“Remy brings Marianne home,” Killian informed the party as he settled into his corner. “I told her I don’t like it, but she insists.”
As a widow, Lily’s cousin had a bit of leeway to stay in the company of a man without a chaperone.
“Can she do that without hurting her reputation?” Pierce inquired of Julian. Acting like Cerberus at the gate, Pierce enjoyed his role and Julian sensed he would not give it up easily or soon.
“To a small extent, yes. She should come right home to us and not linger in his carriage.” Although the way his friend paid the blonde American beauty such respects that he’d danced with her four times this evening, Julian could wager the Frenchman wished to do more than simply see her to the door.
“She’ll create a stir,” Ada confided, a sheepish look at their father.
“Marianne knows her own mind, Ada,” Lily said. “She likes the duke. They’ve known each other as long as Julian and I. And she wouldn’t do anything to hurt us.”
Killian grumbled. “To hell with us. I’m concerned with her. The Duc de Remy has a notorious reputation for keeping mistresses. I simply demand he treat her honorably.”
Julian took that as a blow. Remy was not unprincipled. He loved women, lots of them. Usually one at a time. But he’d never loved one long enough or well enough to marry any. The extraordinary aspect of Remy’s regard for Marianne Roland was that it had lasted this long—and as far as Julian could tell, without culminating in any physical intimacy. He’d have a talk with Remy about his enchantment with the comely lady. Tomorrow at the wedding breakfast.
Killian pursed his lips, rubbed his fingers together and stared at him. “I understand, Julian, that you and your father talked this evening before the ball. Did he tell you about the purchase of the company stock?”
Anger rose to clog his throat. Outrageous that Killian would even ask about a private conversation, he found a polite response. “He did. He told me it’s almost complete.”
“He threw a wrench in the works, too.” Killian grew red with irritation.
His father was angry, resented that Julian had taken Killian Hanniford’s money, insulted that his only son had taken the American buccaneer’s oldest daughter as his wife. Worse, he was insanely proud that Elanna was about to sell herself to take the Earl of Carbury into her bed. The Duke of Seton had quite a few misplaced values. To say nothing of poor ethics and worse morals. It’s what had made him the man he was today. Or less than. “Whatever that obstacle is—and I do not wish to know—it is none of my business.”
Across from him, Lily went quite still and stared at Julian with wide eyes. Did she expect an argument?
Julian would not give it. Nor would he yield ground.
Killian waved a hand. “Does he want you to negotiate with me?”
“No, sir. He didn’t ask that of me.”
Killian cocked a brow at him as if to ask what was discussed.
Julian inclined his head but glanced away. The worst thing he wanted to reveal was the topic of that conversation. He’d been trying to forget it, in fact.
The Duke of Seton sought funds. Money. Lots of it.
But his father could die before Julian ever considered giving him a farthing. He could then squander it in hell.
* * * *
Elanna and Carbury’s wedding at St. George’s in Hanover Square had gone without a flaw. Although Elanna looked angelic in her finery of cream Bruges lace and Italian raw satin, she’d resembled a ghost. Her cheeks were wan and her eyes glassy as she walked down the aisle toward her groom. Carbury appeared as he always had when near his bride—proud. Triumphant.
His attitude, however, was a bit galling. Lily took her eyes from the earl, haughty as he fawned over his bride of two hours. His meaty hand on her shoulder. In fact, too far down her shoulder to be prudent in polite society during his wedding breakfast.
Standing beside her and Ada in the Seton house dining room, Julian saw it, too. He winced, emptying his glass. “Excuse me, please, my dear. Ada. I’m must talk with Remy.” Marching off, Julian looked as if he were going to a firing squad.
Since last night at the Setons’ ball, he’d been silent, brooding. Lily had attempted to draw him out, teasing him with risqué temptations if he’d communicate with her. He’d declined with kind apologies, even as he made love to her with a brooding intensity that set her pulse pounding. She’d been left to speculate what had turned him sour during his discussion with his father. She’d asked but Julian had declined to answer.
Ada leaned close to Lily, fighting a devilish grin. “Did you know that Marianne did not come home until after two o’clock?”
Lily had suspected as much when Marianne had not answered her bedroom door this morning when Lily had knocked.
“Papa doesn’t know,” Ada added. “But I’d bet he suspects.”
Lily trained her gaze on her father who stood, champagne flute in hand, focusing down on a tall, elegant woman in a whimsical, blue feathered hat. Lily couldn’t see her face, but odds were she was beyond stunning. Papa didn’t countenance any but that. Yet by the cut of her blue moire gown and the abundance of sapphires at her throat, she was a lady of means. By her posture, she was a person at ease in this posh gathering of wedding guests. But by the way she spoke to Black Irish Hanniford, she imparted some fantastic tale with hand gestures that spoke of birds and trees and maybe even monkeys. While he…
Lily bit her lip, quelling her laughter.
Her father focused on the lady’s mouth as if he’d nibble her for breakfast.
“Papa thinks she’s fabulous,” Ada said on a giggle.
“It’s about time he thought that of a lady, wouldn’t you say?”
“Wouldn’t you mind if he married again?” Ada asked as if she’d never thought he’d do such a thing.
“At the moment, he’s interested only in talking to the lady, Ada.”
“Well, since Mama died, he’s been so alone.”
Not quite alone. Ada, away at boarding school and sheltered from the realities of their father’s day-to-day existence, had no means to know of their sire’s mistresses. With one in Baltimore and one in Corpus Christi, he was always well-occupied and had seemed content with his arrangements. Never complaining. Never talking about finding a wife.
“It’s been thirteen years now,” Ada mused. “He must want companionship, wouldn’t you say?”
Lily had always predicted her father’s type of companionship would be a buxom widow who knew how to laugh, preferably in bed. Naked. Marianne added that the lady better know a few Irish pub songs and be able to drink like a sailor.
“He should find a woman who amuses him.” This one looks eligible and…eminently beddable.
“I say.” Marianne approached them, worry lining her brow. “Do not look over now. Too many are. But we have unhappy lovebirds.”
“Oh, no.” Lily feared an argument between them. Had done since the dreadful announcement of their engagement. Horrible that today their pot would boil over and in public. But there was no mistaking Elanna’s raised voice and Carbury’s rebuke. Elanna’s fists were clenched and Carbury’s eyes bulged from his head. This looked like war.
Where was Julian?
Lily panicked, glanced about and saw him in deep conversation with Remy. Julian could stop this.
“I will not, I tell you!” Elanna yelled at Carbury. “You cannot force me.”
“But I will, my dear,” Carbury said with a sneer.
Elanna yanked free of him, her face scarlet, triumph in her posture as she marched away from her groom.
Julian and Remy darted forward.
Elanna sailed past Lily, tears cascading down her cheeks.
“Bastard.” Pierce came abreast of Lily. “I could kill him.”
“Stop!” She caught his arm. “Dear God, don’t move.”
Everyone in the room froze.
Carbury’s eyes bulged from his head as he whirled on Pierce. One male guest took a step toward him.
Julian stepped in front of the earl and waylaid him.
The Duchess of Seton fluttered among them, her lips quivering with restrained anger and chagrin. “Nerves, nerves. Nothing more. Do play on,” she encouraged the cellist who had been giving forth some Bach or Beethoven ditty.
Carbury glared at Julian. Straightening his waistcoat, he reddened. “I’ll see to my bride.”
The duke hastened behind Carbury, muttering to himself.
Alarm spread across Julian’s face. His brows shot together as he swung toward the exit where his sister and Carbury had disappeared. Then he hurried after them.
Marianne groaned. “This marriage was never going to work.”
Ada glanced from her cousin to Lily. “What? They never liked each other?”
“Like?” Pierce gave a joyless laugh. “She loathes him.”
With a flick of her eyes, Lily warned her brother and sister to say no more.
“Should you go?” Marianne asked Lily as they watched the duchess scurry from the ballroom.
“Do not.” Remy stood beside them, his attention riveted on the vacant doorway.
Down the marbled corridor from some far room, voices rose and rushed toward the reception in echoes of hate. Male, female, high-pitched, accusatory.
“I’ll get the butler,” murmured Remy to the assembled group. “I know him well. He must close all the doors. Excuse me.”
Lily could scarcely catch her breath. Ada and Marianne blanched. Pierce focused on the doorway to the hall, and began to pace like a leopard in a cage.
Remy reappeared, the butler and two footmen behind him. Down the hall, the sounds of slammed doors reverberated into the ballroom.
But closed doors did not silence the sounds of bitter arguments.
A crash of china and a woman’s scream rent the air.
The guests were mesmerized.
Julian rushed into the ballroom, shouting at Remy to “Come, come quickly!”
Remy ran after him.
No one spoke. Lily stared at Marianne, undone by the chaos.
Within a minute, Remy charged back into the room. His face bright red, he rushed to Marianne and Lily. “Come quickly. They need you.”
Lily thrust her flute into Ada’s hands. Marianne did, too.
Pierce headed toward the doors, but Remy grabbed his arms and hauled him backward. “Don’t.”
“What’s happened?” Pierce demanded of him.
“The duke has had a stroke.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Your breakfast, Your Grace, as you wish here.” The Seton butler gave small bow to Lily, his scowl a storm upon his face. He wasn’t pleased that the young duchess did not stay in bed to break her fast as the lady of the manor should. He was inconvenienced to the nth degree, the intrusion to his day putting her in mind of a bothered scorpion. Silent, stealthy, stinging her with a subtle lash of his rectitude, he’d sneak up on her anywhere in this eerie carcass they called Broadmore House. Like the insects who lived in the southern Texas plains, he’d better learn how to scurry away from any retaliatory strikes. For as sure as the sun rose and set, one day she’d rebel and dress him down like the duchess she’d become.
After three weeks here at Broadmore, being stung by him and hobbled by the Dowager Duchess of Seton, alone save for Julian’s arms circling round her at night, Lily was in no mood to tolerate much more nastiness.
“Wonderful, Perkins. You and the footman may leave me to dine alone,” Lily spoke to the under servant, embarrassed to ask the question which she had asked of him yesterday. “Forgive me, what is your name?”
But it was the butler who cleared his throat in a most reproachful manner and answered her. “Finch, Your Grace.”
“Thank you.” She brought herself up short. Orders from Julian’s mother were she was not to acknowledge staff. In any way. “I shall remember it next time.”
The footman hastened to pull out her chair for her, then pour her tea.
“Put the pot there, Finch. I will serve myself.”
Perkins glared at her. That, she was certain, was not what butlers were allowed to do. The dowager duchess influencing his attitudes, perhaps? She gave him the arch of a brow.
He demurred, unhappy with her, but nonetheless. He puttered about after the exit of the younger man and in his own good time, he closed the double doors upon her.
She was blessedly alone. Again. In the dining room. With the grim countenance of one of the forbearers of the Ash family staring down upon her. He—name as yet unknown to her—loomed over her, six feet tall with lace cuffs dripping down to his ruby-laden fingertips. In his ornate vermilion velvet suit a la one of Charles the Second’s cavaliers, he looked so fancy, he might have been a woman going to a ball.
Lily snorted and consoled herself with a satisfying drink of her tea. Her toast stood in a little silver contraption they called a caddy. She picked up one triangle. And dropped it. Cold. Again.
Is there nothing warm in this entire mansion? Not toast. Not portraits. Not rooms. Not husband.
Not even my husband. Not as he was during our first few weeks together. Attentive, madly passionate but silent as he took her in his arms each night, he made love to her like a man possessed by demons. She had pressed him for causes. He had not shared them. So be it. She did not question him further for the cares that lined his forehead as deeply as the Broadmore butler’s.
She might understand Julian’s troubles, his added responsibilities now as the new Duke of Seton, but she did not like his withdrawal. She vowed to approach the matter, but looked for a suitable opportunity. One bit of news that would brighten his days was her purchase of the Irish lands he’d wanted his father to sell through Leland.
Phillip had arrived yesterday to prepare for the reading of the will tomorrow. Early this morning, he had sent her a note via the butler through her maid Nora that the sale had completed. She was now the proud owner of eight-thousand acres of prime farmland near Tipperary.
That news would lift her husband’s spirits.
She scraped back her chair and headed for the sideboard. The silver salvers had better have kept the heat in the eggs and bacon or she would scream.
The door squeaked open. Angry that Perkins would disturb her, she whirled around.
Her mother-in-law stood upon the threshold.
Well, that put an end to any hope of a peaceful meal.
“What are you doing?” The woman, sans diplomacy or politeness, seethed the words.
Obvious, isn’t it?
Her plate full, Lily resumed her chair. She would not be bated.
“I asked you a question.”
“Have you had your breakfast yet, madam?” Lily had not been invited to call her anything else, nor would she ask for any moniker more informal for a long time.
After the woman had heard her husband pronounced dead in the parlor in London, she’d fainted at her departed husband’s feet. Lily and Marianne had run into the room to see the duke upon the carpet. Julian had caught up his mother and put smelling salts to her nostrils. The duchess struggled up from the floor. Then in a manner Lily understood most staid ladies of the upper crust would eschew as the lowest form of crassness, she wailed as Julian pronounced her husband’s death.
Like a dervish, she’d ordered the service in the Broadmore family chapel and burial in the family mausoleum. She’d moaned, dabbed her cheeks and told tales of how happy she and her husband had been. “Until…” she said with malice, mystery and a dab of melancholy. “Until…”
On, she’d ranted and raved as if she’d lost a cherished partner. To have torn at her hair like ancient mourners might even have been in character for the woman, had she indeed cared for the man. But Lily had seen no devotion between them. For the greater realm of the duke’s and duchess’s social circle, the woman’s drama may have convinced them of her anguish. To Lily however, the lady’s actions were a play. A tragedy. A lie.
Nor had she stopped. One day after the duke’s demise, t
he woman had led a procession of the family up to Broadmore with the body of the duke leading the way in a black bunting-draped caisson. The dowager rode with Julian and Lily in the Broadmore coach. Elanna and Carbury, their honeymoon cut by the death, followed in Carbury’s carriage. Those two had stayed only two days and at Carbury’s insistence, had departed for the coast of France. If Lily thought that Elanna might be pleased to have some solitude with her groom, she might have envied the young bride’s escape. But that was not the case. As the couple left for Dieppe, Lily witnessed a new resentment take hold of the dowager. Indeed, the woman added another note to her repertoire. Suddenly, she concentrated less on mourning and more on making Lily’s life miserable.
Lily was to do her correspondence in a room upstairs. Tiny, airless and without a fireplace, the room had once been—Lily was certain—a closet. Plus the only chair was wooden, minus upholstery. Extremely uncomfortable.
Lily’s lady’s maid, Nora, whom she’d brought with her after her marriage, was to take on other household chores. None of them was usual for Nora’s stated position.
Furthermore, Lily was not to plan the meals. That was the dowager duchess’s job. Always had been.
Nor would Lily help plan for tomorrow’s reading of the late duke’s will in the library. The dowager had claimed that duty as her own. Elanna and Carbury were to arrive today. So, too, Julian’s cousin Valentine Arden, Lord Burnett. And all the servants of Broadmore would attend. Lily had suggested tea for everyone, but she’d been vetoed because of the expense of feeding the staff tea and cakes. If the dowager pinched any more pennies, they’d all be eating gruel three times a day.
If her mother-in-law had her wish, she could wave her magic wand and Lily would disappear from her house and even this dining room.
“Of course, I’ve eaten.” The woman marched toward Lily, her presence more forbidding than the man on the wall who peered over them. “It is most unbecoming for the mistress of Broadmore to take her breakfast anywhere else but in her bed.”
Wild Lily (Those Notorious Americans Book 1) Page 23
