Daring Widow: Those Notorious Americans, Book 2

by Cerise DeLand

  “I’ll eat after we talk. Thank you, Foster,” she said and smiled at the butler who draped her napkin in her lap and poured her coffee.

  “Chaumont should appear here today or tomorrow. She sent a note around this morning that her house in Hanover Square is almost ready. She brought with her more of your wardrobes for the Season.” His humor lit his large silver eyes, as she remembered her mother’s had once done. At forty-six, Black Killian Hanniford was a handsome devil. Marianne had watched many women cast their eyes on the American robber baron. He was a desirable catch for his looks and his outrageous wealth, if his nefarious reputation as a civil war blockade runner did not recommend him. “Are you and Lily perhaps suddenly out of clothes?”

  She feigned a withering look. “Not for the next century. Chaumont sent over one of the trunks from Worth yesterday afternoon. I’m awash in silk and satin, Uncle.”

  “Wonderful. I want you all to feel like queens when we start the Season.”

  “Oh, we do,” she assured him.

  “I think we here are ready to receive callers. The furnishings are in place. What do you say?”

  “Even Delacroix’s portrait of Chopin is spectacular,” she added with a little lift to her shoulders. Her uncle wanted the original painting by the French artist to give a special touch of integrity to his rented house on London’s grand thoroughfare. “I cannot get over his talent. It’s really spectacular.”

  “Even if it is only half the original painting?” he said, laughing and putting his napkin on the table.

  “I know.” She sipped her coffee. “What idiot cut the damn…darn thing in half!”

  With a grin, he sent her a scolding look then reached to take his watch from his vest pocket. “Time marches on. What worries you?”

  She folded her hands in her lap while her well-rehearsed speech fled her brain. “I was sorry to leave Paris. I enjoyed the city very much.”

  “I know.” He rolled his eyes. “The cabaret especially.”

  She grinned. “That was only once.”

  “I think more visits are in your future.”

  His words showed her, as he often did in other ways, that he not only knew her nature well, but he tolerated her foibles. “I’d like to go.”

  “You’ve had too little fun in your life. The war stole your youth and even your husband.”

  She tried never to speak of Frederick. Discussing the war was slightly more bearable. “I made the best of the loss of the plantation and our slaves.”

  “You set them free.”

  “Most ran.”

  “You did not call the sheriff or the dogs on them. That in itself was noble.”

  “Noble? Frederick called it stupid. He wrote me from camp and scolded me for it.” Called me an idiot. Said he’d beat me black and blue for it. “Most of them fled when Lincoln declared them free after the battle at Antietam. I couldn’t work four hundred acres with only seven Africans. Even my cook and two housemaids ran away.” No wonder. They high-tailed it when they had the chance to get away from Frederick.

  Her uncle reached over and squeezed her hand. “We’re a long way from you telling me why you’d like to return to Paris.”

  She checked his expression. If he knew the true nature of Frederick Roland, her uncle never indicated. But he was sensitive to her reluctance to speak about him and so he had changed the subject.

  “I’d never hurt you or Lily. Not Ada or Pierce either.”

  His silver eyes twinkled in mischief. “I know you like to sing, but are you telling me you plan to become a regular chanteuse in a cabaret?”

  “Never that. But perhaps worse.”

  “So then, what?”

  “I would hope that in time here you might not need me as much to chaperone Lily and Ada.”

  “Until they’re married, they’ll require an older woman to watch over them.”

  She winced at that last. Her life was passing her by and nothing had brought that home to her as quickly as living in Paris—and meeting Andre. Her visit to his exhibit in the Place Dauphine had overwhelmed her with joy and expectation that she might revel in a man, a decadent escapade, a period in her life when she was her own person, free of all in her past that saddened her.

  Her uncle caught her eye. “You’re day dreaming, my dear.”

  “So I am. Oh, Uncle Killian you’ve been good to me—”

  “Marianne, just tell me what it is you want and I will get it for you.”

  “You cannot buy this for me, Uncle.”

  “Ah.” He inhaled and sat back. “But I can bless this for you, is that right?”

  She grinned. “You could allow it to happen without censure.”

  “Oh, I don’t like the sound of that. You could get hurt, badly.”

  She lifted her chin. “At some point, you see, I want to live in Paris by myself.”

  “Not in Rue Haussmann?”

  She nodded. “Not there. I’d like a taste of freedom. Not that I don’t experience it here and—”

  He lifted his hand to indicate she need not continue. “I understand. You see Madame Chaumont and you want that independence.”

  “I do.”

  He cocked a brow. “She is French and they have different expectations of their widows than we do in America.”

  “I’m aware. But I don’t want to return to America.”

  “You’ve thought a lot about this obviously.”

  “I have. I want the cafes and the Louvre, the exhibits and the—”

  “Place Dauphine?”

  She stared at him. “How did you learn that I—?”

  “Went to Number 10 one wintry afternoon alone?” He gazed at her with kind regard. “My dear, one of my associates spied you in the street. He was concerned when he saw you walked alone and he followed you to ensure your safety.”

  “I had to go before we left the city.”

  “I understand. I went to see his exhibit myself the next day. Remy was there. We talked.”

  She had a new appreciation for her uncle. He’d known she’d visited but never raised the subject which must mean— “You like him?”

  “My dear, I even liked Remy’s friend, Lord Chelton, and trust me when I say, I have little reason to care for him. His father foils me at every turn to buy the shares in his shipping company. But the Duke of Remy? I have no conflicts with him. A fine man. A very talented one. And ethical.”

  She frowned. “How do you know? What did you discuss?”

  “Don’t worry. I did not challenge him to a duel.”

  “No but—”

  “Marianne, he was honest with me about your visit.”

  “Andre was a gentleman throughout and never took advantage of me.”

  “So he is ‘Andre’ to you? Well, I am not surprised.”

  She sagged in her chair. “I like him.”

  “And he has a fond regard for you, my dear. Fond enough that he made me a few promises.”

  She sat straighter. “What do you mean?”

  Her uncle glanced up and with the arch of his brow, Foster the butler and the footman backed out of the dining room. The butler shut the doors.

  He pushed away from the table and crossed one leg over the other. “After we met him that night at the Opera Garnier and I saw then how you were attracted to him, I had my man in Paris collect a dossier on the Duke of Remy.”

  “Oh, Uncle Killian.” She was aghast. “Why? How could you? Does he know?”

  “Not that I investigated him, no.”

  “Oh,” she said, a hand to her chest. “Thank goodness.”

  “But I had to learn more about him. Why? Because despite how independent you are, my dear, despite what you want, you are tender. Frederick, god rest his miserable soul, was not a proper husband.”

  She was horrified her uncle knew anything about Frederick. “He was no man you would befriend.”

  “You are too kind to him, Marianne.” Killian shot up a hand to deter her from speaking. “Over the years, your reluctanc
e to talk about your departed husband has implied much. But then, long before you came to our house to live, I had friends among General Lee’s officers who told me tales about Frederick. Stories I will not repeat for anyone’s ears, most of all yours.”

  He rose and walked to the sideboard where he brought the pot of coffee to the table and poured for her and him. “You endured starvation, enemy soldiers eating your crops and sleeping in your barns, desertion by your house slaves, and still, you nursed Yankee wounded in your parlor and then in town. That took gumption, Marianne. And courage few other women—may it please God—will ever have to summon. When you escaped across the Potomac River to come running to us in Baltimore, I was damn glad to give you a safe home. So was my Aileen. She loved your mother as I did and she feared for you for years.”

  “I was happy to see her before she died.”

  A gloom fell over Killian. He’d treasured his late wife with a fierce devotion. Marianne had seen love like that between her own mother and father.

  “I once hoped I might find a husband who cared for me like my father loved my mother or as you cared for Aunt Aileen,” she said with sorrow. “I grow older and my hope dwindles.”

  Killian took his chair and faced her. “And this man is one you could care for?”

  “I am attracted to him. Surely you’ve been attracted to a woman who is not…” She groped for polite words. “Not one you’d marry?”

  “You’re right. But a man can do that with some impunity.”

  Anger flashed through her. “A woman can. She just needs courage and a pinch of discretion. I have those.”

  “I do agree.” He gave her a sad smile. “Have you thought how you’d do it?”

  “I’ve laid out my terms with him already.”

  Killian’s eyes went wide. “Bold of you. Did he agree?”

  She feigned confusion. “I think so.”

  “You could leave him to many of the details.”

  “Details? There shouldn’t be many.”

  “My dear young woman, he is prominent in society. You are too. People will notice a dalliance and talk to the scandal mongers.”

  She laughed. “Oh, no, Uncle Killian, you have this wrong.”

  “What do I have wrong?”

  “I don’t want Andre for an affair.”

  His cup half way to his mouth, her uncle paused to stare at her. “Now I am really confused.”

  “I want him only for one night.”

  Her uncle dropped his cup to the saucer with a clack. “Marianne.” He put his napkin to his lips.

  “You think I want a grand affair. To be in his house for nights? For days?” She shook her head, recalling Andre’s expression when she told him she wanted the diversion of a brief liaison. “You’re right that I want some fun. I want to laugh and sing and learn how to really make lo—”

  She cleared her throat.

  He turned serious. “You deserve all of that.”

  Her gaze locked on his. “I could have it. In a year or two, after Lily and Ada are married. Pierce too. I wouldn’t hurt anyone’s chances of marrying well. Not for the world.”

  “You’d wait until the girls are married?”

  “Of course.”

  “Marianne, I know your heart is in the right place for all of us. But my dear, you are forgetting a few things here.”

  Frazzled, she sat quietly and folded her hands. “I’m listening.”

  “The Duke of Remy is a charming man. Thirty-six, educated, landed, rich and prominent at the height of Parisian society. His mother is a princess of the blood of the Bourbons and a descendent of the Bonapartes. They are a revered family, respected in politics and foreign affairs with extended family in Germany and Russia. They are wealthier than I am by three times. And more to the point of his relationship with you, he is experienced in affairs of the heart. My dear, he has had many women in his bed. Just recently he divested himself of a woman he’d supported for more than six months. Furthermore, he has taken no new woman to his care.”

  Marianne knew all of this except for two things. Andre must be worth at least twenty-nine million dollars. An unbelievable fortune. And he had rid himself of all entanglement. Money, as much as he possessed, did not matter a fig to her. Money was immaterial after the normal needs it bought. But she bubbled with delight that Andre had ended his relationship with another woman to take up with her.

  Or was she foolishly thinking he’d done that to be with her?

  “Marianne, are you listening to me?”

  “Yes, absolutely, Uncle.”

  “Remy might be wealthy and respected socially, he might be a leader in his own circles, but he is an artist with all those intemperate tendencies those men seem to cultivate, Marianne. He’s a man of great talent.”

  That was apparent in Andre’s Samson. Even the unfinished Diana showed the frontiers of his vision.

  “But when I spoke with him, Marianne, he seemed balanced. Not prone to anger or boasting like those artists up on the Butte are known to be. And he mentioned you with reverence.”

  Reverence was not the emotion she wished to evoke in the breast of the dashing French duc de Remy. “He is impatient.”

  “I agree.”

  “He is charming.”

  “Without a doubt. He understands your sensibilities. Furthermore, he can seduce you when and where he pleases.”

  “I trust him not to do that.”

  Her uncle pursed his lips, thoughtful, pensive. “I hope you’re right.”

  “I am,” she said with confidence.

  “You say you want him for one night?”

  “I do.”

  “Because you cannot cope with the challenges of a long term affair?”

  She shifted in her chair. “So I thought.” Even though I’m terribly tempted to take all that’s offered to me.

  “But did you consider, he might not wish to end the affair quickly?”

  So Andre had said. “To him, I am a novelty. An American. I wouldn’t amuse him for long.”

  “You think he regards you so nonchalantly?”

  “I don’t know him. I don’t know what he thinks. Except that he likes me. My looks. My odd background. My—”

  “Innocence.”

  She blinked.

  “He likes you as you are, Marianne, because he does not know anyone like you. Wise about war, bold in the ways to survive, but artless, without guile. A lamb when it comes to navigating the rigors of a love affair. He wants you. And he may be ruthless in his pursuit.”

  “The very reason I have not succumbed yet to his allure.”

  Killian sighed. “But you will do this.”

  She bit her lip. “I will.”

  “If he ever hurts you—”

  “He will be blameless. I do not go to him blind to the consequences.”

  “We are always your family, here to give comfort and respite from the storm.” Killian reached over to squeeze her hand.

  “I know. Thank you.” Inside her, every nerve sparked with delight. She shocked herself to be so giddy about losing all her inhibitions and acting on impulse with a scintillating man. “I will be careful.”

  Killian nodded. “I believe you.”

  She got to her feet. “I think I’ll take a walk along Piccadilly.”

  “Of course.”

  She went toward the door. But she paused, remembering what he’d said earlier. “A question for you.”

  “Yes. What?”

  “You said he made you promises. What were they?”

  “To treat you with respect and gentleness.”

  The last word made her panic. “You told him? About Frederick?”

  “I leave that to you, my dear. It’s your story to tell, if you ever wish to. A man you love might wish to hear it. Might need to.”

  She looked down at the pink and rose Aubusson carpet, the colors swimming in her vision, her eyes stung by grateful tears. She quickly brushed them away, raised her face and smiled in great thanks to this man whom
others thought was nothing but ruthless. “Anything else?”

  “Yes. One more promise.”

  “What?”

  “Not to get you with child unless he wanted the babe as much as you.”

  Her hand went to her throat. She hadn’t considered that possibility. Her times in bed with Frederick, frequent and painful as they’d been, had never led to any indication she might be pregnant. Still, with another man she might conceive, though she thought the chances very small. She must consider how she would act if she were to carry Andre’s child. Must come to her own terms with that. Was she capable of raising a child alone allowing him or her bear a burden of ridicule? She had to decide that quickly and abandon her plan for an affair if she was not brave enough or wise enough. “I will act responsibly. Thank you for your thoughts, Uncle Killian.”

  “You’re welcome, Marianne. For all the good you’ve done in the world, you deserve to be happy. I wish you well of it.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes. She spun for the hall and a welcome walk in the crisp London air.

  “Monsieur le duc, pardon, you have a visitor.”

  Wincing, Andre pushed his pince nez up his long nose and caught a glimpse of the dying rays of sun streaming through his studio skylight. He hated intrusions when he was at work. This piece, like four other previous attempts, eluded him in its final form. He dropped his clay onto the granite table and wiped his brow with a swipe of his forearm.

  The young man stepped back. Carré was his newest apprentice, skittish enough without Andre barking at him for allowing someone into the parlor. “Most know not to disturb me. You hung the sign outside the door?”

  “Oui, Monsieur, oui, but this lady demands you receive her.“

  A woman?

  He’d parted with Collette Nemours back in February. She wouldn’t call on him. After coming to his bed for many months, she knew him well and had more sense than to question his decision to end their arrangement. Besides, he’d given her enough francs to buy that house she’d wanted in Compiegne. Nor was his visitor delicious Marianne Roland. She was in London going to teas and house parties, chaperoning her cousin Lily and awaiting her other relatives’ arrival from America. Julian Ash had written to him that he had seen Marianne at the Hannifords’ home in Piccadilly.