Sweet Siren: Those Notorious Americans, Book 3

by Cerise DeLand

  "I hated that people knew. As if I were less a woman. He less a man. I despised those who sneered at me and him. He was a kind man, gentle, sweet really. He married me because—"

  That brought her up short. She faced Killian, fury from her past ablaze with hatred and sorrow for what she had been.

  "He married me because he felt sorry for me. We'd been friends since childhood and we got on well. I knew what he was. I was his respectable wife even though my family was not...not without shame. We were poor, my family was so awfully poor after...after my father lost his wealth. My mother became an addict to laudanum. Living in her own sweet oblivion, she had no care for any of us. Not Father, not me. She was quite insane. We had to put her in restraints so that she wouldn't bite her flesh and chew her hands off."

  "Oh, sweetheart."

  "No!" She seethed and slashed the air with one hand. "No. I won't have your pity. I don't need it. You take it back."

  He winced, concern lining his brow.

  "Oh, that's what I am now to you. As crazy as she was?" She inhaled and cinched her sash tighter. "Well, I'm not. I'm stronger than that. Than she was. And that's why—"

  He cocked his head.

  "Why I value my independence. What I do is for me and for Camille. I make my own reputation. Not live off any man's."

  He blanched.

  "I had to live in the shadow of my father's. The shadow of David's. I won't live in yours, either."

  He cursed, a whisper of incredulity. "You are ashamed of me."

  She stepped toward him. "What? Are you mad?"

  He shot from his chair and plunked the glass on the table. Approaching her, he stood before her and crossed his massive arms. "I've noted when we're out together how you search for anyone you might know. You're afraid, Liv, of anyone seeing you with me. And today, far from home, that man recognized you."

  "Yes." She admitted it. Damn the truth.

  His jaw worked. His eyes lost their glitter. He dropped his arms to his sides and ran a weary hand through his hair. He whirled, picked up his frock coat and headed for the door.

  She raced to him to grab his arm. More words—more horrifying words—clogged in her throat.

  He shook her off but looked down at her, his face white. "I can't change who I was. The same as you can't change your past. But I've tried. So have you. Still you don't see it. But think on this: Over the years, one thing I have learned is that love can do a damn sight more to make us happy than pride ever could."

  "I am proud of you. But it's not pride that made me refuse you."

  "What then?"

  She wrung her hands. “Fear. Failure to tell you the truth.”

  “So then,” he drew near with anger in his words, “you trust me with your body…and perhaps even your heart, but not with the truth?”

  “Oh, Killian!” She clenched her fists in a rage of sorrow. “My maiden name is Emley. Emley.”

  He went white. Only his eyes searched the room, her family name a silent repetition on his lips.

  She could not bear to watch him absorb the tragedy of it. “Please go.”

  “No.” He reached for her.

  She avoided him and hurried to the door. She whirled to face him “Now.”

  He stared at her. Then at once, as if electrified, he strode toward her. “We will talk about this.”

  She opened the door. “Talk changes nothing.”

  "It’s the only thing that changes people.” He strode right up to her, his hands clutching her shoulders. “I told you once that the past was a landscape I could not change. I won’t try. But we can have a future—and I can make that bright.” He pulled her close, kissed the crown of her head.

  But she stepped backward.

  “Very well. We are not done.”

  “We were finished before we began.”

  “No. I only hope we have enough years left so that I can make amends for all the pain I caused you. I will ensure, my darling, that you let me try."

  Chapter 16

  The morning after her return from Paris, Liv sent around a note to Roger Antram. She wished to see him in his offices the next afternoon at one o'clock.

  Liv had debated writing to him to notify him she wished an appointment, afraid he'd inform Killian and ask him to attend, too. But she had no idea if Killian had returned yet from Paris. His scheduled dinner party for business associates in Paris was to occur tonight. She doubted he'd cancel it. Certainly not to chase her home, he wouldn't. Shouldn't. What point would there be in that? She'd rejected him.

  It was only fitting she face Roger soon. He'd been too kind to her since David’s death, helping her to build her reputation as a solo decorator and expanding her clientele. Her husband had valued Roger and their relationship had always been upright, honest and profitable, too. She couldn't simply resign her association with him by letter. That would be an insult. Plus she had to lay out for him what she'd accomplished on both Hanniford's building projects and at what stages each of them remained. Whoever took over from her would want those details and both Roger and Killian deserved a full accounting. Furthermore, she owed great gratitude to Roger. To Killian she might not be able to give him what he wanted as a lover or deserved as a wife, but she could and would fulfill her duty as his consultant.

  But she was terrified that resigning would totally ruin her. Cut her off from a society that cared for her abilities as a decorator. Financially, she was just beginning to feel comfortable. Able to buy sufficient coal for her fireplaces. A housekeeper in London. A decent, if not superb, school for Camille. When she left Roger and Killian, she would have a time of it applying to other architects. She valued only three here in London. Three. How would she go on if she had to return to counting her pennies for bread? Or worse, living in an East End house where David had found her abiding in one suffocating room?

  She locked her front door and raced down the front steps, her trim bonnet in her hand. Rushing to the end of the street, she hailed a hackney cab.

  “South Moulton Street,” she told the driver and climbed up into the tawdry little black carriage. Do this, she told herself Be free.

  But she wouldn’t be. Not of her fears. Or of her desires for this man, this extraordinary man, whom she must give up. For her own serenity. And for his. What did he think of her now that he understood she’d known full well who he was and had not been woman enough to tell him?

  He prized honesty. Strength.

  She offered him neither. She would be honest enough with herself to admit her failure and strong enough to leave his circle for both their sakes.

  She was doing the right thing to resign.

  She willed herself to serenity. But her pulse was rapid and her head spun. The past two nights, she'd not slept. She’d looked at herself this morning in her dressing room mirror and gasped. She was ghostly, wan, as if she'd stood in the middle of Piccadilly and let the omnibuses run over her. Earlier this morning, she'd applied powder to her face to cover her splotches from crying and a bit of rouge to her cheeks to give her some color. She'd washed her hair, brushed the wavy mass out as straight as possible in the sunny back courtyard of her house and wound it up into the most elaborate chignon she could manage. She might look like one on death's door, but she'd put the best face possible on her masquerade. She'd lie. She'd live. She'd survive.

  If she would also pine, well, that would end. It had to.

  Camille was soon to visit for three weeks during her August holiday. Liv had to be ready for her. Though she wondered if that meant she'd stopped thinking of Killian and grieving over his loss.

  "Good afternoon, Mister Rush. How are you today?" she greeted Roger Antram's assistant.

  "Very well, my lady. Will you have a chair and tea?"

  "Tea, yes, thank you." She removed her gloves, the little office stuffy in the July heat. Where was her fan? Ugh. She’d forgotten it at home. Not a surprise. She'd left the house to hail her cab and had to return inside to get her hat. She still hadn't put it on. In ad
dition to losing her client...and her lover, she was also losing her mind.

  She stifled a moan and swept aside her skirts to sit. Putting her little reticule and toque hat down on the table, she tapped her toes on the wooden floor. "Is there a delay, Mister Rush?"

  "Yes, madam. Actually, no. I was given instructions to have you wait until Mr. Antram was ready for you."

  "I see." What did that mean? Was Killian in there? "Does Mr. Antram have another appointment?"

  "He does, madam."

  Who?

  The office door opened and Roger himself appeared in the portal. "Come in, Lady Savage."

  He seemed wooden, as if he'd smile and all his innards would pop out. And he hadn't addressed her as Lady Savage since before David had died.

  She stood. Feeding myself to the lions.

  Inside, three men she did not know rose to their feet and smiled at her with polite expressions.

  Roger made the introductions.

  The three were the directors of a private trust established by a man who had died nineteen years previously.

  "These gentlemen," Roger told her when the introductions were finished and all five of them sat around his desk, "are the representatives of the board of directors of the Lockern Foundation. They're hiring us to complete a building project established by the last will of Mr. Maxwell Lockern and awarding the contract to us, Lady Savage."

  Us. Us. Tension flowed from her like a river. She would prosper. Have a client. Even if she did not work for the Hanniford projects. "How wonderful."

  "Forty townhouses with mews, and accompanying houses for tradesmen."

  "Forty, you say." A huge project. "A veritable village. How exciting."

  "They come to us because they understand you and I know the terrain, the city and the construction crews quite well."

  "I see." She smiled and had to ask, "And the location?"

  "Brighton. Of course."

  "Of course." Her heart thudded in joy and fear.

  "We've been impressed with your work for Mr. Killian Hanniford," said the chairman of the directors of the foundation, Mister Winston Taylor. "His townhouses are well on their way. We've seen them. Like the builder. Appreciate the plumbing and the electrical. Very forward of you both to include them. Like the floor plans. Flowing, logical, useful. But we've also toured the foundations of Mister Hanniford's country house. Viewed the plans here. Mr. Antram was kind enough to show them to us. So we know our project will be in good hands."

  She inclined her head. Graciousness was necessary. But her hopes of escaping proximity to Brighton died.

  "The company," Roger told her, "was formed in 1856. The previous chairman did not find a suitable architect or designer and after he passed away last winter, Mr. Taylor took up the search once more."

  "We read about Mr. Hanniford's townhouses and his estate house in The Brighton Gazette," said Taylor.

  Roger grinned at her. "Mr. Hanniford met with the entire board a few weeks ago."

  "That he did," said Taylor. "And we were quite satisfied with his summary of the work you've done for him."

  She did not know whether she should clap her hands or cry bitter tears. "Mr. Hanniford recommended you to us?"

  "He did indeed, ma'am."

  And why wouldn't he? He loved everything Roger and she had done for his projects. To date.

  "Very kind of him," said Roger. "Very kind."

  More than an hour later, after the three directors had departed to catch the afternoon train back to Brighton from Victoria Station, Liv sat dumfounded in her chair. She had to ask Roger about this marvelous offer. "Have you spoken with Mr. Hanniford about this?"

  "Not yet. I thought you two were in Paris." No sign of dismay crossed his brow. He either didn't know or didn't care that Liv and Killian had become more than client and decorator. "Has he returned with you?"

  "I don't know. I didn't ask his plans."

  "He'll be very pleased that this project came to us because of his work."

  "He will."

  "And the recommendation will serve as a calling card to even more clients." He crossed his arms and sat, rocking back and forth, happy as a pigeon on a quiet street corner. "We must thank him for his trust in us."

  "We must." She could not possibly resign now. If she did, she'd ruin Roger's hopes of this project and other new commissions. She grinned at her professional prospects. She burst with optimism. Those who would define her by her past, scoff at her for her parents’ choices, did not know her. Why should she consider their views of her more valid than her own?

  She could face Killian. She wanted it. For her own self-respect. Peace of mind. She take with her an apology.

  She wanted that for him, for herself, for a daring future she might still grasp with him.

  Her mind turned to clothes. She startled at the silliness of her bent of mind. What would she wear to tell him how sorry she was? She could not dress up her failures. Wouldn’t try.

  She snorted. Ashes and sackcloth would be best. Black would imply she was in mourning. But she wasn’t. She was instead…free. So perhaps it was fitting for her to wear nothing. She’d certainly go to him naked. Naked, in all ways, Liv.

  “You are happy, aren’t you, Liv?” Roger intruded on her mental wanderings.

  She blinked. “I’m sorry. What did you say, Roger?”

  The dark clouds in his expression lifted. "We're on our way to a superb reputation, Liv. I hope you know that."

  She smiled at him, her hope and fear quivering like newborn chicks inside her. "Indeed I do."

  Pierce stood with him to bid the last of their guests good night. The dinner party had included a gilded array of French industrialists as well as the banker Rothschild, a Belgian pharmaceutical company owner and a Swiss maker of precision clocks and watches. Remy, Marianne and the Princess d'Aumale were the only other family guests, but they were the perfect complements to the gathering. Remy's mother knew each person and perhaps even their pedigree by heart. Remy knew them because many had commissioned sculptures from him. And Marianne brought her love of painting to the group, especially her descriptions of how popular renderings of women and children were becoming among artists and patrons. The evening lacked only one thing.

  Liv. Whom he'd hoped would've played Chopin for them.

  Liv. Who would've been his hostess. For the first time.

  Liv. Who would've worn his ring as his fiancée.

  "A wonderful evening, Killian," Princess d'Aumale said as he kissed both her cheeks. "Merci beaucoup. I will take my carriage. Valmont is here at the door, I think. Oui," she said as she peered through the open portal. "Marianne told me you wish to speak to her and Remy. I will go ahead. My grandson needs his Nana to kiss him, you see, before he goes to sleep."

  Killian chuckled as he thanked her. "Yes, I will send them home in my own carriage, Madame. Merci beaucoup for your company tonight."

  "Mon cher, I will readily appear for fine champagne, superb cuisine and your family's wit." She considered Pierce who stood next to Killian. "This young man is a charmer. A wonder you are not married yet, Pierce."

  His son blushed. "Madame, I am afraid I choose the wrong women."

  Killian found it difficult to smile. Pierce concentrated on one woman, one wrong woman, too much. She was married, unavailable to him. Like Liv is to me.

  Perhaps he and I are both foolish.

  "Change that, young man." She tapped her fan to Pierce's white silk cravat. "You are too handsome and much too accomplished to waste it on a woman who cannot love you as you deserve."

  Pierce knew how to cover his distress with a dashing grin. "Merci, Madame. I shall take your advice."

  "Do. Au revoir!"

  "Good Christ," Pierce whispered as the lady swept through their front entrance. "Do I wear my care for Elanna like a sign?"

  Lily had reported in a recent letter that Elanna had recently left her home in the country to take up residence in the Carbury townhouse in London. She had not taken her
newborn son with her, but left him to the nurses. Her husband, the earl, had arrived at Willowreach, his wife's farewell note crushed in his hand, to berate Julian for encouraging her.

  "'Julian vehemently denied any such thing. We had quite a scene here,'" Lily wrote. "'I was concerned Carbury had been drinking and he and Julian would come to blows. As it was, Julian had two footmen show the man the door and warned him never to return again with such accusations.'"

  "Perhaps you need to examine what it is you are doing, Pierce."

  He scowled. "I care for her. She's so unhappy, Father."

  "What has she ever brought you, son?"

  Shaking his head, Pierce had no answer.

  "If she appeals to your tender heart, is it because she chooses to portray herself as the tragic victim?" His question touched a chord in him. Liv refuses to be a victim. Rejects pity. And has risen above her circumstances. Until now. With me.

  "Oh, I wish I knew the answer, Father." He shoved his hands in his tuxedo trouser pockets. "I keep asking myself why I compare all females to her when I could have my choice of any young woman with no problems, no husband, no baby."

  "When you know the answer, you'll move on."

  He inhaled. "And in the meantime, I'm for bed. Great dinner party. Please say goodnight to Marianne and Remy for me, will you?"

  "I will." He watched his son climb the stairs and turned for the salon.

  Marianne sat beside her husband on a settee, laughing with him as he sipped a brandy.

  He grinned at them. "I'm delighted to see that happiness continues after the birth of your first child."

  "How could it not?" Remy said to him, curling an arm around his wife's shoulders. "I have the finest woman in the world to myself."

  Killian nodded and went to the corner where the butler had set out the brandy decanter and cigars on the serving cart. He asked if Remy would care for another pour, but the man refused politely. Pouring himself a good measure of spirits, Killian strode over to face them and take a seat in the grand Rococo upholstered chair. He downed a drink, looking for the right words to broach his subject.

  Marianne grew grave.