Remy who sat beside the driver had somehow caught up the second rein. Squashed together on the tiny perch, the cabby and the burly Frenchmen were a sight. One tiny, one huge. One blubbering, one tranquil.
“Come here, my boy,” Julian cooed to the fine French workhorse. “I’m here to help you. Feed you. I’ll find something from these merchants, don’t worry. For now, let’s get acquainted.” Continuing in a low voice, he appealed to the animal with his tone and casual demeanor. The horse looked about, stomped a bit and stopped. Julian nodded to him to approach. “That’s right. No need to run like a bedlamite.”
A few minutes more while the horse snorted—and he stood, unhappy and unbowed. But peaceful.
Julian ventured to touch his nose. Pet him. Stroke him. “You are capable of this. I know it. And when you are quite calm, we’ll see if we can find a carrot or an apple. Something wonderful. A reward.”
Remy chuckled from his seat. “Talk to him like a lover and you’ll have a new friend to follow you home.”
Julian stroked the animal’s nose. “I have too many high-tempered creatures at my house already. I’m sure monsieur has a better idea for him.”
Remy arched a brow. “You’d better give the withers a good look before you make assumptions.”
Julian turned to the side and saw the marks. The lash of a whip never did look good on any creature, man or animal. “Ask him what happened in the street.”
The two bantered back and forth. Remy at first inquisitive. The cabby, defensive. Then Remy annoyed, angry. The cabby, blustering.
“A dog ran between the hooves,” Remy told him.
“What the hell is a dog doing in the Rue de la Paix? It’s fine, boy. Fine.” Julian grabbed the horse’s straps. “I’m mad, but not at you.”
“The pet of a grand duchesse, he says.” Remy jumped down from the box.
“Well, she should’ve tethered him.”
“He escaped her,” Remy said as he headed for the door of the hackney and pulled it wide. “Mademoiselle? Ah, ah. Madame le Comtesse. Are you well? Can you move?”
Julian peered around to catch sight of Remy reaching inside the cab to offer his hand.
“Can you walk?” he asked her in French. “Shall I assist you?”
“Oui, oui, merci. Oh, Monsieur le Duc, it is you. An honor to have you help me. An honor,” the lady ran on in French, her tone that of a frightened bird. Julian recognized her as the Comtesse de Chaumont, a young impoverished widow who befriended rich Americans to pay her way in Parisian society.
She put one long gloved hand in Remy’s and stepped gingerly from the interior, her chestnut hair hanging in clumps in total disarray, her elaborate gown torn at the hem, a hank of lace dangling from her generous bosom.
“Madame! Oh, my dear lady!” One woman ran toward Chaumont.
“Madame!” called another.
Two ladies—one blonde, one dark—sailed down the alley toward them. Both held on to their hats and lifted their skirts well above the dirty cobbles as they approached.
“Merci, Monsieur le Duc,” the Countess de Chaumont said with a watery smile at Remy. “I fear I am quite weak.”
Remy offered his arm. “Lean on me, madame.”
“I will.” She took a step and crumbled.
Remy caught her up just in time and led her to rest against the side of the carriage.
“Are you in pain?” the young woman with ink-black hair asked the injured Frenchwoman. “If she’s hurt her neck or back, she must not stand.”
Her voice struck Julian, a low contralto, seductive as good, warm scotch. As he beheld her, two long waves of hair escaped her little red hat. And he killed the urge to reach out and rub the strands beneath his fingers.
“Do you have pain, madame?” Remy asked Chaumont.
“Pain?” The comtesse offered a small smile to the lady, 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 laments in French.
“Do not worry, madame,” the dark-haired girl told her, focusing on the older woman with fierce concern. As she spoke to the comtesse, she took the woman’s hand, wrapped her fingers around her wrist, her lips moving and counting. Meanwhile, her companion bent to lift the comtesse’s skirts above her ankles.
Shaking off his fascination with the brunette, Julian marveled that rarely had he seen ladies jump to another’s aide with such concern. Never had he seen such efficiency among nobility for the health of another. Not even when his father had suffered a stroke in his club had any but the butler come to his side.
Like ministering angels, the two fluttered over the countess, soothing her. The dark one looked into the comtesse’s eyes, widened each in turn to murmur about the size of her pupils. Then she crooned sweet words while the blonde tested the fragility of the lady’s ankles and shins.
“Your pulse is rapid,” said the one whose voice wrapped around him like the red velvet ribbons of her tiny toque. “We should take you inside Worth’s. We’ll get a chair. A brandy.”
“Can you stand?” asked the blonde.
The comtesse moaned and shook her head.
Julian found his wits. “She should not walk, Remy.”
The two women glanced at him with such sharp surprise, he wondered if they’d noticed him restraining the horse.
“My friend is right,” Remy said. “Madame le Comtesse is weak.”
“But we must go inside for our appointment,” Chaumont said.
“Worth can wait,” Julian said.
The dark one locked her gaze on his.
He was pinned in place, struck by her frank search…and the crystalline blue of her eyes. First the voice, then the hair, now the eyes. He definitely needed coffee, sleep and a bath. Not usually given to raptures over feminine attributes, he smiled and reverted to politeness and some sanity. “Monsieur Worth has a sitting room, chairs, brandy and tea. Madame needs every one.”
The dark-haired beauty agreed and turned to Chaumont. “Can you point your toes, madame?”
“Oui, you see?”
“Wonderful. Nothing’s broken. But I’m not certain if she’s turned her ankle.”
The blonde directed her attention to Remy. “Can you carry her?”
Remy peered down at her with an intense sensual regard Julian recognized from years of accompanying his friend on midnight pleasures. “Certainment. Shall we adjourn, mdame? Hmm?”
“Oui,” said the comtesse with obvious joy at the invitation.
“I’ll see to the driver,” Julian announced to the assembly with some envy that Remy would accompany the ladies and learn their names.
As the dark-haired one began to follow Remy, the comtesse high in his arms, she smiled at Julian—and the glory of it struck him like a ray of sunlight. “Thank you, sir. I saw what you did. You were quite gallant and I know many in the street are grateful for your service. My cousin and I are.”
He inclined his head. “My pleasure, madame.”
“Miss,” she corrected him and offered her hand to shake. “Lily Hanniford.”
He nodded in deference, his one hand tight to the horse’s reins, the other taking hers. Her name flashed through his brain like fire. Hanniford. She is Black Killian’s daughter? He forced a smile and let convention and decades of training take him. She had flaunted etiquette and introduced herself, but the situation was unique. He could’ve laughed, but found her naturalness refreshing. Even her accent had a captivating wistfulness about it. He’d match it. “An American, I gather?”
“Right you are, sir.”
“Perhaps I may present myself?” Despite the harried nature of their meeting, some propriety was in order.
“Of course.” She tipped her head. Her complexion was as spotless as a camellia, her cheeks pink roses and her blue eyes danced in merriment.
Panic washed over him. Uncharact
eristic as that was, he pushed away the need to analyze the emotion now. He wanted to bolt but recounted her assets instead. After all, he appreciated beauty. He applauded spontaneity. She possessed both. And something more. He liked her readiness to help her friend. Her skills at it. All that he reluctantly added to the marvelous smoke of her voice, her flat American pronunciation and her heavenly azure eyes. God, he loved her eyes. “The Marquess of Chelton, at your service.”
Her lashes fluttered. So she might not observe the finer points of etiquette when meeting a strange man, but she understood what was required of her when meeting a titled gentleman. And no, her manner indicated she did not recognize his title. He had the advantage for now, and he exhaled, in odd and silly relief.
She dipped into a small curtsy. “Lord Chelton, I am pleased to meet you.”
“The pleasure is mine, Miss Hanniford. Please do attend Countess Chaumont and your friend.”
“The lady with me is my cousin.”
“I see. Well. Let me deal with the business here. The driver, the horse, the damage. Do please go inside.”
“You’ll join us?” she asked with a polite regard that he could have sworn held a winsome note of hope.
Such anticipation usually repelled him. Proper young ladies found him and his title alluring, even if he rarely returned the sentiment. But Miss Hanniford raised her brows in appeal and for the life of him, he had no idea why he could not disappoint. “I will indeed.”
She lingered, taking in his features with a subtle caress of those incredible eyes. “Very well. I’ll tell them.”
He nodded. “Of course.”
Minutes later, he’d sorted the business of the damaged hackney. Paying the driver for the Countess de Chaumont’s journey, he added twenty extra francs for the wheel and frame of the conveyance. Julian also promised the man he’d look for the owner of the dog who had caused such disaster. Then he strode back to the main boulevard and entered the foyer of the establishment of the couturier Charles Worth.
Inside, a slim young man approached Julian and he asked to be shown to the room for the countess’s party. The receptionist was tut-tutting about the accident as Julian followed him down the marbled hall and up the winding staircase. In one of the private viewing rooms on the next floor, upon a plush red velvet chaise longue, the countess sat with her feet up, shoes off. Wiggling her bare toes at the request of Miss Hanniford’s cousin, she appeared happy and quite well.
“I can move my toes, but I’m less confident of my ability to walk.” She took a sip of Monsieur Worth’s dark brandy from a cut glass and made a pitiful pout at Remy. “You were so helpful to me, Monsieur le Duc. Might you assist me home? Ah, here you are, Lord Chelton. What news of the driver and his carriage?”
Interested in her own predicament, Chaumont did not do her duty to introduce him to Miss Hanniford’s companion. From what he gathered, the lady must have already acquainted the others with each other. He would have liked a formal introduction to Lily Hanniford, even if it meant she might learn his family name—and seek to run from the man who was thwarting her father in a business deal.
At the moment, he could best surrender manners and secrecy to sharing information with Chaumont about her carriage. “The driver has asked a boy to fetch him a stable hand. One wagon wheel is precariously balanced. 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.”
Julian went to stand beside Remy. At this vantage, he could look directly down at Miss Hanniford and into those arresting blue eyes. “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.
“Ah, Miss Hanniford, Mrs. Roland, bon jour.” A tall, slim woman in severely cut black serge sailed into the room, her hands clasped in distress. She must be the vendeuse assigned to the two women. “Ah, such a catastrophe. My apologies for my delay. I have heard of your terrible accident in the streets. It is so horrible. I cannot imagine. But I see that Henri has given you brandy. May I offer it to the rest of your party?”
“He did already, Mademoiselle Gerard,” Miss Hanniford said.
“Not for me, Mademoiselle,” Remy replied.
“Nor me. However, you can tell us,” Julian said, “if you have a patron in the house at the moment who owns a small dog.”
The vendeuse’s eyes went wide. Worth’s sales girls did not speak of other clientele. “Ah…er…Monsieur—?”
“Lord Chelton,” he informed her. “Is there such a customer here in house now?”
“It would be indiscreet of me, my lord, to reveal—”
“Gerard, let me be clear. There was a serious accident in the boulevard.” He felt no compunction about addressing her simply by her last name. She was not worthy of niceties if she did not understand the import of his question and the problem created by her careless client. Besides, he had no patience with those who did not see the implications of their actions. “It could have cost Madame le Comtesse her life. Others fled in fear of theirs. A horse was terrified. A driver, too. His carriage damaged. If a runaway dog caused this—and we have statements that this did occur—then the lady who owns the animal must pay the bill.”
“But of course. I understand.” Deferential, eyes cast to the floor, Gerard bowed her way backward. “If you will but wait a few moments, I will inquire.”
“Do that.”
Silence reigned for a tortuous minute.
“Splendid, my lord Chelton.” Chaumont giggled, lifting her glass in honor of Julian and draining the brandy.
Remy chuckled. “Chelton can intimidate the devil. I say you got Gerard’s attention.”
“Indeed. She’ll return with a criminal,” said Miss Hanniford with a grin.
All five of them laughed.
Chaumont pushed herself up amid the cushions. “I am remiss in my duties. Permit me to introduce to you to the ladies, Lord Chelton.”
Julian expected that she had already introduced Remy properly. As Chaumont spoke, he noted how Miss Hanniford settled into her chair, not objecting nor revealing that they had already made their own acquaintance outside. Chaumont went on and he was soon appraised that the blonde lady was Lily Hanniford’s cousin. A married lady, it seemed by her manner of address.
“That’s settled,” said Remy and turned to the two Americans. “Tell me if you will stay for your fitting? 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.”
Her cousin quite agreed. “Uncle Killian is a taskmaster.”
Remy was not deterred. “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 a Paris entre.”
“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 her young American charge. Julian suppressed a grin because he had witnessed on many previous occasions Chaumont’s desire to spend long hours in the company of the fabled artist Remy. “You also need assistance, oui?”
“Madame, please. 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 very reassured that you are o
n the road to recovery if you were in your own home resting.”
Julian fought a smile. He could detect from Chaumont’s dreamy expression that the wily widow hoped to return to Remy’s home to engage in a particular type of recovery. Injured ankle, be damned.
“Please do not trouble yourself,” Mrs. Roland assured Chaumont with a pat of her hand. “We can finish ourselves.”
“If you think it possible.” Chaumont postured with a pretty moue.
“I do,” Mrs. Roland said.
“I insist,” said Lily.
The vendeuse strode in. Her attention focused on Julian. “Pardon.”
“Well?” asked Julian.
She bit her lips. “I have found the lady you seek, my lord.”
“Who is it?” Julian asked her.
“The Grand Duchess of Volenska.”
Remy frowned at Julian. “Anna Drobova.”
“Trouble?”
Remy rolled his eyes. “No angel.”
“It matters not.” Julian inclined his head to Chaumont, Mrs. Roland and finally to Miss Hanniford. “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 to come down. Good day.”
Both ladies bid him goodbye, but the one whose words lingered in his ears were those of the alluring Miss Hanniford. As he turned on his heel and followed Gerard down the hall toward another private room where Volenska waited, Julian experienced a distinct feeling of loss that he had not learned much about the American girl with the bewitching blue eyes. Nor had he any idea when he might see her again.
It shouldn’t matter. He didn’t like the odd experience of being entranced by a woman. It unsettled him, set his teeth on edge. Such feelings were rare. Once. Twice, perhaps he’d succumbed to a pretty face as an adult. He preferred the physical compulsion. The urge to mate. The erotic indulgence. The draining satisfaction. Resulting in freedom.
He could forget the American. Easily.
Minutes later, having dealt with the not-so-grand duchess, he waited in Remy’s carriage at the entrance to the House of Worth. His irritation at the Russian woman, fierce as it had been, was gone. And in his ennui, his desire to gaze into Miss Hanniford’s superb blue eyes loomed. He could find a woman comparable. Readily.
Wild Lily (Those Notorious Americans Book 1) Page 3
