Sweet Siren: Those Notorious Americans, Book 3

by Cerise DeLand

  A playful smile on his face, Killian tsked. "Which is what?"

  "I'm sculpting a piece I attempted over a year ago. I was dissatisfied with it."

  "Oh? What?" Liv asked, grateful for the shade of the plane trees in the square. In their corner of the restaurant's terrace, the view to the plaza was limited and she gave herself over to enjoying the company of her cousin, his wife and Killian.

  "A baby," the new father said with a silly grin.

  Killian laughed. "Re-doing a piece in your new son's image?"

  "He's very good looking," Marianne said with a wink.

  "Well, I understand your pride," Liv said recalling her own joy in the birth of Camille. She'd never even thought she could get pregnant and her daughter was a present God had granted her to brighten her existence. "Babies are such fun."

  "Rand is the happiest child," Marianne said, a hand to her ribcage, grimacing and looking for a moment very uncomfortable. "No trouble at all. Our nurses are unemployed."

  "Are you in pain?" Remy asked her, worry creasing his broad brow.

  "No, no, mon cher. It's the corset. You know I hate it."

  Remy took his wife's hand and held tightly to her. "This is why we don't go out for long. Her labor lasted more than ten hours. She's not ready yet to venture out."

  "But I insisted," Marianne was quick to add. "Don't be alarmed, Uncle Killian. If we didn't come out today, I was going to escape my bedroom by sliding down the bed sheets through the window."

  Liv laughed. "And getting out is good for you. Remy, you mustn't badger her to remain indoors. The sun is glorious today. Besides, we won't detain you."

  The waiter appeared and Remy acknowledged him by name. "A bottle of champagne, Cartot. Five glasses as we expect one more person."

  "Oui, Monsieur le duc." He nodded and trotted away.

  "So you're calling our Bertrand, Rand?" Killian asked the couple.

  "I like it," said Marianne with a toss of her pale blond curls. "Andre's mother prefers his full name."

  "And I," said Remy, "avoid any controversy and call him mon grand."

  "I can't wait to see him. He's big, eh?" Liv asked.

  Remy winced. "And long."

  "In those ten hours I pushed to give him birth, I could have sworn," Marianne said with eyes going wide as saucers, "he weighed as much as Remy."

  Killian chuckled.

  Liv said, "Babies always feel like that as you give birth, until you hold them in your arms and marvel at how infinitely tiny they are."

  Marianne got a funny smile on her face. "Rand will be a giant like his father."

  "And a sculptor as well?" Liv asked Remy.

  "Or a painter like his mother," Remy said. "Whatever he wishes is what he shall become. I've no rule. Freedom is best."

  "Agreed," said Killian. "I didn't expect Pierce to become interested in business. In fact, he was off to a slow start, but now he's adding to our company with steel contracts here in France. He's also a valuable advisor on the new plumbing we're doing in the townhouses we've planned in Brighton."

  "And you are recommending the interior designs for them and for Killian's new house, aren't you, Liv?" Marianne asked.

  "I am. In fact, the reason I'm here is to help Killian choose a few good items."

  "Including," added Killian as the waiter appeared with their glasses and champagne, "paintings and sculpture I'd like for my long gallery."

  Marianne grinned at him. "Just like a fine English lord."

  "Or an American one," Killian added while the garçon poured their wine.

  "That's why we want you to meet Edouard Montand," Remy said to him. "He can tell you whose works are selling and why. Degas, Renoir, Sisley, Manet."

  "First," Killian said as he fingered the base of his crystal flute, "I wish to buy a Duquesne and a Remy."

  Liv smiled as each of them shot back in their chairs.

  "No," said Marianne.

  "Absolutely not," echoed Remy.

  "You will not buy a thing."

  "Marianne," Killian objected.

  She put up a hand. "Uncle, I am here because you have been kind to me. All my life."

  "And I am here, Killian, because I love the niece you cared for. Do not think we would take money from you for anything."

  Liv sat back, sipping her champagne as the three of them argued, politely but hotly, over money.

  "After you meet Edouard and we finish," Remy said, "we'll walk over to our studio and you will choose whatever you wish."

  "As our gifts," Marianne said.

  "I do not intend to take—"

  "You're not taking anything, Uncle Killian." Marianne reached out and squeezed his hand.

  "I'll choose a small piece—"

  Marianne scowled at him. "You're being stubborn."

  "Besides, Killian, if you choose something insignificant, Marianne and I will simply choose pieces for you. The bigger, the better."

  Marianne nodded. "There you have it. Now argue with us."

  "One condition."

  "Name it," Remy said.

  "When I buy a piece from your friends, you will not tell any of them who I am or encourage them or your agent to sell me anything for a pittance."

  "All of our friends, Uncle Killian, are very poor. We urge you to pay more than the asking price for whatever you like."

  Liv chuckled. "I've been witness to that. Don't argue with him is my suggestion."

  Killian grinned. "If you do, I'll drive the value of all their works higher."

  Marianne sat back and clapped her hands. "That you will. Instantly."

  "Bonjour, Madame la duchesse, et Monsieur le duc."

  Standing beside Liv was an older, elegant man of middling height, ample girth, with a substantial winged mustache, pointed goatee and the sharp eyes of a man about town. He bowed over Marianne's hand and kissed it, then allowed Remy to introduce him to her and Killian. But Liv could only nod woodenly. The art agent, Monsieur Montand, had a friend.

  And she knew him. Knew him well.

  "Allow me to present a friend of mine," said Montand. "We met here in the square just as I alighted from my cab. He seeks pieces he might take home to Gloucester to decorate his home. I told him I was to meet you, Madame and Monsieur, so of course he insisted on being introduced."

  "Forgive the intrusion," said Lord Horace Mayhew who had been a close friend of her husband's. They'd gone to Eton as well as done their grand tour together. His large brown eyes rested in hers. "Lady Savage and I are well acquainted. How are you, Olivia?"

  "Very well, Horace." She allowed him to take her hand and kiss it. "Delightful to see you again."

  "And you. It's been many years."

  Since you came to David's funeral. "Indeed. You're looking well."

  "Thank you. As are you."

  He'd been truly happy to see her until the next moment when Remy introduced him to Killian.

  "Killian Hanniford. Why, how wonderful to meet you, sir." But his words were stiff and his smile thin.

  He recognizes Killian's name and the connection.

  She wished to dissolve in her chair.

  He knows I shouldn't be here with him.

  They conversed about the heat, the artists working in the plaza and then Remy invited Mayhew to join them for luncheon.

  Liv held her breath.

  "No, merci beaucoup, I must go." He absently fingered his delicate watch fob dangling from his waistcoat pocket, but his eyes flew time and again to Liv's. "My wife is at Worth's and I'm to meet her there in an hour. You know how that is. I must go to pay the bill."

  He bid them all adieu in the most pleasant terms. He'd always been a kind man.

  But his wife? Oh, Liv knew his wife. That woman was not kind. She was a creature of the ton. Addicted to her clothes, her jewels, her houses, even her lovers. Those last—and numerous they'd been, too—made up for the lack in her husband's affections. For Mayhew preferred men. Men like David.

  "Come sit, Edouard," Remy welcom
ed his friend and agent. "We've a glass ready for you."

  "And we're delighted to say," said Marianne," that my uncle prepares to buy whatever you tell him will be the next sensation."

  Liv sat back, her heart pounding, her fears doubling that her time with Killian was very short. Shorter than she predicted. Because the fear in her heart spread like poison through her bloodstream. Listening with half a heart, half an ear, half a mind, she took part in the discussion when she could with a smile and a nod.

  But her flesh crawled as she imagined Mayhew climbing the staircase in the House of Worth on the Rue de la Paix and mulling over what he'd just witnessed. His wife, curse her, would notice his confusion and ask its source. He'd never been clever or wily. Always an open gregarious creature whom David had loved with every ounce of his uncomplicated soul. Mayhew would casually tell her that the most extraordinary thing just happened when he was up in Montmartre. Of all people, he'd run into Olivia Bereston.

  You remember her, he'd say.

  His wife would fix her ferret's eyes on him, widening her nostrils. "David's widow?"

  Yes. And would you believe, I saw her with that notorious American? That Killian Hanniford.

  “Hanniford? You don't say.”

  I do.

  “The one who bankrupted her father?” she’d scoff.

  Quite so.

  “Why he killed himself? Wasn’t it?”

  Chapter 15

  On their journey through the streets of Paris down from Montmartre, Liv found no words. Traffic was brisk and Killian's coachman arrived at the Grand Hotel within minutes. Liv tried not to twist her gloves to ropes, but she couldn't stop, couldn't look at Killian. He finally moved to her side of the carriage and took her in his arms. She welcomed his solace, even though she owed him an explanation.

  He didn't ask. Sweet man.

  He was so wise. That was how he'd survived and prospered throughout his life.

  She was grateful. Coward that she was.

  When his town coach idled before the entrance to the hotel, instead of remaining inside, Killian got out. "Return in an hour, Robert."

  If he walked through the lobby and followed her upstairs, everyone would see he was her lover.

  But, what did it matter?

  Shame washed through her. Shame of her father. Her mother. Her husband. All their choices.

  She picked up her skirts and marched inside. Everyone would learn soon enough. Courtesy of Alice, Lady Horace Mayhew.

  Liv took the central stairs. Her rooms on the third floor overlooked the grand circle entrance to the Opera and she loved standing at the tall French windows watching the patterns of the hackneys and coaches, the omnibuses and the lorries. All hours of the day and night, they went round and round in an endless symphony of sound. She liked the synchronicity of it, as if the muffled notes were meant to be, inevitable and unemotional. She loved to stand her back against the open panes and let in the breezes and the sounds of their infinite rounds.

  She opened her door and Killian walked in close behind her. She threw down her little purse and parasol on a hall chair and continued through her sitting room to her bedroom.

  Standing before her chiffonier, she put her hands on her hips, her back to him. "Please undo me."

  She could hear him behind her, removing his coat, undoing his cufflinks and dropping them with two clinks to the bedside table. This would be their last minutes of intimacy.

  She felt the tug of his hands on her gown. A bit rough—angry most likely—he continued his pursuit of her buttons and hooks, her laces and tabs. Naked, her clothes a gaudy pile of fabric around her feet, she waited for his caresses. Today, she needed them, all of them. Long, fervent, enthralling strokes that he lavished on her, proving to her over and over that she belonged to him. At least for that moment, for the afternoon.

  Today, he took an extraordinarily long time and she couldn't object. He smoothed both his palms down her throat and blessed her nape with a torrid kiss. She leaned back into his embrace, allowing him to spread his legs and support her this one last time. He circled his arms around her and cupped each breast, thumbing her nipples until she moaned, her lower body flooding with need and crying out at the emptiness that had to be filled by him and soon.

  He splayed his fingers down her ribcage and sent one hand down to her mound where he sank into her hair and found her center. There, he pressed his hand to her hot and needy core and bit her on the shoulder.

  She tried to turn, but he clamped her to him like a vise. "Let me do this for you."

  And there in the middle of her carpet, he massaged her and petted her until she whimpered in ecstasy and her knees buckled under her.

  He caught her up and led her to the bed where he laid her out as if she were his pagan prize, climbed up between her thighs and kissed her to a high and fulfilled keen.

  "Take these off," she yanked at his cravat and his shirt. "I need you."

  He stood away from her and dispensed with his clothes, his silver gaze caressing her face and naked form. Unbuttoning his trousers, he let them fall but fished something from his pocket, then joined her on the bed. With a hand under each of her knees, he pulled her legs up and pushed her ankles back. There he licked her to another erotic explosion and finally settled above her and dropped into her.

  He was fire and she was swollen desire. And with a madness only he could conjure in her, he brought her to a new and sweeter plain, this climax as wild as any of the others. He drifted down over her and held her tightly. She was his possession and she reveled in it one last time.

  Cooler, sated, she pulled back and gave him a smile of gratitude. She made to leave him, but he pressed her shoulder to the mattress.

  "As we are now, is how we were meant to be."

  Her heart cracked open. Now the argument would begin. He'd ask what it was about Horace that had frozen her. She'd have to tell him everything. What a coward she'd been. What a mess her life had been. How she'd decided to meet him, gone purposely to Elanna’s wedding only out of curiosity and meanness. Gone to Remy’s and Marianne’s because she had to reconfirm how infuriating her attraction to him was. How errant her sexual attraction to him. How unethical her need to see him smile at her, flirt and pursue her. Revenge hadn't even been her motive, because how could she, insignificant as she was, hurt the magnificent wealthy tycoon, Black Irish Hanniford?

  "Liv, sweetheart." He placed a tender kiss on her lips. His body still joined with hers, he undulated inside her to bring her attention to him. "Listen to me. Look at me."

  She saw him through the haze of her rapture and her pain.

  "Liv, I love you."

  She stared at him. She'd known it, of course, she had. He wore his love like a sheen of light. An aura in which he always enfolded her.

  But he mustn't care for her.

  "Liv," he whispered and caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. "My darling, I love you."

  She shook herself to some sensitive response. "Killian, no, you don't. This is lust. This is—"

  "Love." He shifted, still inside her deep and hot, but he brought forth into her view a huge ring of gold with tiny diamonds and one central ruby. "Marry me, Liv."

  Her mouth fell open and she worked at words. Crazed, frantic, afraid she would laugh hysterically, she gasped. For him to love her was pure irony. For him to marry her would be ludicrous.

  She shook her head. And this time, when she moved to slide out from under him, he let her go.

  From the rumpled coverlet and sheets, he sat propped up on one elbow with his gaze boring into hers. "Now tell me what happened up there this afternoon and why that means you won't marry me."

  "I know him."

  "Clearly."

  "He was a friend of my husband's." To go on was to walk into the limbo she'd lived in with David. To tell Killian all, was to open the door to the nightmare she'd lived most of her life.

  Killian set his jaw and slid from the bed. Walking around, he gathered his clothe
s and jerked them on. When he was in his shirt, his waistcoat hanging open, his trousers secured, he strode to her liquor cart. With a few brisk moves, he poured two glasses full of brandy and handed her one. Then he took a seat in the boudoir chair that faced her. One leg crossed over the other, he focused on her with the intensity for which he'd been prized and ridiculed all these years.

  He would not move. He wanted answers. And she couldn't blame him, even if she hated that she had to confess them.

  Self-conscious at her nudity, she put down the glass and went to her wardrobe and removed her silk robe. It was too sheer, clinging to her curves and much too risqué for the conversation they were about to have, but she had no time to look for something more demure. Facing him, she tied the sash beneath her breasts, picked up her glass and downed a large swallow. She'd need courage for this. If she had it from a bottle, so be it.

  "I cannot marry you because we are not suited."

  He swirled the brandy in his glass. "You've tried that line. We've proved that wrong."

  Very well. "I told myself I would never marry again."

  He did not blink one eyelash.

  She whipped out an arm. "I don't like belonging to someone."

  He took a drink and savored it as his quicksilver eyes narrowed on her.

  "I don't like having someone overshadow me. People thinking, assuming things about me that aren't true. Could never be true."

  He wasn't going to speak. He was going to sit there stoic as a prophet until kingdom come and let her rave on.

  "Oh, God! He was David's lover."

  Killian's lips parted.

  "My husband was a homosexual. He'd known it since he was sent off to school. Horace was one of his lovers. Not the only one, but the one who was the most regular. And Horace was kind to David. He kept reappearing whenever my husband had a financial loss or he suffered estate problems or crop failures. He'd often pay his bills, our bills, until David and I began to advise on home interior decoration and earn our keep."

  Killian studied her, compassion softening the thin line of his mouth.

  She loathed it. The sympathy.

  Groaning, she turned away to pace and drink and drain her glass.