After all, she was American. Her diction, odd. Her self-confidence, prominent. Her spontaneity, genuine. She was rich, too. Obviously. Else what would she be doing employing the countess and attending fittings at the House of Worth? More than that, she was lovely. Charming Lily. Tall, graceful, elegant. But strong enough to deal with a tragedy in the streets and bodily danger to her friend. A flower who did not wilt. And in the bargain, luscious. With that pile of midnight hair and a ripe mouth that begged for plundering. A voice that echoed low in his brain with murmurs of whispery summer nights and silken sheets.
Worst of all, delicious Lily was that bastard’s daughter, Black Killian Hanniford. Of all the women in the world, he had to become enchanted with the beautiful blue-eyed child of the devil. No good would come of his desire to lose himself in her gaze. Her father had already attempted to get what he wanted and get it cheap. Their share in the shipping company for a pittance was enough of an insult. But to buy their country home in Kent for a song? Julian would not give away his dignity, his home or his family name in trade for a sales agreement. He hoped to God his father didn’t.
As if lack of funds and the need to sell the family jewels weren’t enough degradation to the ancestral line of the dukedom of Seton. He could not, would not become enchanted with a woman who came encumbered with such a rogue in her family.
He rubbed his eyes.
The coachman pulled open Remy’s door and in climbed Madame le Comtesse. And as the conveyance rumbled across town and the three of them made polite conversation, Julian refused to ask about the creature who had so captivated him with one look. But Chaumont was a witch, uncanny in her perception that though he voiced not a word, not a question, he cared to know details about the lovely dark American.
By the time he stepped down from Remy’s coach and his butler opened the door to his townhouse, he’d learned more about Miss Lily Hanniford. She was abroad husband hunting, and her father was providing a handsome dowry for his oldest daughter. Perhaps even for her companion, her cousin, the war widow, Mrs. Roland.
He must not care.
He was exhausted. He needed sleep. A sharp mind.
He’d seen blue eyes before. Beautiful ones. And what lay behind them was not always attractive.
Miss Hanniford was not different.
Therefore, she was not irresistible.
Chapter Three
“The one who saved Chaumont was Lord Chelton?” Lily’s father chuckled as they finished their light supper.
Lily put down her fork, alarmed how he was thrilled over the man’s name. “Yes, sir. Along with this Frenchman named Remy.”
Her father beamed. “You have the luck, the two of you.”
“How so?” Lily went still as she gazed at her father at the head of the dining room table.
“The Duke of Seton, my dear, is Chelton’s father.” He sipped his port, laughing.
And here she had liked him. His ink-black hair, his chocolate-brown eyes. His sleek handsomeness and his quiet air of confidence. No priggish tone of the privileged Englishman about him.
“I couldn’t have planned that better if I’d asked you to find him. Or asked poor Chaumont to suffer an accident in her cab. The Duke of Seton is one of the directors of the Cardiff Shipping Line.”
Lily was riveted to her chair. “And you want to buy his shares.” Lily had heard nothing but this for weeks from her father. This Cardiff company was failing. Nigh unto bankrupt. Poorly managed since it had not made a profit during the American Civil War, the company was dying due to the directors had not repaired their fleet and half their ships remained in dock, rotting.
“I do. And it’s who holds the keys to the kingdom more than old Seton.”
“I don’t understand.” Marianne frowned at him. “If the sons of the aristocracy hold no power over investments or land or purse, why does this one?”
“Learned your lessons well about the English have, haven’t you?” He smiled, his satisfaction with the news apparent in a wolfish gleam. “That Scotsman I hired to teach you the rigors of the social order did a wonderful job.”
Lily scolded herself for her folly to become interested in the man. She mustn’t care for him. Marquess or no. Kind or not. Handsome like the devil. None of it mattered if her father saw him as his opponent. She had always made a point never to take a position or an opinion on her father’s business dealings. She wouldn’t start now.
Marianne glanced at her and rushed to fill the silence. “What is it about that’s different from others?”
“His father Seton is a gambler through and through. And piss poor at it. And while his son is the day to his papa’s night and has a skill at winning hands, the boy also has a finer understanding of money than his sire. This is well known.” He raised a finger to the air. “Chelton is a scoundrel, but not as big a one as his father.”
Lily stared down at her empty plate. This news of Chelton’s reputation was not welcome. She’d thought better of him. His readiness to help Chaumont. His obvious good-natured friendship with Remy. His perfect classical looks.
“Oh, I see.” Her father peered at her over the rims of his glasses. “You liked him?”
Simply because Chelton and her father were business rivals, she would steer clear of him forevermore. “I did.”
“Why?”
She pursed her lips. Chafing at her father’s probe, she dared not reveal all the details about him that had aroused her in ways she’d never experienced. Chelton was an elegant creature, finely chiseled, much like a sculpture of a Greek god. Blessed with a sensuous mouth and large umber eyes, he had the mien of a man who should be obeyed and revered. She had presumed him to be a gentleman in the purest sense. Now she heard he was a gambler and as vice ran to vice, much else. In addition, he was her father’s opponent in a business negotiation. How naïve of her to jump to the conclusion she could admire him. “He was quick to the rescue.”
“I thought you said this Frenchman was the first one who got to Chaumont’s driver.”
“He did,” Marianne said. “But it was Chelton who tamed the horse. Without him, they’d all be hurt or dead.”
“I see. Good for him. And did he introduce himself to you?”
“He did,” Lily said. “It was all properly done, despite the circumstances.”
Her father sat, his eyes narrowing in consideration. “Fine. What we need.”
Lily’s eyes locked on Marianne’s with hope of escape. “We should change.”
“I detect you are running off,” her father said to them, his light eyes dancing partially in jest, partially in warning.
“We are,” Marianne said.
Lily rose, diverting her gaze lest her father see more than she intended. “We don’t want to be late for the Vicomtesse de Bourg’s reception.”
“We are expected to be late. This is not Knickerbocker Manhattan. Besides,” he said, pinning her with hot intent, “shouldn’t I hear more about this meeting of Chelton and you, Lily?”
“No, sir. You should not.” She gave him a blithe look.
“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 father urged.
Marianne blinked, her gaze suddenly dreamy. “His blond hair hangs to his shoulders and his hands are callused and scarred.”
“Chelton has a friend who’s a laborer? Yet he offered you his own carriage?” He arched his brows high. “Damn intriguing.”
“No, sir,” Marianne objected.
Lily caught her eye and shook her head in warning.
But Marianne missed her cue. “He’s a duke.”
Oh, lord.
“That is i
ntriguing,” Hanniford replied with gusto.
Lily rolled her eyes at Marianne who had not been intrigued with Remy, the Frenchman. No, not by a long shot. If there were a word for Marianne’s reaction to Remy, it was mesmerized.
Marianne, flustered, shot from her chair at once, then came around the table and hooked her arm in Lily’s. “Escape with me.”
“Tell him no more,” Lily pleaded as the two of them hurried from the dining room.
“I heard that!” he called out, but they took the circular staircase up to their suites. “I need details.”
“We’ve no time, Uncle.”
“We don’t want to be late, Papa,” Lily said, laughing in their haste.
“We don’t want to change the fashion.” He came to the foot of the stairs.
Lily took hold of the hall banister and peered over the side. “Not on your life. It’s de Bourg’s small soirée. Then the opera, dear Father. And for that, you’ve paid good money.”
“I have not paid a penny. We’re guests!”
“All the more reason. Get dressed yourself,” she told him, sailing off to shut the door to Marianne’s sitting room.
She faced her cousin, shaking a finger at her. “You realize that now he knows Remy is a duke, Papa will investigate his family all the way back to the dark ages.”
“He can do what he wants,” she said. “I’ll not have another husband, ever.”
Marianne’s vehemence about the subject of taking a husband was a mystery that no amount of cajoling could influence her to reveal. But Lily had seen her cousin’s interest in the impressive French nobleman. Never before had Marianne shown any attraction to a man. And her recent declarations that she would consider taking a lover sparked the possibility that, given a chance, this Remy might fill that need for her.
Her cousin strode to her dressing room, turning her back on Lily, thereby hiding her expression. “Besides, I most likely won’t see him again.”
“And if you do?” Lily was quick to ask.
“It won’t matter. Your father cannot persuade me to receive him.”
“Or buy him for you?”
Marianne whirled to face her, her brows knit. “No. Not at any price.”
* * * *
“Remy is late.” Julian’s mother dropped her lorgnette on its gold chain to her chest and peered at him as if it were his fault Remy had not appeared on time. To irritate him, she always criticized the Frenchman over any trifle. A stickler for rules, she might be. But she hid behind them, as she did most strictures, for her own devices. This she used to needle him with his choice of his very unconventional friend. “We cannot wait longer or we shall miss my favorite aria.”
Julian glanced about at those chatting in the rotunda of the new Paris Garnier Opera house. These were the season’s ticketholders, men clad in tuxedoes and top hats, the ladies wrapped in diamonds, feathers and silks. He had greeted those he knew, and those whose financial interests were similar to his. “I’ll escort you up to our box, if you wish, Mama.”
“I do.”
Julian was in no mood to argue with her. His head still clanged from his outing last night and this morning’s accident. The surprise of his preoccupation with the Hanniford girl added to his discomfort. No amount of rest had rid him of the obsession with her pale blue eyes. Plus, the brief but bitter meeting this afternoon with his French partner in Cardiff Shipping had not improved his attitude toward her or her father. Tonight, he’d agreed to attend this opera only because his sister wished his escort. God knew, he did not favor an evening in his mother’s company. He had quite enough of her at home. But he wished to please his young sister who adored the dramatic doings of operas. He offered one arm to his mother and the other to Elanna. “Shall we?”
Elanna put her hand to his sleeve. Her hazel eyes twinkled in the light from the huge cut glass chandeliers. Dressed in a glistening gown of pink chiffon, she sparkled against the gold and rose of the marble walls. “You are good. I know you prefer Remy’s company.”
“Well, now.” Julian smiled at her. She was such a good-natured girl, pretty with an abundance of rosewood-brown hair and porcelain skin, all of nineteen, finished with her first Season and without a suitor in sight. That pleased him. She was too sweet to shackle at so young an age. If he could continue to win sizable sums at the tables—or better yet find a suitable investor for the shipping firm—he’d help her remain single for years to come. No respectable but pitiless union for her if he could help it. “I like yours.”
“Of course, he does, Elanna.” His mother had to have her say. “He prefers yours to many a girls’. I wish he could say he adored other feminine companions less.”
“Now, Mama,” Elanna scolded their mother as they walked up the gilded side steps of the cavernous Garnier headed for the huge rose marble staircase. “Don’t quarrel with Chelton again. I won’t attract a man if I’m scowling at you both.”
“You could peer at a fellow with a dagger in your hand,” he jested, “and the poor chap would hasten to offer for your hand.”
“That would be remarkable,” she conceded with a chuckle. “But still unworthy if he can’t recite Romeo’s speech without faltering.”
Julian shook his head. Aside from her pleasant nature, his darling sister loved books, plays and poetry. She was articulate and funny. Aside from being very popular with young men.
Just that afternoon upon his return home, his feisty little sister had shown proof she could attract one man too many. A scoundrel had applied to his mother just that morning for the honor of courting Elanna. Wisely, the duchess had demurred and told the man she must consult with her son and her husband before approving. And as Julian expected, his mother favored the cad. The resulting row he and his mother had had set drums clanging in his ears, an unwelcome addition to his earlier headache. She had advocated a quick engagement for Elanna to the man, a baron of ancient English blood and little repute. Julian had flatly refused to recommend the scamp to his father. When she had told him they needed Elanna out of the house, on someone else’s dole, Julian had fumed at her. He refused to sell his sister to the first bidder, or even the highest, let alone the most scandalous. Elanna had rushed in to the drawing room, calling for quiet deliberation. She tolerated their mother’s shallow maternal instincts. He recoiled from them.
“You’ve no need for a man just yet.” As they climbed the massive steps, Julian shot his mother a look of reproof and settled on Elanna with a benevolent smile. “Besides, I tell you, darling girl, you must add to your enviable talents for negotiation.”
“You’ll teach me how to play dice and win each time?”
“I think it better if I take you up to my gymnasium for boxing lessons.”
“Oh, ho!” Elanna giggled over that as they took the red-carpeted stairs at a steady pace. “I imagine how that will charm my suitors.”
“Boxing? And give me heart palpitations?” his mother asked. “I forbid it. I absolutely—”
“We know, Mama,” he told her as they continued along the circular corridor toward their private box. “Do not fret, Elanna. We’ll find you a man who loves the sport. Then you can marry him and have at each other every day.”
“I hope the ‘having’ would be more pleasant than that,” she said with a wink.
His mother snapped open her fan. “Really. You encourage her. I disapprove.”
Elanna sighed, casting about to admire the well-dressed throng of Parisians eager for a night of opulent music. “Doesn’t everyone look marvelous? And don’t you adore this building? Who decorated the interior? Do you know, Chelton?”
“No idea.” The Paris Garnier overwhelmed him. The heavy limestone, the omni-present gilt, the wealth of dangling crystal chandeliers, the thick blood red carpet, the gargantuan size of the place took his breath. Sucked it right out him. Like a monster. He always hurried to his seat. Once in a box, surrounded by more ordinary dimensions of the red velvet privacy walls and appointed chairs, he found air and space and pe
ace.
He patted Elanna’s hand. “You love its grandeur. I understand that. Even if I don’t appreciate it.”
Elanna adored expansive buildings, bustling city thoroughfares and garrulous people. She was effusive, alluring in her ready acceptance of the universe. That included her embrace of avante-garde music, impressionist painting and all sorts of unconventional people. Men flocked to her, finding her exuberance enchanting. Last spring in London, two had seen her as fair prey. Julian had discouraged them easily, describing Elanna’s depleted dowry and sending them packing. His parents never knew. He prided himself on a few scruples, yet for his sister, he wished to find a man with hundreds. Refreshing to be with, Elanna was a treasure Julian intended to guard. No roué nor chap with debts long as his arm would darken her path if he could help it. He’d welcome a rich man, but finding one of those in these dire financial times for a poor duke’s only daughter would be a miracle.
“Your Grace! Lord Chelton!” A tall, hawkish gentleman approached them along the gallery. “Lady Elanna. How wonderful to see all of you here.”
“Lord Carbury.” His mother inclined her head as the earl strolled up to them. “We’re delighted to see friends from home.”
The man lived in the adjoining estate in Kent and their families had mingled and intermarried off and on for centuries. Carbury was a decade or more older than Julian and bore the signs of age in his lined forehead and thinning gray hair.
“Good evening, Carbury,” his mother addressed him. “Are you in town for the running of the races?”
“I am. Cannot resist the lure.” He took the duchess’s hand to bow over it and then took up Elanna’s to offer the same homage. “Here for another few weeks, then back to the lair. Winter comes. Must do the accounting. Hideous task. What of you? Here for the winter?”
Wild Lily (Those Notorious Americans Book 1) Page 4
