Wild Lily (Those Notorious Americans Book 1)

by Cerise DeLand

  “And you liked them both.”

  “Oh, I did!” She blushed. “You tease me.”

  “No.” I adore you. “I applaud you.”

  “So, we’ll dance? You won’t be one of those gentlemen who does it out of duty or…or hates it really? Tell me you aren’t like that.”

  He stepped back a bit, wrapped one arm around her waist and brought her other hand high. Then he led her into the steps. “I’m not.” Not with you.

  She beamed at him. “You like this?”

  “With you I do.” He waltzed her around the floor, away from the carpet so they could glide along the polished wooden floor. “You’re very good, too.”

  She flung back her head to grin. “And you are expert. How many women have you charmed, dear sir, dancing with them in ballrooms and gardens?”

  In her question, he heard the implications of another, more serious. “I’ve waltzed with others, many others.”

  “And did you—?” She bit her lip, missed a step and paused. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. You can know. I once considered marrying a young woman. We were both quite young. She married another.”

  Lily hung her head. “I see.”

  He put two fingers to her chin. “Look at me.”

  When she lifted her face, her eyes held trepidation.

  “I was twenty years of age and thought I loved her. I declared for her and she for me, but we were not to be.”

  Lily waited, searching his face for more.

  “She had another offer and she took it.” Miserable in her bargain, too, say the gossips. “I’m glad she did.”

  Hope blended with curiosity in Lily’s pale blue eyes.

  He cupped her cheeks, his thumbs stroking the exquisite arch of her bones. “She hated to dance. Did not ride astride. And would never have made love in my carriage.”

  “She’s a proper lady.”

  “Proper?” He thought of Margaret Sheffield in many other terms. Voluptuous, opportunistic, greedy. “Very much so.”

  “And you’re not ashamed that I’m not…like that?”

  He crushed her to him. “That you’re kind and thoughtful? That you’d go to our tenants in the driving rain to nurse them? That you’d want to dance with me?”

  “Often?”

  “Until you wear out my shoes.”

  She vibrated with glee, narrowed her eyes and asked, “In the moonlight?”

  He nodded, a silly grin on his face. “I do believe Valentine has a garden off his ballroom terrace.”

  She hugged him. “And you’ll make love to me—”

  My greatest pleasure. “Anywhere you like.”

  “Oh? Really? Dear sir, be careful what you say.”

  “Where, madam, would you like?”

  “In his garden?”

  He hooted in laughter. Scooping her up in his arms, he took her to their bed and placed her down upon the sheets. Then he bent over her. “Wherever you wish. Whenever you wish.”

  “You are so kind,” she said.

  And more in love with you than I can say.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Thank you for allowing us to attend your party. And to arrive late. Your home is lovely.”

  Julian smiled at Lily as she praised Burnett Castle with all the buoyant enthusiasm she naturally bestowed on those people, places and things she admired. The medieval castle, transformed to an Elizabethan house and a Regency showcase, was a mélange of architecture only a lover of oddities could find appealing. “Julian has told me about it. How you’ve adapted it over the centuries.”

  “My wife likes to soak in the history of a place,” Julian boasted to his cousin as they stood in the baron’s entrance to his ancient keep. Her exuberance for the trip and her delight in meeting Valentine tickled him. “She enjoys the appointments of Willowreach and plans a master list of all the portraits and porcelains.”

  “You are welcome here, my lady,” said Valentine Arden. “Do come catalogue all of my treasures. Alas, I have no wife. Not yet. And now that I see how well my cousin has done in his selection, I fear I shall of necessity take longer to find a suitable candidate for the job.”

  She removed her gloves. “I hope you do not mind that we are a day late.”

  “No matter.” Valentine was gracious as ever. But he looked weary.

  Julian worried about him whenever he went to France for his sister’s remembrance. Val had hated the man and the means of her death. He seemed not to recover from the despair it invoked.

  “The rest of our party,” Val continued, “is in the courtyard conservatory imbibing what little sunshine streams in today. It’s warmer there, too. Perhaps after you’ve changed from your journey, you’d like to join us there.”

  Julian thanked him. “We will.”

  “I’ll have tea sent up to you in your rooms. I say, Chelton, would you mind if I had a word before you went up?”

  “No, of course not.” Julian looked at Lily. “I’ll be along, my dear.”

  Valentine motioned to his butler. “Please take Lady Chelton to their suite.”

  Julian followed Val down the hall to a small sitting room. “Good of you to have us on short notice, Val. I didn’t think Lily would welcome the thought of leaving Willowreach so soon after our wedding.”

  “I’d say,” Val said and arched a long blond brow, “from the looks of your American beauty, it is you who wasn’t interested in leaving your home.”

  Julian took the chair Val indicated and smiled. “May you be as happy when you decide to marry.”

  “Thank you. That gives me hope of a smashing success.”

  “How was your trip to Paris?”

  Val folded his huge frame into the large Rococco chair opposite Julian. He pursed his lips. “Never happy. However, one fine evening, I was invited to a dinner party at the Duc de Remy’s house. A good gathering. Included your new extended family.”

  “The Hannifords are excellent company.”

  “To say the least. Your father-in-law is a cyclone.”

  Julian laughed. “And what did you think of the others?”

  “A charming bunch. Ada, the youngest. Irrepressible.”

  “Like her older sister,” Julian added with pride.

  “And Pierce, the brother. He’ll make his mark in business quickly.”

  “And indelibly, I’d add.”

  “The cousin, the widow, Marianne Roland was there. A beauty.”

  “She is,” Julian said with a nod.

  “The Duc de Remy is quite infatuated with her, isn’t he?”

  “Very much so. Since the first day he met her.” Julian recalled the accident in the Rue de la Paix and how he, too, had become enchanted that day.

  “I’d give him a run for her if it weren’t so obvious she finds him irresistible as well.”

  “Does she? Good. Or I think it’s good.” So busy with my own affair, I hadn’t gauged another’s. “What was it that you wanted to discuss? Not Marianne and Remy, I’d wager.”

  “No.” Val smoothed the wool of his trousers. “I wanted to give you fair warning. Wish I didn’t have to. But she invited herself at the last minute.”

  Val’s tone froze him. That anyone would invite herself to a country house party was novel, rarely done, accepted only among family relationships built on blood or proximity. Ominous to hear that a woman had done this. A female whom Val knew and knew well enough that she would presume upon his good graces.

  “Margaret,” he breathed.

  “In all her glory. Arrived yesterday. Told me bold as brass that she’d come to examine the new Marchioness of Chelton. When I told her you had declined, she was crestfallen.”

  “But remained nonetheless.” Julian’s mind rang with warning bells. Margaret, once an ingenue imbued with a certain noblesse oblige, had grown older, more worldly. One thing his wife was not.

  “She did. I’m sad to say, too, she came alone.”

  Julian’s mind raced. Meg Sheffield, in solo performance, cou
ld obscure the sun and the moon. Her husband of eight years was the only one who could restrain her, threatening to tighten her purse strings. “Norfield did not accompany her?”

  Val shook his head. “He does not approve of my Puritan rules for my country parties.”

  Julian tsked. “Against bed-hopping? Poor fellow.”

  “He sent his regrets and stayed in London. He claimed his duties in Parliament detain him.”

  “I bet they do,” Julian scoffed. “All two of them.”

  Val looked like he eaten a sour drop. “One blonde, the other brunette.”

  “Thank you for the warning.” Spurred by an urge to embrace his wife, Julian shot to his feet.

  Val rose too. “I’ll be your right hand in this.”

  As host, Val was one of the most acclaimed bachelors to entertain well.

  “Thank you.”

  Julian left, up the stairs, along the hall, following the butler to their suite. He found Lily in their adjoining dressing room being buttoned into a tea gown. The welcoming smile on her face faded as she looked at him.

  “Are you well?” she asked him.

  “Nora? Leave us for a few minutes please.”

  The maid, normally dour-faced, did not appreciate his interruption. “Aye, m’lord,” she said but busied herself with folding undergarments.

  “What’s wrong?” Lily approached him and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Lord Burnett has bad news?”

  “A few of his guests are…”

  She tipped her head. “What?”

  “New to you.”

  “Oh,” she said and dismissed that with a shrug, “well. That’s not a prob—”

  “Some are jaded.” He cupped her cheek and admired the happiness in her eyes. “Unkind.”

  “That’s not a matter I care about.”

  “You should. You must.”

  “Why? I have you.” She nestled close to him and kissed the tip of his nose.

  “But—”

  “Did you not once tell me that if anyone made fun of me you’d see they were…ah, what did you say? Put to the streets.”

  “Ah. The cartoonist. Yes, I did.” The ice block in his heart melted a fraction.

  “And never forget, if they are still not deterred, I could challenge them to a shooting match.”

  He chuckled. How she lit up his life. “Darling, I don’t think—”

  “Don’t think that ladies here do that. I know.” She rose up and kissed his lips. “I know. But I am not a lady from here. I am a woman from there. And in Texas, we shoot varmints who attack us.”

  She was suddenly in earnest, absorbing that what he was imparting was more serious than her humorous responses implied. “That is what you’re trying to tell me, yes?”

  He drew her close, the supple warmth of her person suffusing him and diminishing his fears. “Please don’t shoot anyone, my darling. It’s not in season. And furthermore, they’d take you away from me.”

  “No one could do that, Julian,” she said with devotion shining in her clear blue eyes. “No one.”

  * * * *

  Of the twenty-five others assembled down this long medieval banquet table, Lily had identified fourteen she’d met previously in London or Paris. All were pleasant, polite. They were lords and their ladies down from London for the delights which Baron Burnett bestowed on them. Four more were of higher status, an earl, a viscount and their wives. Lily had not met them before and if Julian asked her, she’d tell him she enjoyed their company. Two were American heiresses whom she’d met often. Hilda Berghoff and Priscilla Van De Putte. Hilda still sought a husband and so did her mama who eyed the bachelors present like a coyote prowling for the kill. Priscilla, however, had found her match.

  Shocking but true, Lord Pinkhurst had proposed to her. Priscilla’s mama, the American girl told Lily earlier this afternoon, had happily approved his offer. And as for Pinkie, he seemed subdued even as he had greeted Lily with his old fondness for her.

  Among the weekend party, there remained two men, in addition to Burnett, who were bachelors. Lily had met neither of them prior to today.

  Two ladies were without their spouses. One was a viscountess whose husband suffered from a cough brought on by the unseasonal rains. Though he recovered, he had not ventured from his home.

  The other lady who was unattended by her husband was the Duchess of Norfield. A few years older than Lily, Her Grace Margaret Sheffield, was the doyenne of this gathering as many deferred to her in conversation. Petite, dark blonde with a classical profile, the lady had a serenity that could intimidate. Her voice was a whisper that made one lean in to listen. Her words were polite, gracious to a fault. This, Lily knew at once, was a person she must monitor. At worst, this woman was the one about whom Julian had warned her.

  Her Grace had been seated far down the table, so far down that the turning of the table for conversation allowed Lily to observe her with impunity. As one who’d been groomed to the finer points of social graces, Lily felt the eyes of the duchess focus upon her. Uncaring what the woman saw, she bent her attention to a viscount on her right and to Pinkie on her left.

  “How are you settling in to Willowreach?” he inquired.

  “Very well. Chelton has been very helpful. His staff as well.” She’d congratulated Pinkie on his engagement earlier this afternoon when first they greeted each other in the conservatory. “I like Willowreach.”

  Pinkie’s gaze lingered on her. Sorrow etched the corners of his eyes. “As you should. It’s a lovely estate.”

  His platitudes disturbed her. She liked him, always had. Even if she didn’t love him, never could. The need for honesty between them washed over her. “Are you happy?”

  He stared straight ahead. “I hope to be.”

  Wincing at her rash behavior, she lifted her wineglass. “I apologize.”

  “Don’t,” he whispered. “We marry for many reasons. Great unions can come from different motivations, can’t they?”

  “I believe so.”

  Along the table, four down, she caught Julian’s eye and nodded at him with assurance. She was happy. He was, too.

  Wasn’t he?

  * * * *

  Julian led Lily into the ballroom. The beamed ceilings, the oak paneling, the little wooden figures—the eavesdroppers—in the rafters, gave the room a glow reminiscent of Tudor times. Many from surrounding estates had joined the house guests for tonight’s ball and the room pulsed with laughter and the sounds of the twenty-piece orchestra. The huge gaslights lit the expanse in a golden aura that complemented his wife’s flawless complexion and her stunning smile.

  “This is wonderful. I’m so glad we came.” She squeezed his arm. “You are very good to me.”

  “I merely return the favor, darling.” He was proud of her. This, her first social event as his wife, was one she was thoroughly enjoying. Better yet, she was liked in return. She’d thrown herself into meeting everyone. She devoted herself to learning about others and refrained from discussing herself unless asked. She was an unqualified success.

  “An American with poise and charm,” he’d overheard one matron tell another.

  “When might we join the dancing?” she asked, her eyes wide with glee.

  Valentine had led out the oldest lady in attendance, the Viscountess Dorn. They swept the floor in graceful arcs and as the musicians began the roundelay, other couples joined.

  “I think this is our chance.” He led her to the chalked floorboards, put his arm around her slender waist, took her other hand and grinned at her. “Madam.”

  He took them out in small steps. Their first few were awkward, two people learning the other’s rhythm and form in this new dance of love. Their bodies adjusted, melded. At once, she became fluid in his arms, the wind at his command, a dream to hold. She leaned back and flowed with him, the joy on her face an exquisite display that rivaled her expression when she came apart in his embrace in his bed. He’d been so right to desire her, so fortunate to marry her.
She was quite perfect for him.

  Filled with such ebullience, he danced her toward the open doors and onto the terrace. At the kiss of the night air on her skin, she gasped.

  “Are you cold?” he asked as he swirled her along the terrace, the sound of the German waltz muffled by the breeze through the treetops.

  She shook her head. “You didn’t forget.”

  “I promised you this.”

  “So you did.” And she began to hum with the music.

  At the edge of the terrace, far from the French doors, he slowed their tempo until they merely swayed together. I love you.

  The thought sprang up so quickly, his jaw dropped.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, alarm on her face.

  “Nothing.” He stepped toward her and embraced her, the supple curves of her body a sensuous fit to his. “I have to taste you.”

  She circled her arms around his waist and closed her eyes as he pressed her near and took her lips with his own. Her mouth was warm, the flavors of champagne and mint a subtle aphrodisiac to his muddled mind. He sent his tongue into the cavern and claimed her, defined her. She moaned and crushed him closer. This woman was intoxicating and best of all, she was his.

  His.

  He broke away and grabbed her wrist. He’d visited here before, often. He knew the boxwood maze well and so he led her along the far path. Left, right and straight. He recalled a folly, small, secluded, hidden by roses that he hoped to God were in bloom.

  “Where are we—? Oh!” She halted as she surveyed the marble and wood structure before them.

  He urged her up the steps and whirled her into his arms. “You are becoming necessary to me.”

  “Am I?” she said, breathless as he lifted her skirts and caressed her wet feminine folds.

  She gasped but didn’t object.

  He sank down, careless of his trousers. He needed her and it was here he wanted her. He parted her fragrant lips, and touched his tongue to her sensitive spot.

  She dug her fingernails into his coat. “Oh, Julian. Can we not lie down?”

  He shot to his feet, glanced around. There. There.

  He took her to the wooden seats around the circumference, dotted tonight with cushions. Julian grinned. His host, not so Puritan after all, had the foresight to provide for the lovers who would need an interlude during the ball. He urged his wife to lay down along the pillows, making mental note to thank Val tomorrow for his foresight.