Wild Lily (Those Notorious Americans Book 1)

by Cerise DeLand

  Manchester was an acquaintance of his father’s. Well known in the financial streets, the American banker was hale and hearty, a fellow most got on with, including indebted English aristocracy. Like his father.

  Like me.

  He’d known of the Hannifords move from Paris to Piccadilly. Following the details in the gossip sheets was easy. Too much so. His fascination with the Americans’ comings and goings, their house, their furniture, their art purchases, had devolved into a habit. One he hated. One he could not seem to break. And he had tried. Repeatedly.

  Lily Hanniford had rejected his advances at the opera.

  He should move onward. Forget her.

  The eyes, though.

  They were the lure that drew him back.

  The fact that she had told him to go hang was the other bit that hooked him.

  Galled him.

  Intrigued him.

  Damn her.

  He watched her. Poised, energetic, she lost herself in the conversation. Forgetting about him? Had she? The consummate hostess, she appeared. Was she that well trained? He’d have to acknowledge the skills of an American finishing school and concede the possibility that she had learned very well. Such was possible. He had done the same. Spending years at his governess’s knee, with his tutors, at Eton and Cambridge, he’d developed the art of banter, the challenge of the drawing room to remain pertinent and witty.

  Whatever he contributed to the topic now was polite drivel. He knew it, didn’t change it. Perhaps it was no more or less unimportant than what the others had to offer.

  And in the meantime, he had the distinct pleasure of watching Lily Hanniford laugh and gesture and comment. She was, as before, natural, correct but uncomplicated. Exactly as he had remembered her, she shone above the other ladies. But he suppressed the compliment. It did him no good to think so well of her. He had come with one clear purpose to rid himself of the irritating curiosity that her eyes were not sheer blue. But navy. Or black. Or even red.

  Red because she was a veritable witch to obsess him so.

  And he’d come here, determined to exorcise her.

  And he was a man of his word. Keeping promises, above all, to himself.

  The afternoon passed. His tea grew cool. His goal grew colder.

  Her eyes, he had copious occasion to note, were various colors. Resembling a summer’s sky. A blue opal. A rare blue diamond.

  Her brows, dark as her lustrous hair, were a perfect long arch.

  Her cheekbones prominent.

  And her lips…

  He focused on them much too often.

  Her mouth made a perfect full bow. Laughing, smiling, grinning, speaking in glowing terms about their experiences in Paris and their move into this house.

  The hour waned. The time for tea had passed.

  The Hardestys and the Templetons made their farewells. The Manchesters rose to leave.

  He must, as well.

  As they stood in the foyer and the butler collected the guests coats and umbrellas, Mrs. Manchester told the Hanniford ladies that she hoped they would meet again soon.

  “We’re to present our Dahlia in society,” Mrs. Manchester said with a frisson of delight. “Just like you, Miss Hanniford.”

  Dahlia Manchester pressed her lips together, blushing red as a radish. “Mama, please.”

  “You understand, I’m sure,” the lady said by way of apology for her forwardness. “We’re eager to get on with showing her about. Will all of you attend the Earl of Darforth’s supper?” She took on the air of a conspirator.

  Marianne shifted. Chaumont froze, her face made of ice, at the lady’s gauche mention of another’s invitation.

  Julian set his teeth at the woman’s breech of etiquette.

  Lily smiled, ignoring the lack of protocol. “We will.”

  “Marvelous. And the Carbury house party?”

  Marianne cast a stern eye at the butler to continue his task of assisting all with their coats.

  Lily grinned, all grace. “That, too.”

  “Oh, wonderful.” Mrs. Manchester clasped her hands before her in joy.

  Dahlia secured the buttons on her coat. “Mama, we must go. Thank you so much for a lovely afternoon.”

  “The Carbury party will be our first in the country.” The lady was not to be diverted. “Lord Chelton, I understand you are invited, too. So we will be a lovely intimate group.”

  His guts twitching at the possibility, Julian wished to show some restraint lest he wag his tail, eager as a puppy to see Lily again. “I’m afraid I have not yet replied.”

  Chaumont gave him the drollest look. “But your lands adjoin, do they not, Monsieur le Marquis? I would say you would be the first to attend, oui?”

  “I have another pending engagement and may not be able to attend.”

  “A pity,” said Mrs. Manchester.

  And when Lily Hanniford’s gaze met his, Julian stilled. Disappointment lingered in those blue depths. Longing, quickly covered by a fluttering of lashes.

  So. She was conflicted as well.

  Dare he deny the hunger he’d glimpsed in her eyes?

  He’d be a fool to call it nil. An idiot to go. A cretin to refrain.

  He bowed over each lady’s hand and lingered before Lily. “I bid you good day. Until we meet again.”

  Chapter Five

  “Good afternoon, Burton,” Julian greeted the aging butler whom his father had brought with him from Shanghai three decades ago when their merchant house had gone bankrupt. “Is His Grace arrived in the library?”

  His father had sent a note to his bachelor quarters earlier this morning. The man had been testy of late and Julian would rather face the fire than fan it by not attending his so-called ‘urgent meeting’.

  Besides, Julian adored the grand house. On Green Park, the family home of the Dukes of Seton backed to the flowing lawn near the old St. James’s Palace. Not as grand as Spencer House farther up the green, nonetheless, the London residence was as renowned for its Palladian splendor. Maintained year-round by a regular staff of butler, two maids and two footmen, the white stone beauty rose three stories. Drafty as it could be in winter, it was refreshing in spring when the breezes from the park flowed into the jade Peacock salon and washed the wood-paneled library in sparkling sunlight.

  “Yes, my lord. He awaits you there.”

  Unusual for the old man to summon him with any urgency. What was amiss? The mills? The workers? Julian divested himself of his walking stick, gloves, hat and coat. Tugging on his cuffs, he smiled at the taciturn servant whose good will he always was careful to cultivate. “Excellent. I shall go. Is my sister at home from her calls?”

  “Lady Elanna arrived a few minutes ago, my lord. She and Her Grace also await you.”

  “Ah.” A family meeting. Rare, those. And not a sign of a topic meant to bring a smile to his lips. Rather it importuned a row. “Thank you. I’ll go up.”

  When he opened the door and strode through, Julian breathed in the abject silence—and the anxiety. His father glared at him. His mother took note of his presence and sniffed, her usual sign of impatience. His sister pressed her lips together, her eyes round and intense, pleading with him to save her from whatever evil had befallen her already.

  “Good you’re here. Come, come.” His father waved him into his smoke-filled study. Standing before the fire, the old man hooked both hands behind his back and tipped his head toward the only remaining vacant chair. “Have a seat.”

  Julian took it, but couldn’t take his gaze from his father. The man was pale. His skin an uncharacteristic color of gray. Whatever today’s topic, it was worse than ever before.

  His mother inhaled, her eyes floating along the alabaster mantel. “Now, Seton. Do get on with it, will you?”

  “Have a dinner engagement, dearest?” his father chided his mother. “Why should I have to ask?”

  “I must change. I hope this will not turn into one of your lectures about the foibles of your ancestors.” He
r snipe at him was an old one, centered on the poor traits he’d inherited from his forebears. Like ridiculing his wife.

  “Have no time for the recitation, do you, pet?” He turned to face the fire, but the sneer was one Julian heard. Had heard for most of his life.

  The duchess was not to be intimidated. “No, none. These meetings of yours are tedious, Seton. I fear you are becoming infirm in your mind.”

  His father spun on his heel. At sixty-two, the man might be portly, he might have a shock of silver hair, but he had the black eye of a warlock and the disposition of one, given bait. At that, Julian’s mother was quite expert. “I am not so infirm, as you put it, girlie, as you are at forgetting my orders.”

  His mother tsked, rapping her fan softly against her open palm. “You cannot incite me, George. Do be quick.”

  “We’re in the shitter!”

  She gasped. Her fan fluttered upward to her throat. “There is no need for vulgarity.”

  “Oh, there is need.” He strode forward to face her and bend low, his nose nearly touching her own. His nostrils flared. “An urgent one.”

  Elanna swallowed.

  Julian inhaled, girding for the storm.

  “Do you go to Lady Tottingham’s this evening, by any odd chance?” His father was luring his mother with bitter words. “Do you?”

  His mother turned her face to one side, her fan to her cheek, separating her from her husband’s breath. “You’ve been drinking.”

  “Of course, I have!” he bellowed. “I have cause. Just cause. You, my dear gel, give me cause.”

  She shot to her feet.

  “Sit down.”

  “I will not listen—”

  “Oh, you will, madam. In fact, you will do a great deal more than that.”

  She stared at him, her body swaying to and fro.

  Julian hoped to God she’d sit soon or they’d be here all damn night.

  She regained her chair.

  Elanna closed her eyes.

  Julian let out a breath.

  “Now, then. Affairs at Broadmore are in turmoil. Wilson has taken to his bed.” Their bailiff for the estate had always been sickly, getting worse each year. “He’s got a bad case of pleurisy.”

  “Or nerves,” his mother added under her breath.

  His father quelled her with fury in his black gaze. He dug a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped his mouth. “Most— Most ungracious of you.”

  She rolled her shoulders.

  Julian shook his head. She and Wilson had never gotten on.

  Broadmore in West Sussex was the original land grant estate from the Crown to the first Duke of Seton two centuries ago. Fifteen-thousand acres of prime land yielded the bulk of the crops that fed the two-hundred plus tenants and the coffers of the ducal family. Until the past few years. With poor weather, little investment in new plows and wagons, the lack of cash to purchase seed, the tenants who faithfully farmed the land were growing poorer. Unable to pay their rents in full. The skills of his father’s bailiff there, Robert Wilson, were of little use. If the land did not yield, the tenants could not sell their grain or fatten their animals. They not only could not pay their rents, they sickened.

  “Wilson is the best man in all Sussex. I don’t doubt he’s worn himself to the bone and I don’t begrudge him a rest.” This graciousness, this compliment was a new phenomenon his father had begun to exhibit as the profitability of their estate had diminished.

  “He needs no rest, but replacement,” his mother said.

  “Absolutely not,” his father disagreed. “Wilson insisted to rise from his bed and rallied to show me the estate books. We tallied the rents to date. Also balanced the sales of the grain against the expense of the seed for this spring.”

  Julian folded his hands, knowing what was coming. He’d known each year for the past three. Each spring the estate books had not balanced. Each spring, the Duchy of Seton sank deeper into the mire caused by the combination of abundant, cheap American grain imports and terrible weather. Rain, ice, snow had flooded their fields at Broadmore since last October and to a lesser extent at their smaller estate, his own, of Willowreach in Kent.

  “We have enough money to run this house for two months. Pay the servants and the annual taxes. Then we must either sell it or let the house to any rich American who wants a fancy residence for his chicks.”

  “No,” his mother said beneath her breath. “This is not so.”

  “Not? So?” Quentin George Makefield Ash, the seventh duke, barked in laughter. Then he advanced on his wife of thirty-six years with fire in his eyes. “Who are you, madam, to nay say me? I told you over and over these past few years. Now we are well and truly cooked as a Christmas goose. At Christmas, I told you that you must no longer visit your seamstress. You must do with last year’s hats. I would not pay your marks. And worse…”

  She lifted her face to stare at him, her mouth pinched, her skin drained of color.

  “I refused to pay any of your chits to cover your debts at cards.”

  “They are not much.”

  He gave a sharp laugh. “They are not paid, either.”

  “But, but… George, you must. I cannot continue—”

  “Precisely. I warned you years ago. You went on your merry way. Even if, madam, we had means, your addiction to the tables has ruined us.”

  “Only my addiction?” She fixed him with slitted eyes. “What of yours?”

  The old man’s nostrils flared wider.

  Elanna feel back into her chair. Julian fought not to do the same.

  His father sagged. “My amusements have long since ceased, Charlotte.”

  She raised her fan, the snap of the sticks the sign of her outrage. “Do not insult me with lies.”

  Elanna pressed her lips together. If she understood the implications of the amusements their mother indicated, his sister did not flinch.

  “My interests in such pastimes ended last year. I could not afford them then, either in coin or affection.”

  “Last year’s fancy has not given way to a new one?” His mother whipped up the air with her fan.

  “No. If you took time away from the card tables long enough, you might have learned that from your so-called friends.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “What? You think they’d tell you any tidbit that might paint me in a good light?”

  “As if you could stand in any good light.”

  Children. They were such frightful children.

  “I will ignore that, dear gel. We have much to decide. Now…” He strolled to his desk and picked up a sheaf of papers. Thin rag. Invoices, they were.

  “These,” he said, holding aloft a few, “are yours, madam. I will pay what I can of them from your monthly allowance.”

  “George!” She gained her feet. “I—I need that money.”

  He stared at her with sad eyes that offered only pity. Then he picked up another stack, thinner, but still, quite a few. “These, dear Elanna, are yours.”

  “For gowns,” said his mother, “for the Season. She must have them, George. Must!”

  “Have them. Wear them. These I will endeavor to cover completely. But know, my sweet child, that they are to get you a man who can pay for any future frocks.”

  Julian ached for his sister.

  She looked at her hands in her lap and nodded. “Sir, thank you. I understand.”

  “Well, sadly, girl, that is not all. We are in such a state that if you do not snare a suitor by June’s end and marry by July, you must retire to Broadmore.”

  “Papa!”

  “Permanently.”

  Julian hated to picture Elanna with a man who would not cherish her. From the dejected look of her, she hadn’t, either. But time was short for her to find a mate.

  “Seton,” his mother was atwitter, “this is outrageous. She’ll be a laughing stock. People will think she’s on the shelf or that there’s something hideously wrong with her. And you know what they’ll say…” Her ey
es widened with suggestions of impropriety.

  “What, dear Charlotte? What will they say? That she’s committed a faux pas? Hmm?”

  “Worse. Well, you know it.”

  “Oh, yes. That some man assumed too many liberties with her.”

  “Stop that.”

  “That she had her chance and she chose once, chose badly, chose too quickly. That we’d hide her away for—”

  “Enough, Seton.” His mother fretted with the edge of her fan, now dormant in her lap. Her lips quivered, a sign of the onset of tears. “You torment me.”

  “The way you did me?”

  “You know I hate discussion of money.” She fished a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes.

  “Would that you would hate pissing it away, as well,” his father mourned.

  “Oh, you are a cruel man. Cruel,” she said, sniveling, real tears in her china-blue eyes.

  Julian groaned.

  This old argument between them was infuriating. They never openly stated their grievances in front of Julian and Elanna, but they could wheedle and cajole, criticize and affront with careful precision. The gist of it, which Julian had learned bit by agonizing bit, was some indiscretion that the two of them had committed when they first met. Each held the other responsible for the fault. Yet to hear them tell it, in the beginning each had loved the other with a searing passion. For more than a decade, they had turned to each other and burned with a sensuality that conceived his own life, as well as Elanna’s. Then, at once, the flames had died. In the ruins, they tore at each other’s dignity. He in company with disreputable women, she in company with feckless gamblers. Why and how they could not lay down their arms escaped Julian. Their feud taught Elanna and him a marital lesson to befriend others with caution. Intimacy was a folly meant for fools.

  Julian had had enough of their bickering for today. “If you two can insult each other more profoundly, please do it quickly.”

  “You presume to order me, boy?” The old man pointed at him with a shaky hand.