Daring Widow: Those Notorious Americans, Book 2

by Cerise DeLand

  “If you think it possible,” Chaumont postured prettily.

  “I do,” Marianne said, so conflicted that she was not able to discern if she wished the woman to go or stay.

  “I insist,” said Lily.

  The vendeuse reappeared. “Pardon. The lady in question with the naughty dog is the Grand Duchess of Volenska.”

  Remy frowned at his friend. “Anna Drobova.”

  “Trouble?” Chelton asked him.

  Remy rolled his eyes. “No angel.”

  “It matters not.” Chelton inclined his head to Chaumont, Lily and her. “I will leave you and discuss certain financial matters with the grand duchess. It was my pleasure to see you again, Madame le Comtesse. And a pleasure to meet both of you, Mrs. Roland and Miss Hanniford. Remy, I leave you to assist Madame. When your carriage arrives, I’ll have the doorman summon you both. Good day.”

  “I cannot leave you.” Chaumont did protest too much. “My duty is here.”

  “No, Madame,” Marianne said to her with finality. “You should return home. You’ve had a fright.”

  “Quite right,” Remy took up the cause, polite but firm. “You shall come with Chelton and me, Comtesse. It’s best that we leave these ladies to their dressmaker.”

  Marianne and Lily bid them adieu, standing as Remy carried the countess out of the room.

  “Oh, my,” said Lily after they’d gone. She was pale, her voice soft, a hand to her throat. “That was exciting. Papa knows him, you realize.”

  Lily meant Chelton. Clearly, by her dreamy expression, she was taken by him. “I do. He is quite handsome.”

  Lily blinked and looked askance at her. “Come now. You much prefer the duke.”

  “He is…arresting.”

  “Arresting?” she blurted.

  Why prevaricate? “The height, the hair, the power of him. Yes.”

  “Ah, ah. I know that tone. You saw him as a subject to draw.”

  “I did,” she admitted. Lily had often watched her discover a passion to draw a flower, a scampering squirrel or a baby.

  “It’s a wonder you haven’t sketched him yet.”

  But I did. Last night. With three good portraits as my prize. But seeing him today, I realize none of them does justice to him. “He does have one imperfection.”

  Lily hooted. “Really? Pray tell, what could that be?”

  Marianne tapped the tip of her nose. “He is very Gallic. The nose is out of proportion. Too long.”

  Lily rolled her eyes. “And I must eat my hat.”

  The Parisian vendeuse reappeared, narrowed her eyes and attempted a smile. She pointed toward the hall. “Madame e Mademoiselle, we are ready for the fitting, oui?”

  “Oui.” Marianne was quick to nod and sailed past Lily to the hall and the dressing rooms. “We are so very ready.”

  She must put the honorable Andre Claude Marceau, the Duc de Remy, from her mind. He was beyond her reach. Last night he had appeared to her as a handsome creature who frequented cabarets, drank wine and sketched lewd dancers. Today, he became a savior of ladies in distress. Even in his rumpled evening clothes, he was larger than her memory of him, a giant of might and manners, to say nothing of the fact that he was also a royal. All of which implied he was most likely a rogue of the first water. He probably had a wife and a mistress or two. Remy was no man who wished for a dalliance with the penniless thirty-year-old widow of a Virginia farmer, living off the good graces of her very rich and very generous maternal uncle.

  Chaumont clung to him like moss on a rock. Remy might have laughed, but he’d not insult her. The woman was indeed injured, her left ankle swelling even as it lay propped on the opposite seat of his carriage.

  Chelton caught his gaze and wrinkled a rueful brow. “I do hope you will take care of that ankle, Madame. The quicker you ice it, the sooner you will have full use of your limb.”

  “I will, Monsieur le Marquis, I will.” She squeezed Remy’s upper arm.

  “We did well to aid them, Julian. You did wonders with the horse.” Remy arched both brows at his friend whom he usually addressed by his given name. He’d noted Julian’s interest in Lily Hanniford and wondered if it was only her beauty that drew him or if it was that Julian had business dealings with her father. As for himself, he was dejected that the delicate blonde with the mysterious emerald eyes was married. Remy envied the man who had her to hand. He hoped to heaven that man was wise and reveled in the arch of her cheek and the fullness of those lips.

  He shifted amid the leather cushions, his stab of desire for her sharp.

  He prayed to god she was wed to a man who relished her. For if she were his, he’d lay her out as if she were a horde of platinum gold. His fingers twitched. He winced. He’d have to try to recreate her. She was too exquisite to forget, nearly too perfect for most mortals to contemplate. But was it not his duty to show others the perfections of this world along with the distortions?

  Julian stirred, focusing on Chaumont. “How do you know Miss Hanniford and Mrs. Roland?”

  Remy caught his breath and snapped to his senses.

  Chaumont tipped up her head and put on her public face. “I have agreed to show them Paris. They are Americans, you realize, and so—” She waved a hand to denote they could be dismissed as déclassé. “They need a guide to ease their social path.”

  Remy winked at Julian. What Chaumont meant was that fees earned escorting nouveau riche Americans around Paris would fatten her pitifully thin purse. With such purpose, she could once more grace salons and ballrooms in finer attire than she’d been able to since her elderly husband had gone suddenly last year toes up into his family crypt in the Montmartre Cimetière.

  “Good of you to aid them, Madame,” Remy said.

  “It is nothing,” she said with a lift of one shoulder.

  Julian ran a finger across his lips. “You’ve met Killian Hanniford, the young lady’s father?”

  “I have,” she said with pride. “He is formidable.”

  “To say the least,” Julian agreed.

  “You know the man?” she asked, surprise in her tone.

  Julian nodded. “I do. Quite well.”

  “Mademoiselle Hanniford is lovely,” Remy said, attempting to lead her to more revelations. “Suits her name. How old is she?”

  “Twenty. Untouched. A beauty with all that black hair and those large blue eyes.”

  Julian said nothing but Remy knew his friend well and the intent look on his face told a tale of curiosity about the American girl with such striking features.

  “They are here for a few months and then we are all on to London.”

  “For the Season?” Remy asked because Julian had directed his attention out the window, lost in some thoughts that made him frown.

  “Oui. I am to do what I can for introductions. You are my first, Monsieur le Marquis. And you, Monsieur le duc. If you see them in the future, you must do your duty, aid me, introduce them as they should be. Say you will.”

  “Of course,” Julian said, casting the duty off absentmindedly.

  “I will,” Remy agreed.

  “Is your Mama up to a dinner party?”

  His mother, at the grand age of seventy-five, held on to her position with an iron glove. As a primiere Bourbon princesse and also a descendant of a minor Bonaparte, she was welcome everywhere. Refined and discerning, a fixture of the Second Empire circles, she was a scion who had become more valued and more fragile these past few years. Yet once a week, she exerted herself and took her weekly champagne luncheons at her favorite restaurant with her friends. Afterward, as she did every other day of the week, she’d retire straightaway to her wing of their house in the Rue de Rivoli at four in the afternoon. She’d last hosted a party during the uprising of the Commune in 1870 and that, so fumed the haute ton in astonishment, was to feed the starving little orphans in St. Bartolome’s parish school. Now a dinner party seemed out of the question for her. But Remy would play the gentleman here. “I will ask her.”

&
nbsp; “Oh, do!” Chaumont put a hand to his chest. “At your house in Rue de Rivoli.”

  “There, oui.”

  ”Not your chateau in Tours,” she added. “Too big. Too far away. And the one in Montmartre would not be appropriate, either. All that dust and plaster, Remy.” Chaumont forgot herself, slipping into the more familiar name of his title. He’d never invited her to use it and she immediately blushed. “Forgive me, Monsieur. The moment, you realize. My ankle.”

  “I do. Please do address me as Remy. We are friends, oui? Of many years.” He’d lead her on, needing her friendship…and her knowledge of the fabulous blonde beauty whose essence struck him to the quick.

  “Oh, indeed, we are,” she eagerly agreed, her hazel eyes dancing at the new intimacy. “You must call me Clemence.”

  “Thank you. Overdue, eh? To be more friendly.”

  Julian fixed his gaze on him and when the woman chuckled, Julian widened his eyes at him, aware she wished to seduce him.

  Remy bit his lip to hold back his laughter. But he was out of patience to learn about the appealing Madame Roland. “So then we have the delightful Lily Hanniford husband-hunting. Are there more at home in America or is she the only princess in this line?”

  “She is the oldest daughter. There is a son, who is older than she. He goes by the name of Pierce. There is a younger daughter, Ada, who is still in finishing school in America. They both arrive next spring by boat to London. And then too, of course, Mister Hanniford himself is a widower.”

  “Dear god,” said Julian. “He’s old! You don’t mean to say he is looking for a bride?”

  “Peut être, maybe, Monsieur, he is not. But he is rich and very attractive. A wise woman would find herself in a happy state to marry such a man.”

  “And what of Madame Roland?” Remy was out of patience to inquire.

  “Oh, I have heard Madame declare she is happy as she is.”

  What does that mean? Are she and her husband estranged? Was the man in America awaiting her return?

  “I don’t understand her at all,” Chaumont sighed. “I have been alone since my sweet Gerard passed to heaven. And I long for a man in my home.”

  Remy blinked. Aside from her indelicate hint that she’d accept his advances, what did that imply about Mrs. Roland?

  Julian caught his confusion, grinned, then beamed at Chaumont. “You mean to say, Madame, that Mrs. Roland is a widow?”

  “Certainement. For more than ten years. A tragedy, non? Such loveliness and no man has celebrated her for so very long.”

  Remy frowned. A widow. For more than a decade? Why did a woman with so much vitality remain alone? Surely men had come to call upon the lady with the wealth of white gold hair and the dark green eyes of a jungle cat. Why had she not accepted them?

  Was she one of those American puritans? A firebrand? Or a recluse?

  None seemed probable. She’d gone to the cabaret last night. She dressed with style and verve. She moved like a willow in the breeze. If she was not a prude, was she the opposite? A lady of social decorum who had a taste for the lascivious?

  He could not believe it. His instinct for human nature told him her essence was neither puritan nor risqué. The way she looked at him had not been with indifference. On the contrary, the way her eyes devoured him had told him of her hunger. The way her lips parted when she considered him had told him of her fantasies. And who was he to her, but a man she’d only recently met, a cipher at least, an acquaintance at best?

  She was a lady to be admired, petted and taught to love her own passions. She was a woman to treasure and to teach the joys of her own sensuality. She’d been in hiding from herself and her potential as a woman, as a loving creature. He could awaken her.

  But how?

  Chapter 2

  “Marianne?” Lily knocked at Marianne’s bedroom door. “Are you ready to go down to dinner?”

  “In a moment!” She clapped her hands together, standing back to admire her work, a thrill of success rippling through her. She’d done it. She’d created him. Him. Exactly as he should be. Big and bold and handsome as sin. “Give me a chance to wash my hands.”

  She closed her sketchbook and placed her stick of light grey graphite carefully in its little tray in her boudoir drawer, then shut it tightly. As if that seals away my attraction. She shook her head, suppressing her smile and chastising herself for her naïveté. Even Lily knew how she admired the man. Her cousin had detected her interest in the huge Frenchman within seconds. How could she hide it? Why should she?

  The answer to that had her pausing.

  But it was time for dinner not for dreaming.

  She rushed to her washstand, poured water into the pretty china bowl and submerged her tired fingers in the cooling water. Traces of the black substance floated away. She rubbed soap over her hands, picked up a towel, rubbed her skin dry and hung the cloth on the rack. With a check of her mirror, she secured the pins in her coil and examined her pink day gown.

  “Oh!” She mustn’t forget to remove her apron. Untying the protective leather covering, she tossed it to the back of her chair and headed for the door.

  “What are you doing?” Lily asked, mischief in her blue eyes.

  “I’d say you know.” She closed her bedroom door and headed for the marble staircase beside her cousin.

  “Drawing him, I would bet.” Lily speculated, gathering up her skirts and grinning.

  “It’s alarming that you know me so well.”

  Lily chuckled. “As if you can’t say the same of me.”

  “So true.” Marianne shrugged. “Lord Chelton is a dashing creature.”

  “And Papa knows him. What will I say?”

  “Say you liked him.” They had given Uncle Killian a short summary of the accident in the Rue de la Paix. He’d been intrigued but they had escaped his questions about meeting his business rival Lord Chelton and a mysterious Frenchman who was the Englishman’s friend.

  Lily nodded. “That is no crime.”

  “Not at all,” Marianne confirmed.

  “The same can be said about your interest in Monsieur le duc.”

  “He is a charming specimen. I will not deny. But you well know, he is not for me.”

  “No? Why ever not?”

  “We know why.”

  “Money is no object. Papa says so.”

  “For you, my dear.” Marianne readily defended herself against any hint of marriage for herself. “Not for me.”

  “Ah. Here you are. Finally.” Uncle Killian greeted them in the hall and extended a hand toward the dining room. As they filed in, the footmen advanced to pull out their chairs for them. “I despaired we would ever dine tonight.”

  “Fiddle-faddle, Papa,” Lily said to him with a coy smile, and sat down.

  As the servants poured the wine and offered the first courses, Lily began a discussion of the gowns they ordered from Worth.

  Marianne hid her smile. Lily was adept at diverting her father from discussing topics she didn’t wish to touch. But her talents lasted only so long and Marianne could bet that today’s chance meeting of Lord Chelton was on her uncle’s mind. Chelton was his quarry, and once sited, he never lost track of his mark.

  He looked at ease, drinking his brandy and smiling at them both.

  Marianne was not deceived, but bit her lip, waiting for his pursuit of topics that gratified him.

  “What will you wear this evening?” Uncle Killian asked them both as the footmen removed the last of the dishes.

  “I have the pale blue gown and the sapphire cape, Papa.”

  “Appropriate. And you, Marianne?”

  “I haven’t thought about it,” she told him. That was true. This afternoon, to her dismay, she’d thought of little other than Remy.

  Her blue eyes twinkling, Lily sent her a disparaging look. “We’re delighted to go to the opera. Especially Marianne.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” she confessed. “Going to the Opera Garnier has been one of my fondest am
bitions.”

  “A good one, too.”

  “I wish we could arrive at the beginning. Waiting until the ballet is so silly.”

  “Parisians are funny.” Her uncle shook his dark head, his expression rueful. “They conduct business with leisure and if they wish to drink champagne while they do it, all the merrier.”

  “Not everything is an amorous adventure,” Marianne said.

  Her uncle and cousin barked in laughter.

  She pressed her argument. “Why not use time to your advantage, hmm?”

  Uncle Killian snorted. “Tell them that, would you, please, my dear?”

  “I will.” She laughed but didn’t feel gay. Not yet. But she would tonight. She’d yearned to see the glories of the building ever since she had first read about it two years ago in the Baltimore Sun. The glorious architecture of the new civic opera building, the shining marble, the glittering chandeliers, the creme de la creme of society in their silks and tails. She knew of Garnier’s extravagances of decor. She’d heard of Parisians who had rendezvous in the private boxes, even upon the divans in the cloakrooms. She’d hoped to hear strains of Bach and Brahms and Offenbach drift up from the orchestra pit. She’d wished to taste the champagne served in the refreshment room. The Glacier, they called it. “Why arrive late simply to prove that your social calendar is full?”

  “It’s expected to be late,” her uncle said. “This is not Knickerbocker Manhattan. Besides, shouldn’t I take these moments to hear more about this meeting of Chelton and you, Lily?”

  “No, sir. You should not.” Lily gave him a blithe look and put her napkin to the table. She was ready to escape her father.

  “And what of the Frenchman, Marianne? Was he so handsome you must flee without explanation, too?”

  “Yes, sir. He was. But you mustn’t worry, Uncle Killian.”

  “No? Why not?”

  “He is too—” She paused, unusually stumped for words, one hand dancing in the air.

  “Well? What?”

  “Overwhelming. He is huge. A giant of a man.”

  “And? So?” her uncle urged.

  She blinked, her gaze suddenly dreamy. “His blond hair hangs to his shoulders and his hands are callused and scarred.”