Wild Lily (Those Notorious Americans Book 1)

by Cerise DeLand

  And that he’d come to her.

  That gratified her even as if made her question what he meant by appearing on her doorstep. The medical case was a superb gift but it could not compensate for what she truly wanted from him.

  And she wondered if he even knew what it was her heart required of him.

  This time, she must tell him.

  This time, he must tell her if he was capable of it.

  “Is she safely delivered?” Julian’s grave words enveloped her.

  She turned.

  He stood in the entrance to the salon. In a light blue waistcoat and white shirt, his dark hair tousled, he was a heart-warming sight.

  “Yes. A healthy boy. He was breach. I had to turn him and it was not easy for her.”

  “I’m sure you were a help.”

  She noted how weary he looked, even in the faint moonlight streaming through the windows. “You waited for me.”

  “I could not sleep. I came to see you. Talk. There is no rest for me until I do.”

  She bit her lip. “I am so tired, Julian. I doubt I can do this tonight.”

  “Please hear me out. I have rehearsed this so often to myself that if I don’t say it soon, I’ll be quite mad. You needn’t decide anything tonight. In fact, I wish you wouldn’t. But listen to me. Will you?”

  She nodded and walked around him into the salon she loved. In daylight, the room seemed a continuance of the lovely green of the countryside. Light and gay in sunshine, the room in moonlight had an ethereal quality that spoke of sighs and kisses. How often had she longed for Julian here to embrace her and tell her he adored her?

  She sat in one of the sumptuous chairs by the fireplace. She looked up at him and waited.

  He inhaled. “Do you like it here in Ireland?”

  Happy for the reprieve not to delve into their conflict, she glanced around the room. “I do. The house, the land, the tenants are—were a boon to me when I arrived. The house was a shambles. We cleaned it, though, it needs more. The stove in the kitchen must be replaced. The floors could do with a proper buffing. As for the land, it’s rich, but we need to improve the farming methods. The tenants had an old pony that died. They couldn’t plow. I bought a Connemara at the Tipperary fair a few weeks ago. She’s a sweet bay two years old and we should see good results from her.”

  He stared at her, pensive, unmoving. “I miss you.”

  His words filled the room. Deep bass sounds of despair and longing. She should be happy.

  But she caught back a sob. “I missed you, too.”

  He went to his knees before her, his hands crushing hers. “Come back to England with me, please.”

  “Oh, Julian.” She fought for her dignity and no tears. “I like being the lady of this manor.”

  His face, dearer to her than any other, went lax. “I made mistakes.”

  “A few.” One greater than others.

  He frowned. “I failed you.”

  That she would not argue.

  “Allow me the chance to show you I am changed. I am a better man. Your man.”

  This was not a declaration of love. But then, what would she have done if he had said it here and now? Words were no proof that he’d changed. Did she owe him the opportunity to do more?

  He squeezed her hands. “Come to England with me. I’ve many things to show you.”

  “I wanted to show you that I was worthy of you. That I could be a wife, a marchioness, even a duchess to be proud of.”

  He raised her hands and kissed each one. “You did. I failed to show you I could be a husband you would love.”

  That was not true. She had loved him for many months. Unsolicited, she had given him her heart and trusted him with her devotion.

  All she had ever wanted was to have it returned.

  “You needn’t promise me to remain,” he said at last, his eyes cast downward at her hands. “Come for a month. Return here, if you wish. Or go anywhere. A month. Then decide to stay or go. And if you want to leave, I won’t stop you.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Their journey to England was a week in which Lily fought with herself minute by minute. In her small home in Tipperary, she’d been happy. Or perhaps satisfied was the more appropriate word. She enjoyed the people, hard-working, quiet and devoted to their families. If she brought them a new measure of prosperity with better seeds, the Connemara pony and medical care, they brought her a renewed contentment in the simpler life of a rural village. It was that she had missed of Texas. That she wanted to enjoy wherever she lived.

  She took the staircase down to breakfast the morning after their arrival. She’d slept soundly and alone. Since Julian had appeared in front of her in Ireland, they’d not shared the same bed. He did not ask. She did not offer. There was much that must be said and done if they were ever again to be lovers.

  She strolled into the dining room, the footman Finch fighting a smile at her appearance, the ancestor on the wall above him still stuffy and much too pretty for his own good. And at the head of the table sat her husband in his morning jacket and soft white shirt. The handsome devil she’d married made her heart ache with desire.

  Julian stood, pushed back his chair and pulled out her own.

  She hated the formality of it, but she understood his need to do it.

  Finch poured her coffee and Julian regained his seat, then folded his morning paper.

  “Did you sleep well?”

  “I did.” Our big bed is the most wonderful furnishing in this house. She grinned at her own thought.

  “What? You must share.”

  She rolled her eyes at him and cast a sideways look at Finch. “Never.”

  “Would you like the paper?”

  “Not today. Maybe not for a long time. I enjoyed being blissfully ignorant of newspapers while I was away.”

  “Finch, please give me a selection from the sideboard, would you?” She enjoyed simply sitting here, looking at the house through the prism of her Irish perspective.

  She and Julian remained quiet while the footman served her.

  “Thank you, Finch,” Julian said. “I’ll ring when we’re finished.”

  On their journey, she had asked about the health of her own family. Julian had recounted his conversation with her father and she had written to him to assure him of her health and safety, as well as her return to England with Julian. In that week, she not asked about his family. Now, she felt ready to learn.

  “How is Elanna? Have you seen her?” She sipped her coffee.

  “Once a few weeks ago. She is the same.”

  “Unhappy.”

  “And resentful of her need to marry.”

  “We could hope Carbury changes.”

  Julian’s mouth turned down. “He is not motivated.”

  As a topic too close to their own circumstances, Lily let that pass and put her attention to her eggs. “And your mother?”

  “I have not seen her. Have not called upon her and she has not come here.”

  At another impasse, she let that subject slide. “And what of the tenants who were ill? With the warmer weather, I hope they’ve improved.”

  “They have. I thought after we finish eating, we’d go visit them. What do you say?”

  Minutes later, they left the house to walk down the lane. Along the way, she saw Docker and his two sons working in the stable block.

  “I’d like to say hello,” she told Julian, took a few paces to the right and waved at the men. “Good morning, gentlemen. Nice to see you.”

  All three doffed their hats and welcomed her.

  Docker cast Julian a sideways look. “Now, Your Grace?”

  “Later, thank you, Docker. We’re off to the cottages. You understand.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Lily wrinkled a brow. “What are you up to?”

  “I told the men,” Julian said, “you might wish to ride later.”

  “I just might,” she said, and struck up a conversation with the three about the health of the
horses.

  “When shall we ride?” she asked Julian when they had bid the men good day and continued down the lane. “After sunset?”

  “Of course.” He nodded. His gift waiting for her in the stables was not as grand as the one he hoped she would like down in the village and he was impatient for her to see it.

  There, eleven of his tenants lined the lane to greet her. She’d won a place in their hearts when she’d nursed them and they hadn’t ever had such assistance from his mother nor, he would guess, from any other Duchess of Seton. Lily greeted them by name, something he was learning to do.

  “We’re glad to see you, Your Grace. We missed you.”

  “We did,” called another.

  A girl of six or seven ran forward with wild flowers in her hands.

  “Mabel,” Lily said, “thank you. These are lovely. Did you pick them yourself?”

  The child nodded, her long brown braids bouncing on her shoulders.

  “And how is your mama, Mabel?” Lily winked at the lady who stood beside her. “Is she better?”

  “She doesn’t cough. Me not ever.”

  Lily giggled and took the flowers into the crook of her arm.

  “Will you come inside, Your Grace?” the girl’s mother asked Lily with a twinkle in her eye. Julian had planted the idea that it should be one the tenants who revealed his surprise. After all, the gift was theirs and Lily’s more than his.

  “Wasn’t this a deserted cottage?” Lily looked at each of the women and then at Julian. “Isn’t it?”

  “Not anymore, m’lady. Come along.”

  Lily followed them in.

  For long tortuous minutes, Julian paced and forced himself to remain outside. But then he heard Lily gasp and laugh. The sound, melodic and bright, was music to him, a favored song revived from his memories of her.

  He turned on his heel to stroll into the woods while his wife whooped with joy at her surroundings.

  Heedless of his wanderings, he soon found himself back at the stables.

  “My lord?” Docker called to him, a hand to his brow to shield from the sun. “Will you show her the saddle today?”

  “Maybe. She’s in the redone cottage. They’re all with her. Laughing.”

  “As they should be, sir. It’s fine thing you’ve done there.”

  “I think so. I’m back to the house. My wife and I will come down later for a ride after dinner.” I hope we will. Nervous as a boy called on the carpet, Julian left the stables.

  Halfway home, he stopped at the sound of her voice.

  “Julian! Julian?” Lily shouted to him and he turned to see her, her skirts in her hand, running up the lane like a child.

  Her glossy black hair had fallen from her pins. Her cheeks were red. Her beautiful blue eyes danced, alight with glee. Before him, she glowed. She caught her breath, a hand to her chest. “Julian, what you did! It’s marvelous.”

  “You like it? Think it’s complete?”

  “Oh, heavens, darling, it’s the most fabulous canteen I’ve ever seen. You’ve thought of everything. Ether and iodine. Bandages and plaster. Needles.”

  He took hope at her endearment. “I’m sure you’ll need more. More of everything.”

  “Eventually.” She reached for his hand. “Thank you. How did you think of this?”

  “That was easy. I tried to think as you do. About others. About what you can give them of yourself.”

  “You’ve spent a fortune.”

  “I’m shocked at how affordable it all was.”

  “After the medical kit for Tipperary, this is an extraordinary gift, Julian.”

  “There is another kit just like it in your bedroom for the infirmary here.”

  She sucked in her breath.

  “And another at Willowreach, along with a duplicate of this infirmary. I wanted you to have the best that was possible wherever you went. Wherever you go.”

  “I’m enormously grateful.” At once, she seemed sad and took her hand from him. “I know they are, too.”

  “Their health is mine.” Your joy is mine. And your lack is my despair. He had to walk away. He couldn’t bear to remain and see her struggle for words. “I’ll see you later.”

  He’d failed her.

  Again.

  He turned on his heel.

  “Julian, wait!”

  He halted. Fresh misery washed over him. He had to stop hoping for her change of heart.

  She took his arm and pulled him around. “I am truly overjoyed with your gift. I never expected such a superb facility.”

  “Don’t go on, Lily. I can see it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change anything.”

  “But it does.” She sounded conciliatory.

  He shook his head. “I wanted you to see how I welcome who you are. What you are. That whatever you want to do with your days is the way you should live your life. That I love you as you are. Not as I thought I wanted my wife to be. Not as others thought you should be. But you.”

  She seized his hand.

  His heart cracked in two. “I loved you from the start. The day in the Rue de la Paix. The night at the opera. The house party at Carbury’s. I couldn’t stay away. I tried. God knows, I didn’t want the shame of marrying you or anyone for their fortune. I told myself I was better than that. More noble. And I nursed my pride. But when it came to you, I loved you in spite of your wealth and your father and even the machinations of my own. I would have married you if the devil himself had warned me off.” He sank a hand into the wealth of her silken hair and she flowed against him. “I love you, but if you cannot bear me and you wish to leave, do it.”

  “And if I would never leave you?” she asked on a thread of sound. Tears stood in her eyes.

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  She rose on her toes to bless his lips with hers. “I love you, Julian. I’ve waited so long to tell you. Denied you my own declaration and it killed me. I needed you to love me and I couldn’t bear that you might not.”

  He cupped her jaw and examined what truth he saw in her lovely blue eyes. “You’ll stay?”

  “You love me. Oh, Julian, how could I ever go?” She kissed him, once and again, and he scooped her up in his arms to kiss her back.

  As he tasted her lips, his heart was sewn up with the balm of her own declaration. “You won’t leave me again.”

  “Never. Wherever you are is where I must be.”

  Also available from Totally Bound Publishing:

  Swords of Passion: At Her Service

  Cerise DeLand

  Excerpt

  Chapter One

  Winter, 1207

  Cumbria, The Marches, England

  The smoke from the tapers made her guests' eyes water, and though she brushed a finger under her lashes to rid herself of one tear, Elise Dumond could still see Simon de la Poer at the back of the great hall. God preserve her, she would see him if her eyes were closed. If she were blind. Indeed, if she were dead, she would see him in hell. And, oh, would it not be sweet succour to die and know she would remain in his company forever and end this torture of being parted from him for all these endless years?

  She fiddled with the stem of her goblet and drank back more red wine. Then drank again, unnerved by the sight of the man who had taken her in his arms as a youth and put his firm, hot lips to her own with sweet promises of a lifetime of love.

  Who had he delighted like that these past twelve years?

  Ha! She took another draught.

  Who had he not ravished in his bed? In Londontown, the fabled knight Simon de la Poer was reputed to have bedded any woman of noble birth desirous of spreading her legs for him and paying him her weight in gold to compensate him for his services. Elise caught back a sob of jealousy for all those women he'd touched, for all those he had kissed and to whom he'd whispered pretty words of devotion as once he had to her.

  She put forth her cup for the maid to refill. The girl scurried over, understanding her mistress was in the mood to drink. Drink myself to distra
ction. Drink myself to oblivion.

  Unbidden, her eyes drifted towards the back of the hall, past the tiny man and the tall, dark Oriental who were Simon's odd companions. Her gaze locked on the man she wished she did not see.

  Christ in His Glory, this man was unmistakably the warrior they called Knight Divine. Simon de la Poer, who had earned his moniker attacking the Infidel in Jerusalem with his lord King Richard of England, possessed all the imposing aspects of a man with whom any woman would desire a night in heaven. He had matured to a massive build. Tall as the sconces, broad in the chest as two men, muscular in his black velvet tunic, his grey hose hugging his bulging calves, he seemed Herculean.

  She wished she could tear herself away from eating him up with her eyes. Wished she could ignore his quicksilver stare that met her own. Wished she could refuse her husband's order to offer up her immortal soul to keep what was hers here on earth. Yet she had no choice but to obey her husband and strip herself bare then lie down with her noble lord in their marriage bed tonight-and invite Simon de la Poer to join them.

  Her future depended on her cooperation. Her ability to continue to live here until she died, in the grand keep with retainers and serfs to do her bidding, required it. Aye, she had ranted and raved against her husband and his plan these past two months. Still, Alphonse, earl of this estate and master at Atherton, brooked none of her objections. He had written to London, summoned Simon here to the wild, frozen north-western climes. And now tonight, she faced climbing into bed with her husband of twelve years, a randy but dying man, then giving herself to the famed knight, who once was her childhood friend fostered in her father's castle.

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  About the Author

  What’s a gal to do to if she lives deep in the heart of Texas, travels often everywhere, and adores Paris, Florence, London, Tokyo and all points east and west?

  Ah.

  She becomes an author who can write about those romantic places. With a passion for cowboys, spies, rakes, knights in shining armor and their gutsy women, Cerise DeLand is an author who adores an alpha male with a tender heart and a need for a smoldering erotic love affair with the right woman!