“Are you listening to me?” Lily touched her hand.
“Absolutely.“ Tearing her mind to the topic, Marianne focused that they were on their way to the famous House of Worth for a fitting. They would later to look at silky nightgowns and peignoirs. Such a feast of the senses was surely meant for some other fortunate woman, it always seemed to Marianne. Not me. “I like new clothes, gowns, lingerie as well as any woman. I’ll order something no one else will ever see. Something frothy.”
“Mmm. You mean transparent.”
Marianne gave her a wicked look. “Deliciously so.”
Lily chuckled. “You are very bad.”
“It will be only for me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Eventually you’ll want someone to see it, see you. You’ll want someone to love.” Lily eyed her. “Papa urges you, too, to find a good husband.”
Marianne struggled with that. “I am aware. But it’s more difficult to marry off a jaded war widow thirty years of age than a lovely ingénue of twenty.”
“Almost twenty-one.” Lily sobered, her pale blue eyes boring into Marianne’s. “After what you endured during the war, you deserve to be happy. To have a husband again who walks with you through the years would be a blessing.”
I doubt it.
The carriage turned into the Rue de la Paix and Marianne breathed a sigh of relief. This conversation was one she always tried to cut short. “I’ve searched for a man I might care for as a husband. But I haven’t found one. Indeed, I found more comfort in my nursing.”
Lily squeezed her hand. “They loved you in that rebel hospital in Virginia, I’m sure. I know they did in Corpus Christi. Among all your patients, I wonder you didn’t find a man to love.”
“I was too busy tending them to think of marrying any of them.” My own wounds from the war were too raw to think of taking another man to my bed. “And you discovered you liked the work, too. So there. We both benefitted from the nursing.”
After Marianne had gone to live with the Hannifords, she’d volunteered at hospitals in Corpus Christi and Baltimore. When Lily grew older, she went with her. Uncle Killian had not liked it, but Lily was insistent that she go. It became more Lily’s calling than Marianne’s. For that, Marianne prided herself that she’d helped Lily find a vocation she liked. For herself, she struggled to define what precisely her interest was in medicine. Saving others from disease and disability and death was a noble cause. She felt gratification that she’d offered it to those in need—and she tried not to dwell on the fact that what she needed was something more or something else. And she postponed the time when she must declare to herself what that was.
“Here we are,” Lily said, scooting forward on the velvet squabs. “I hope Madame Chaumont has arrived or at least sent a message here to our vendeuse.”
“She’s never been late before,” Marianne said. “I fear she’s ill.”
“We’ll soon know,” Lily said, gathering her skirts.
The Hanniford coachman slowed the horses to a halt. The conveyance idled and the groom was at the door, swinging it wide for them.
Lily took the groom’s hand and stepped down and out into the sunshine. She smiled up at Marianne while she adjusted her big hat that trembled in the sharp breeze.
“Merci beaucoup, Robert,” Lily said to their French groom.
“Uncle Killian says we’re not to say thank you too often, if at all,” Marianne reminded Lily as she brushed the folds of her skirts, then watched their coach drive away. “He says Europeans believe servants are not to be even noticed.”
“Well, I’m an American.” Lily looped her arm through Marianne’s. “We’re different. What do you say?”
A din rent the air.
Women in front of them scrambled to flee the sidewalk.
One screamed.
“Good heavens,” Lily said, looking to and fro. “What’s happening?”
“There!” Marianne pointed to a large black carriage that careened this way and that along the street.
“A woman’s inside!”
“I hear her,” Marianne said as the public hackney passed them in a crazy swerve that barely missed two pedestrians. Up on the box, the burly coachman attempted to control the wild horses, yelling at them.
Two men, one dark and one blond, pushed through the throng. Marianne gasped. She recognized them both from last night. The tall blond was the one from the cabaret. He was a whirl of motion as he ran and caught up with the coach, grabbing the rims of the box and swinging himself up beside the panicked driver.
His companion meanwhile ran like the wind to catch up with the runaway animal. The poor horse bared his teeth in fright and turned a corner to a side street off the boulevard.
Marianne picked up her skirts and hurried along the walk.
“Wait!” Lily yelled after her. Where are you going?”
“To see—” That man. “A woman. It might be— Oh, Oh, Lily! It’s the Comtesse.”
The huge Frenchman handed the woman out of the carriage into the street. Supporting her, he spoke to her softly. He was solicitous, an arm around Chaumont’s waist, leading her to support herself with one hand to his chest, her hip touching his.
Marianne caught up to them—and halted.
His sky blue eyes seized hers. She was riveted. So near, his features in light of day were a palette of appealing manly hues. His eyes, large and almond shaped, were indeed the color of the cerulean heavens. His complexion was flawless, tinted by exposure to the sun, while his hair, no longer slicked back but wild, curled around his ears and caressed his nape. The color was golden. And he, in his fullness, was imperial.
“Are you in pain?” Lily asked Chaumont as she hurried closer. Then she turned to the lady’s rescuer. “Monsieur, if she’s hurt her neck or back, she must not stand.”
“Do you have pain, Madame?” the man cajoled the lady in his arms.
“Pain?” The comtesse offered a small smile to Lily, a hand going to the crown of her head. She patted her lank curls, her eyes dazed. “I—I don’t think so. My hat? My hat is gone. My hair’s a fright. We will be late for our appointment. We mustn’t. Monsieur Worth will be angry.” She went on into wild laments in French.
“Do not worry, Madame,” Lily comforted her while Marianne still had not found her wits. Nor had the comtesse. Instead the woman appeared dazed.
Marianne snapped to attention, discreetly lifting the comtesse’s skirts above her ankles. She had to see if one of the lady’s legs or ankles were injured.
“Your pulse is rapid,” Lily said to Chaumont, holding her wrist. “We should take you inside Worth’s. We’ll get a chair. A brandy.”
The giant’s dark-haired companion approached, leading the runaway horse.
“Can you stand?” Marianne asked their female companion.
The comtesse shook her head. Clemence Bernier, the widow Countess of Chaumont, moaned and ran a shaking hand through her chestnut hair, her hat askew, her white glove torn and dirty. She favored one foot over the other.
The dark-haired man frowned at Chaumont, then turned to his friend, “She should not walk, Remy.”
The Frenchman nodded at Lily and her. “My friend is right. Madame le Comtesse is weak.”
“But we must go inside for our appointment,” Chaumont complained.
“Worth can wait,” the dark gentleman said, his accent most definitely English. “Monsieur Worth has a sitting room, chairs, brandy and tea. Madame needs every one.”
Lily absorbed his words as if she were mesmerized. But she shook her head and tore her attention from the dark-haired man to focus on the countess. “Can you point your toes, Madame?”
“Oui, you see?”
“Wonderful,” Lily said with a smile. “Nothing’s broken. But I’m not certain if she’s injured her ankle.”
Marianne turned to the blond man called Remy. “Can you carry her, Monsieur?”
He peered down at her with an intense regard that sent shivers of delight up her
spine. “Of course,” he said but turned to the comtesse. “Shall we adjourn, Madame? Hmm?”
“Oui,” said the comtesse with a coquette’s smile. “I welcome that.”
I bet you do. Marianne bristled at Chaumont’s joy and her own unreasonable jealousy.
“I’ll see to the driver,” Remy’s friend announced to the assembly.
Lily stepped forward to thank him for his help.
Marianne could not tear her gaze from Remy as he caught the countess up in his arms and turned to the entrance to Worth’s.
In his same formal clothes of black tails and gold waistcoat, disheveled as they were from his evening revels and from this daring rescue, he devastated her senses. Marianne could not get her fill of looking at this towering man. In the shadows of the cabaret, he’d been a phantom of her girlish dreams. In gay sunshine, he was a gilded god.
What’s more, he moved like the wind. Swiftly. With precision. Without an iota of exertion, he held the delicate countess Chaumont in his massive arms and carried her to shelter beneath the awning of the House of Worth. Indeed, he cooed to her with all the comfort of a field doctor soothing a wounded man. His kindnesses sparked Marianne’s praise, but Chaumont’s simpering dependence on him inspired her ire.
Stunned by that rare emotion, Marianne stood rooted to the pavement. Ridiculous to feel that. She did not know the man. Only his looks. Only his strength…and charm. A dangerous combination for a widow who’d known few dynamic men with debonair manners or the compelling might of a Titan.
His incomparable blue eyes met hers once more.
And she could not tear away.
“Mademoiselle, the doorman has left his duties. Might you do me the favor of opening the door?”
“Pardon. Of course,” she said with a polite bow of her head and scurried to pull open the heavy door.
At Number 7 in the glamorous Rue de la Paix, the English designer’s offices and showrooms were the epitome of elegance. Brass fittings on the walls and doors plus the spotless glass gave a patina of wealth. But the commotion in the boulevard had distracted the attention of Worth’s doorman. Suddenly, he stepped to them now with apologies and sprang to his duties. Inside, the receptionist welcomed them and indicated they should follow her up the winding marble staircase.
Marianne led the way, nervously aware of Remy on her heels with Chaumont in his arms.
In a private room Marianne took a chair as Remy placed Chaumont in another, then stood by the window. Lily, looking dazed for some odd reason, soon joined them and took her own seat. A stiff silence reigned while the four of them awaited their personal vendeuse.
“Madame le Comtesse,” Remy said to Chaumont in that melodious bass voice made for candlelit boudoirs, “will you do the honors of the introductions, s’il vous plait?”
“Ah! Pardon e moi. Of course.” She fanned herself, touching his forearm, but extending one hand to Lily and Marianne. “Mrs. Roland and Miss Hanniford, may I present Monsieur le Duc de Remy, Andre Claude Marceau, petit fil, prince du sang.”
“Really, Madame,” he said with a wince, “you need not add all the details.”
“Remy is modest,” the woman said with a titter as if she confided a secret. “He is that rare beast, a prince of the Bourbons and Bonapartes. Unique, nez pas?”
A duke and prince of two royal bloods? Marianne was in special company. But why was she surprised? She’d felt the appeal of him in so many indescribable ways long before she learned his name or rank.
He gave them a genteel bow. “My pleasure to meet you.”
The countess continued her duty. “Monsieur, Mrs. Marianne Roland and Miss Lily Hanniford, both from Baltimore and Texas.”
“I am delighted to make your acquaintance,” he said with a smile curving those lips that formed words with sensuous allure. “Please call me Remy. My friends do. And I hope we will become so.”
Friends? Marianne struggled for a breath. The last thing in the world she wanted from this man was his friendship. If she saw him again, too soon, too near, she’d want to touch him. Learn if he were real or a phantom of her lost childish daydreams.
Lily inclined her head. “I am charmed to make your acquaintance, Monsieur le duc.”
Marianne followed with the same sentiments.
“Remy, I insist,” he said with a smile at her.
“Remy,” Marianne murmured.
He took his clear blue eyes from hers and focused on Lily. “You have recently come to Paris?”
They talked about small things while Marianne tried to calm her racing heart.
A sales girl entered making apologies for the accident outside their establishment and for the failure of their assigned vendeuse to appear. She would make do, she promised, in the meantime. So she rushed to accommodate the ailing Chaumont with a stool for her feet and asked if they might wish refreshment. Only Chaumont requested a large brandy.
And to Marianne’s irritation, the countess played up her disability, if there was such, to the very hilt. She simpered and smiled at Remy as if he were her gallant knight or her fondant, a confection to lick.
Marianne set her teeth. Uncle Killian had hired the widowed countess to instruct Lily and her on the intricacies of Parisian society. Accompanying them to modistes and museums, Clemence Bernier was charged with introducing them to French food, French manners and, if the occasion arose, French men. Here was one that the opportunistic countess had an interest in herself. Damn her eyes.
When would this end? She had to go home, retire, reassess her girlish infatuation with a man she’d seen twice. In the dark. In the light. In command of all he surveyed.
At last, their own vendeuse appeared and so did Remy’s companion, the dark-haired gentlemen who’d calmed the horse in the street. This man with wavy brown hair and chocolate eyes was not only English but by his speech and manners, a gentleman. To all of them, he bowed politely and could not seem to take his gaze from Lily.
Marianne smiled to herself. It was a day for sudden fascinations.
Aside from Lily, the man was most interested in the accident of the public coach in the street and how it had come about. He related the details he’d learned in the street.
“One wagon wheel is precariously balanced,” he reported to them. “One side of his cab is caved in. He’ll need quite a bit of repair on that hack, I’m sorry to say.”
“Oh, what damage! Will he charge me for it?” Chaumont ran a hand through her brown hair, now totally loose of its pins. “I don’t know if I can afford to pay such a bill.”
“The driver claims a pet dog ran into the street. Tangled up in the horse’s legs. The person who should pay for the repairs of that hack should be the lady who owns that dog. Don’t you think?”
“I agree,” Remy said.
“We need to find that person here in the house,” he said and asked the sales woman to do just that. He wished to confront her with the details of the accident her dog had caused.
The vendeuse was not happy to inquire of the other customers.
“But, Mademoiselle,” he said with purpose, “I insist.”
With a frown, she left to do so.
Marianne focused her attention on Chaumont. The woman was lagging in not introducing this Englishman. But at Marianne’s nod, she took her cue and promptly announced him as Julian Ash, Lord Chelton. Marianne checked Lily’s expression. But at the man’s name, her cousin did not so much as blink. The dashing marquess of Chelton was a man known to them because Killian Hanniford had business dealings with his family. In fact, her uncle wished to buy property from him, but cool and calm, Chelton gave no hint of that in his demeanor. Nor did Lily. Marianne breathed more easily at that, not wishing to color any negotiations her uncle had with Chelton’s family. Besides, the only man she really wished to know was Remy.
Chelton turned to Marianne and Lily. “Tell us if you will stay for your fitting.”
“Please do,” Remy said. “I offer my carriage to escort you home.”
“Thank you, Monsieur le Duc,” Lily said, “but no. We must remain. My father expects it. No accident of rain, sleet or frightened dog amid the carriage wheels should prevent it.”
Marianne agreed. “Uncle Killian is a taskmaster.”
Remy was not dissuaded. “I have my carriage close by, farther down the street and I’m sure my coachman is attempting to pull forward amid the crowd. I’d be quite happy to offer to take you home. All of you.”
“Merci beaucoup, Remy,” Chaumont was quick to accept. She leaned back, regarding him with hazel eyes misty from her consumption of alcohol. “I must not desert my duties. I am charged with escorting Miss Hanniford and Mrs. Roland through the rigors of Paris.”
“No, Madame.” Lily had other ideas. “Thank you, for your kindness. If you wish to return home, certainly, do go with the kind man.”
“Et vous?” she asked Lily. “You also need assistance.”
“Not at all.”
“I’m uncertain.” Chaumont demurred with a coy look up at Remy.
Marianne silently fumed.
“Madame, please.” Lily was quick to continue. ”We can proceed with our selection of fabrics and styles. Our carriage is scheduled to return for us in two hours. In the meantime, we would be reassured that you are recovering if you were in your own home resting.”
Marianne sniffed. Chaumont wished to enjoy her recovery in the arms of this impressive French prince. Torn, hating her envy, she patted Chaumont’s hand. “We can finish ourselves.”
Daring Widow: Those Notorious Americans, Book 2 Page 2
