Daring Widow: Those Notorious Americans, Book 2

by Cerise DeLand

  “Chelton has a friend who’s a laborer? Yet he offered you his own carriage?” He arched his brows high. “Damned intriguing.”

  “No, sir.” Marianne objected.

  Lily caught her eye and shook her head in warning.

  But Marianne, brave in many ways, said anyway, “He’s a duke.”

  Hanniford laughed.

  Lily rolled her eyes at Marianne.

  Marianne shot from her chair, came round 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 raced up the circular staircase up to their suites. “I need details.”

  “We’ve no time, Uncle.”

  “We don’t want to be late, Papa,” Lily called down.

  “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 a small soirée and then the opera, dear Father. And you’ve paid good money for it.”

  “I have not paid a penny. We’re guests!”

  “All the more reason. Get dressed yourself,” Lily told him, whirling into Marianne’s sitting room and shutting the door behind her.

  “Oh, Marianne, 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,” Marianne said, feigning indifference. Her uncle wanted her settled. Married. Safe, he called it. He’d said so, a thousand times. And she had refused him a thousand times. Married and settled and safe were not synonyms. She had experience to prove it. “I’ll not have another husband, ever.”

  Her vehemence about the subject of taking a husband was not new. And she wished she might appear less adamant about such a thing. But she couldn’t.

  Yet Lily had seen her interest in the French nobleman and she knew she’d never before displayed any attraction to a man. But taking a lover was a different story. And this Remy was so enticing that she might consider him a candidate.

  In that, the risks were high. Social censure. Her family’s disgrace. Even if she had the courage to be so risqué, she was not made from such cloth. She could not chance it.

  She turned away from Lily and strode to her dressing room. “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. “No. Not at any price.”

  Remy checked his watch, tucked it back inside his waistcoat and cursed.

  He was so late. His mother’s latest attack of breathlessness was his excuse. Julian would understand that. But his friend expected him to assist him tonight socially. Julian was to escort his mother and younger sister, Elanna, to the opera and he’d planned not to arrive until the third act or later. Remy had estimated the time to be approximately eleven, perhaps later. But his mother’s delicate heart had palpitated too quickly tonight and he would not leave her until she assured him she felt calmer. That, thankfully, had occurred an hour ago and he’d donned his evening attire as quickly as his valet Pierre could assemble him into a presentable picture.

  Climbing out of his town coach, he strode to the doors and through the lower rotunda. He swept off his top hat and undid the leather clasps of his opera cape. The ticket master bowed to him, recognizing him immediately. Good thing. He’d held season’s tickets to the Opera Garner since its opening two years ago. His mama had often come with him, but last season, she’d refrained. He’d agreed that it was best she keep her strength for her frequent afternoon champagne luncheons with her friends. Amalie Sabine Marceau, Princesse d’Aumale et Duchesse de Remy was a pillar of Parisian society and she would not fail to appear, unless she were lying in her coffin.

  “And that, mon cher,” she’d said earlier, shooing him off, “I will not permit until I have no breath left. Do go now. I will live. You must enjoy the music for me and come with tales of the horrors of the tenor’s cracking voice. I live for that. Go, go!”

  He chuckled as he took the flight of the rose marble steps to the grand circle. Julian, his sister Elanna and his mother, the Duchess of Seton, would be eager to take their places in their seats. As he rounded the assembly area, he saw them in a group not far from him. He smiled in greeting, but no one saw him.

  Then he halted in his tracks.

  Julian was there. His mother, too. His sister Elanna a young beauty of verve in frothy pink, was overly polite to an older hawkish-looking creature who was quite obviously interested in her. Beside that man stood another. Tall, dark with angular features that implied brute strength, this man was impeccable in black formal tails and white cravat. With him stood two young women. The dark-haired beauty of this morning’s accident in the Rue de la Paix, Lily Hanniford, was beside him, a vision in a sapphire and silver fox cape. Next to her stood Remy’s own compelling fascination, the ethereal willow in royal purple sateen trimmed in white mink. The glorious widow. His unforgettable blonde.

  The sentiment warmed him, head to toe.

  Julian spied him and welcomed him to the gathering. “We’re delighted you’re here.”

  “Bon soir. Forgive me my tardiness.” He decided not to discuss his mother’s health. The subject was delicate, alarming perhaps, and not a note he wished to strike here in the presence of Madame Roland. He chose the less personal subject. “There was another accident in the Rue de la Paix. I fear we have a contagion on our hands. ”

  The Duchess of Seton picked up her lorgnette on its gold chain, peered about and introduced him to the rest of the party. The Setons he knew. The gentleman who was so attentive to Elanna was the Earl of Carbury, whom he’d never met before. He bowed to Lily Hanniford and her cousin, then tore his gaze away to meet Killian Hanniford, the famed rebel blockade runner whose inglorious reputation proceeded him in polite society.

  His duties accomplished, Remy gave a slight bow to the lady whose image had teased him all day. The jewel-like purple of her gown contrasted with the faint pink in her skin and highlighted the beauty of her large green eyes. “Madame Roland, I am delighted to see you again.”

  “Monsieur le duc, merci beaucoup.” She dipped in a small curtsey, much too formal for his taste. “I too am pleased to see you.”

  “I hope you have recovered from this morning’s troubling incident.” Now that I see you again, I fill with exuberance.

  “We were but by-standers. Of course it is Madame Chaumont who suffered more than I. She was noble throughout. But it is to you and Lord Chelton whom we owe all our thanks.”

  He suppressed a naughty grin. She was being so polite, so proper. But the very way her lush lips formed words heated his blood. Her mouth was quite exquisite and much more sensual, erotic really, than his poor memory had allowed. What she could do with that mouth would be worth a thousand days of his life. She was precise in her language, even if she had that odd drawl that denoted she came from one of her southern states. But she was also soft spoken. Was that a trick perhaps to lure him closer? Ha. He did not mind. He gladly drew nigh. She smelled of some flower. Not roses. Peonies? Sweet but not cloying.

  He longed to inhale her fragrance more closely, capture it as it wafted up from her bare skin.

  He grinned at her.

  “What did I say?” she asked him, her remarkable eyes wide with humor. “You smile at me. Did I commit a faux pas?”

  “Oh, no, Madame. I enjoy your words.” He had to keep her talking and yet ameliorate any fears she might have that he was laughing at her. On the contrary, he wanted to impress her, seduce her, claim her before his enchantment with her evaporated. Such addictions to women did happen to him. Rarely. But when they did, he knew enough to seize the moment and attempt to imbibe them before sharp reality splintered the image and broke th
e fantasy in a thousand shards. “You have that accent that denotes you are from the South. I find it soothing.”

  “Do you?” she asked with a skeptical glance. “Most don’t.”

  “They lose then.”

  “Lose?”

  “The chance to hear the melody in your heart.”

  Her cheeks flushed. “You are poetic.”

  “Your reaction tells me that few have been poetic for you.”

  “None, Monsieur.”

  “Then you have not yet met the right people.”

  She lifted her perfect chin and took him in fully with those incomparable emerald eyes. “Do the right ones speak as eloquently as you?”

  “They try.” But I hope to keep them at bay. He offered his arm. “May I take you in to the theater, Madame?”

  With a twist of her head, she noted that the others in the party were indeed headed for the Earl of Carbury’s box. She looped her gloved hand through his. Her fingers loose upon his forearm, he welcomed their warmth. And to keep them there, he pressed his hand atop them. The gesture was improper, but he’d done it out of need to secure her to him.

  She caught her breath.

  “The threshold, Madame,” he said, indicating the carpet as they stepped into their box with the others.

  “Oh, my,” she said, halting as she gazed at the cavernous theatre decorated in ruby and gold fittings. Everywhere the rich velvets and damasks, the heavy fringes around them, the box adornments seized the imagination. Even the red velvet expanse of the cloak room with its chaise longue, and the tapestry upholstered chairs in Carbury’s box assaulted the senses with sumptuous display. “This is quite overwhelming.”

  The others were removing their cloaks. He gestured to help her with hers and she presented her back. His fingers touched her skin, a spark racing up his arm as he hung her cloak and his on the large hooks.

  “It’s astonishing, isn’t it?” The innocent delight of her appreciation for the decor reached out to him like a hand to his heart.

  Her gaze ran once more over the opulence. “Sublime.”

  What was sublime was the angelic fascination on her face. “The loveliest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Was this the expression she wore when she gazed at a man she adored? “Certainement.”

  “So much of it,” she whispered. “All this red. Like passion.”

  “The stuff of life.”

  She spun to face him, her gaze searching his, afire with enthusiasm that mesmerized him. “Are they wonderful?”

  “Who?” He was lost in her. How could she be this mature and find the beauties of this place so fresh? She was a child discovering sugared fantasies.

  “The singers? The dancers?”

  “Mais oui. As divine as the music. You will enjoy them.”

  “I never thought I would have the opportunity.”

  “No?” He tipped his head. “Why would you not?”

  His question broke her enchantment. She frowned, turning away, seemingly embarrassed. “A trifle.”

  “I don’t think so.” He put a hand to her elbow. “What did I say?”

  She glanced up, her polite demeanor firmly back in place. “Nothing, Monsieur.“

  “But I did. It made you sad and I do not wish that.” He pressed his fingers into her flesh. “Tell me please so I do not make the same mistake again.”

  “It’s difficult to behold this and realize so many will never see it. So many starve or suffer illnesses and I—” She put up a hand. “I’m sorry. I’m maudlin. Very poor manners on my part.” She swept aside her skirts and sat down.

  He took the chair beside her. “I apologize.”

  She nodded. “Please do not, Monsieur le duc. I am the one who is not used to the grandeur of this.“

  “That is refreshing, Madame.”

  “Oh, sir. You need not humor me.”

  “Ah, but I am used to those who would never exclaim over such richness. Never find delight in draperies or chandeliers.”

  She cocked her head. “I could shock you more and say I enjoy full meals and blazing hearths.”

  “As we all do and yet few who have such each day boast of them.” He leaned closer to her, wishing she’d share details of her past to draw them nearer to each other. A widow, she had lost her husband. Had she loved him? How deeply? Had he died in their war? And how had she fared in that conflict? “What is your reason for such admiration of the ordinary pleasures of life?”

  She went quite still, her focus on the stage. “I lived without them for years during our civil war. When your stomach growls, when your enemy sets fire to your barns and eats your pig and your chickens, when you have no wood to burn in your own hearth, you value food and shelter for the rest of your life.”

  He took her gloved hand and she did not pull away. “You may always share with me anything you appreciate, Madame.”

  Her sweet green eyes met his and he watched her give in to a laugh. “Might you like old Flemish tapestries?”

  “From the reign of Louis the Fifteenth, I do.”

  “Hmm. Why?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “He’s an ancestor.”

  She gaped. “Am I to assume you own a few?”

  He demurred. “Three.”

  “A group. Oh, my.”

  “Scenes of a stag hunt at Rouen. They hang in one of my homes.”

  She clapped her hands together, eager. “Rouen. My grandfather fled Rouen to go to America. May I see your tapestries, perhaps?”

  “Name the day.”

  She giggled and stopped herself short like a child at play. “Do you like art?”

  He warmed even more to her test. “Sculpture. Painting. And you?”

  She narrowed her eyes on him. “Caravaggio?”

  “Dark and dangerous,” he said. Sensing she disliked the painter’s work, he refrained from sharing that he owned two of that man’s works too.

  “Agreed. Exactly like Goya. Do you own any of his paintings?”

  “No. And I’m glad I don’t.”

  “Too realistic?”

  He acknowledged that with a wince. “One of my ancestors died in Spain with Napoleon. His passing was not pleasant.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No need. I know only of his trauma. Tell me instead if you like the works of any French artists?”

  “Delacroix?” she asked brightly.

  “My father bought one of his landscapes.”

  That took her aback, her thick blonde lashes fluttering in confusion. “My uncle wishes to buy his portrait of Frédéric Chopin.”

  “Does he? Well. He’ll pay an outrageous price for that.”

  “Money is no object to my uncle when he wants something badly.”

  Remy wondered what might stand between him and this fascinating widow. If anything, it was not money. He had enough for the next century. And unlike Julian, he need not marry to acquire anything he wanted. Except the woman herself. “It’s for sale. He should buy it.”

  Her plump lips parted and in her expression, he saw excitement. “Tell me about the singers. The dancers. The music.”

  “The orchestra is accomplished. The singers are expert. You will enjoy them.” He watched her as she imbibed that. God, she was lovely. “Have you been to the opera in New York?”

  “No. We live in Baltimore and often we’re at my uncle’s ranch in south Texas. Our entertainment consists of our own piano and neither Lily nor I am very good at that.”

  “Have you lived with your uncle Killian and his children a long time?” He was being intrusive, but he had to take this chance to understand her. How else to draw her? Sculpt her?

  “Almost thirteen years.”

  “A very long time.”

  “A very happy one.”

  He did not understand why such a lovely woman remained cloistered and unmarried. “And your parents?”

  “They died soon after I was married. During our war.”

  He ached for her. “And your husband?”

&nb
sp; She stiffened her spine. “He died in a battle in a small town in Pennsylvania.”

  “My condolences, Madame.”

  “I was fifteen.” She tried to smile and failed. “Half a lifetime ago.”

  “Mon dieu. You were too young to endure such loss.”

  She stared down into her lap. “My parents wished me to wed him despite my age. They were ill and had lost their land early in the war. My husband was a friend of my parents’, so it was natural that we wed.”

  Remy reached out to take both her hands in his. “You have suffered greatly.”

  “It was long ago, Monsieur. I made my way north eventually and my uncle took me into his home and his care. My aunt, his wife, was still alive and she was kind to me. When she died, I welcomed the chance to help my uncle. I’m grateful to him.”

  “And so you helped your uncle with his small children.”

  “I did.”

  He wished to cup her fragile cheek, kiss her nose, her eyelids and wrap her close. “What have you done for yourself?”

  That stumped her. She stared at him.

  “You must have cultivated a part of yourself for yourself.”

  “I have.” She pulled away once more.

  Now was time to challenge her. “What is it?”

  “I have nursed the ill and dying.”

  “Pardon?” That was not what he expected.

  She licked her lips, chanced a glance at the stage and turned back to him. “I worked as a nurse in a makeshift hospital during the war in Virginia. It was necessary. There were so very many who were wounded. I was whole and healthy and able.”

  The orchestra took up their instruments, the rattle of bows and sheet music sending a ripple through the audience.

  “They begin,” she said and dismissed their topic as she shifted around in her chair.

  He could not take his eyes from her. To look upon her was to behold a beautiful creature. To speak with her, to learn her of her interest in tapestries and painters was to become intrigued with her turn of mind. But then to hear of her hardships and her reactions to them was to become astonished by her uniqueness.

  He chastised himself for his inability to act the gentleman and look away. Crossing his arms, he forced himself to survey the audience, the stage, the painting on the domed ceiling.