wasn’t lost on her that for almost a week she’d been hoping to catch a glimpse of the young master, without success—and now that she’d gotten more than a glimpse, she had no idea what his face looked like. She tried hard to find what had just occurred as amusing as he did, a laugh on herself if nothing else. Or an educational experience, for she’d never seen a naked man before. But it wasn’t possible to feel anything except nervousness and anxiety, because the joke or the lesson wasn’t over yet. She had one more tray to deliver. What if, at this very moment, the master was at exactly the same stage in his morning toilette as his brother? Why this would be even more unnerving, she wasn’t sure. It just would.
    On the way back down the hall to the other side of the staircase, she succeeded in pulling herself together. She was behaving like a child. Still, it took courage to bring back a shy fist and knock on the door. No answer. Another knock, hardly audible even to her. She shook herself impatiently and gave a good rap.
    “Come in!”
    She jumped, rattling cups and spoons. With eyes closed, she pushed the door open and stood still.
    “Well?”
    She opened one eye and hazarded a quick survey of the room. And went weak in the knees with relief, for the master was sitting at his desk, fully dressed in somber black, and glaring at her from behind a pair of steel spectacles.
    “Oh, good mornin’, sar,” she gushed, flashing what she hoped was a friendly smile. He didn’t answer. His room, she saw with a corner of her attention, was sparsely furnished and absolutely devoid of clutter. She set the tray down on the bed, its rumpled sheets the only untidy element in the neat whole—which must be why the sight of it unsettled her so much—and turned to go.
    “Not there, here.” He pointed at the top of his desk, above the papers he was scribbling on. He looked very formal, she though, sitting in his own bedroom in coat and waistcoat and white ruffled shirt, back straight and shoulders rigid.
    “Oh, o’ course, sar.” She curtsied rather awkwardly, picked up the tray again, and brought it to him. When she set it down with a bit of a clatter, his scowl deepened. Thinking to redeem herself, she reached for the teapot, to pour his first cup out for him. His arm went out at the same moment and their hands collided. The teapot overturned for an instant before he righted it.
    “Bloody hell!” He whipped off his glasses, stood up, and kept on swearing, flicking his scalded fingers in the air to cool them.
    His straight brown hair was neat today, Lily though distractedly, and tied back in a queue. He had a proud face, the bones fine and jutting. An expressive face, she saw, but closed now, and cautious, lips tight, blue-green eyes cloaked. But the bitterness of his expression came from two deep vertical lines slashing down from his cheekbones to the corners of his lips. Although his tall, broad-shouldered body looked tough and ruthless, she noticed that he moved with a careful, silent litheness that hinted at enormous self-control—as if he must keep some unpredictable emotion in check.
    She bit her lips in dismay. “Oh, sar, I’m that sorry! It’s a great clumsy beast I am, not warth shootin’ for me hide. Is the pain terrible?”
    Devon recognized her then. He even remembered her name. He saw the same kindness in her serious gray-green eyes that he’d noticed that night, and felt the same pull to her. And then the identical angry retreat. “You’re Irish,” he said stiffly.
    She searched his face for incredulity, but saw only a frown. “Aye, I am.” The words were hard to say; she was conscious of a sharp reluctance to use her inexpert brogue on this man. Why? Because he was shrewd, and he would see