Chapter Three
“The one who saved Chaumont was Lord Chelton?” Lily’s father chuckled as they finished their light supper.
Lily put down her fork, alarmed how he was thrilled over the man’s name. “Yes, sir. Along with this Frenchman named Remy.”
Her father beamed. “You have the luck, the two of you.”
“How so?” Lily went still as she gazed at her father at the head of the dining room table.
“The Duke of Seton, my dear, is Chelton’s father.” He sipped his port, laughing.
And here she had liked him. His ink-black hair, his chocolate-brown eyes. His sleek handsomeness and his quiet air of confidence. No priggish tone of the privileged Englishman about him.
“I couldn’t have planned that better if I’d asked you to find him. Or asked poor Chaumont to suffer an accident in her cab. The Duke of Seton is one of the directors of the Cardiff Shipping Line.”
Lily was riveted to her chair. “And you want to buy his shares.” Lily had heard nothing but this for weeks from her father. This Cardiff company was failing. Nigh unto bankrupt. Poorly managed since it had not made a profit during the American Civil War, the company was dying due to the directors had not repaired their fleet and half their ships remained in dock, rotting.
“I do. And it’s who holds the keys to the kingdom more than old Seton.”
“I don’t understand.” Marianne frowned at him. “If the sons of the aristocracy hold no power over investments or land or purse, why does this one?”
“Learned your lessons well about the English have, haven’t you?” He smiled, his satisfaction with the news apparent in a wolfish gleam. “That Scotsman I hired to teach you the rigors of the social order did a wonderful job.”
Lily scolded herself for her folly to become interested in the man. She mustn’t care for him. Marquess or no. Kind or not. Handsome like the devil. None of it mattered if her father saw him as his opponent. She had always made a point never to take a position or an opinion on her father’s business dealings. She wouldn’t start now.
Marianne glanced at her and rushed to fill the silence. “What is it about that’s different from others?”
“His father Seton is a gambler through and through. And piss poor at it. And while his son is the day to his papa’s night and has a skill at winning hands, the boy also has a finer understanding of money than his sire. This is well known.” He raised a finger to the air. “Chelton is a scoundrel, but not as big a one as his father.”
Lily stared down at her empty plate. This news of Chelton’s reputation was not welcome. She’d thought better of him. His readiness to help Chaumont. His obvious good-natured friendship with Remy. His perfect classical looks.
“Oh, I see.” Her father peered at her over the rims of his glasses. “You liked him?”
Simply because Chelton and her father were business rivals, she would steer clear of him forevermore. “I did.”
“Why?”
She pursed her lips. Chafing at her father’s probe, she dared not reveal all the details about him that had aroused her in ways she’d never experienced. Chelton was an elegant creature, finely chiseled, much like a sculpture of a Greek god. Blessed with a sensuous mouth and large umber eyes, he had the mien of a man who should be obeyed and revered. She had presumed him to be a gentleman in the purest sense. Now she heard he was a gambler and as vice ran to vice, much else. In addition, he was her father’s opponent in a business negotiation. How naïve of her to jump to the conclusion she could admire him. “He was quick to the rescue.”
“I thought you said this Frenchman was the first one who got to Chaumont’s driver.”
“He did,” Marianne said. “But it was Chelton who tamed the horse. Without him, they’d all be hurt or dead.”
“I see. Good for him. And did he introduce himself to you?”
“He did,” Lily said. “It was all properly done, despite the circumstances.”
Her father sat, his eyes narrowing in consideration. “Fine. What we need.”
Lily’s eyes locked on Marianne’s with hope of escape. “We should change.”
“I detect you are running off,” her father said to them, his light eyes dancing partially in jest, partially in warning.
“We are,” Marianne said.
Lily rose, diverting her gaze lest her father see more than she intended. “We don’t want to be late for the Vicomtesse de Bourg’s reception.”
“We are expected to be late. This is not Knickerbocker Manhattan. Besides,” he said, pinning her with hot intent, “shouldn’t I hear more about this meeting of Chelton and you, Lily?”
“No, sir. You should not.” She gave him a blithe look.
“And what of the Frenchman, Marianne? Was he so handsome you must flee without explanation, too?”
“Yes, sir. He was. But you mustn’t worry, Uncle Killian.”
“No? Why not?”
“He is too—” She paused, unusually stumped for words, one hand dancing in the air.
“Well? What?”
“Overwhelming. He is huge. A giant of a man.”
“And? So?” her father urged.
Marianne blinked, her gaze suddenly dreamy. “His blond hair hangs to his shoulders and his hands are callused and scarred.”
“Chelton has a friend who’s a laborer? Yet he offered you his own carriage?” He arched his brows high. “Damn intriguing.”
“No, sir,” Marianne objected.
Lily caught her eye and shook her head in warning.
But Marianne missed her cue. “He’s a duke.”
Oh, lord.
“That is intriguing,” Hanniford replied with gusto.
Lily rolled her eyes at Marianne who had not been intrigued with Remy, the Frenchman. No, not by a long shot. If there were a word for Marianne’s reaction to Remy, it was mesmerized.
Marianne, flustered, shot from her chair at once, then came around 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 took the circular staircase up to their suites. “I need details.”
“We’ve no time, Uncle.”
“We don’t want to be late, Papa,” Lily said, laughing in their haste.
“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 de Bourg’s small soirée. Then the opera, dear Father. And for that, you’ve paid good money.”
“I have not paid a penny. We’re guests!”
“All the more reason. Get dressed yourself,” she told him, sailing off to shut the door to Marianne’s sitting room.
She faced her cousin, shaking a finger at her. “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,” she said. “I’ll not have another husband, ever.”
Marianne’s vehemence about the subject of taking a husband was a mystery that no amount of cajoling could influence her to reveal. But Lily had seen her cousin’s interest in the impressive French nobleman. Never before had Marianne shown any attraction to a man. And her recent declarations that she would consider taking a lover sparked the possibility that, given a chance, this Remy might fill that need for her.
Her cousin strode to her dressing room, turning her back on Lily, thereby hiding her expression. “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, her brows knit. “No. Not at any price.”
* * * *
“Remy is late.” Julian’s mother dropped her lorgnette on its gold chain to her chest and peered at him as if it were his fault Remy had not appeared on time. To irritate him, she always criticized the Frenchman over any trifle. A stickler for rules, she might be. But she hid behind them, as she did most strictures, for her own devices. This she used to needle him with his choice of his very unconventional friend. “We cannot wait longer or we shall miss my favorite aria.”
Julian glanced about at those chatting in the rotunda of the new Paris Garnier Opera house. These were the season’s ticketholders, men clad in tuxedoes and top hats, the ladies wrapped in diamonds, feathers and silks. He had greeted those he knew, and those whose financial interests were similar to his. “I’ll escort you up to our box, if you wish, Mama.”
“I do.”
Julian was in no mood to argue with her. His head still clanged from his outing last night and this morning’s accident. The surprise of his preoccupation with the Hanniford girl added to his discomfort. No amount of rest had rid him of the obsession with her pale blue eyes. Plus, the brief but bitter meeting this afternoon with his French partner in Cardiff Shipping had not improved his attitude toward her or her father. Tonight, he’d agreed to attend this opera only because his sister wished his escort. God knew, he did not favor an evening in his mother’s company. He had quite enough of her at home. But he wished to please his young sister who adored the dramatic doings of operas. He offered one arm to his mother and the other to Elanna. “Shall we?”
Elanna put her hand to his sleeve. Her hazel eyes twinkled in the light from the huge cut glass chandeliers. Dressed in a glistening gown of pink chiffon, she sparkled against the gold and rose of the marble walls. “You are good. I know you prefer Remy’s company.”
“Well, now.” Julian smiled at her. She was such a good-natured girl, pretty with an abundance of rosewood-brown hair and porcelain skin, all of nineteen, finished with her first Season and without a suitor in sight. That pleased him. She was too sweet to shackle at so young an age. If he could continue to win sizable sums at the tables—or better yet find a suitable investor for the shipping firm—he’d help her remain single for years to come. No respectable but pitiless union for her if he could help it. “I like yours.”
“Of course, he does, Elanna.” His mother had to have her say. “He prefers yours to many a girls’. I wish he could say he adored other feminine companions less.”
“Now, Mama,” Elanna scolded their mother as they walked up the gilded side steps of the cavernous Garnier headed for the huge rose marble staircase. “Don’t quarrel with Chelton again. I won’t attract a man if I’m scowling at you both.”
“You could peer at a fellow with a dagger in your hand,” he jested, “and the poor chap would hasten to offer for your hand.”
“That would be remarkable,” she conceded with a chuckle. “But still unworthy if he can’t recite Romeo’s speech without faltering.”
Julian shook his head. Aside from her pleasant nature, his darling sister loved books, plays and poetry. She was articulate and funny. Aside from being very popular with young men.
Just that afternoon upon his return home, his feisty little sister had shown proof she could attract one man too many. A scoundrel had applied to his mother just that morning for the honor of courting Elanna. Wisely, the duchess had demurred and told the man she must consult with her son and her husband before approving. And as Julian expected, his mother favored the cad. The resulting row he and his mother had had set drums clanging in his ears, an unwelcome addition to his earlier headache. She had advocated a quick engagement for Elanna to the man, a baron of ancient English blood and little repute. Julian had flatly refused to recommend the scamp to his father. When she had told him they needed Elanna out of the house, on someone else’s dole, Julian had fumed at her. He refused to sell his sister to the first bidder, or even the highest, let alone the most scandalous. Elanna had rushed in to the drawing room, calling for quiet deliberation. She tolerated their mother’s shallow maternal instincts. He recoiled from them.
“You’ve no need for a man just yet.” As they climbed the massive steps, Julian shot his mother a look of reproof and settled on Elanna with a benevolent smile. “Besides, I tell you, darling girl, you must add to your enviable talents for negotiation.”
“You’ll teach me how to play dice and win each time?”
“I think it better if I take you up to my gymnasium for boxing lessons.”
“Oh, ho!” Elanna giggled over that as they took the red-carpeted stairs at a steady pace. “I imagine how that will charm my suitors.”
“Boxing? And give me heart palpitations?” his mother asked. “I forbid it. I absolutely—”
“We know, Mama,” he told her as they continued along the circular corridor toward their private box. “Do not fret, Elanna. We’ll find you a man who loves the sport. Then you can marry him and have at each other every day.”
“I hope the ‘having’ would be more pleasant than that,” she said with a wink.
His mother snapped open her fan. “Really. You encourage her. I disapprove.”
Elanna sighed, casting about to admire the well-dressed throng of Parisians eager for a night of opulent music. “Doesn’t everyone look marvelous? And don’t you adore this building? Who decorated the interior? Do you know, Chelton?”
“No idea.” The Paris Garnier overwhelmed him. The heavy limestone, the omni-present gilt, the wealth of dangling crystal chandeliers, the thick blood red carpet, the gargantuan size of the place took his breath. Sucked it right out him. Like a monster. He always hurried to his seat. Once in a box, surrounded by more ordinary dimensions of the red velvet privacy walls and appointed chairs, he found air and space and peace.
He patted Elanna’s hand. “You love its grandeur. I understand that. Even if I don’t appreciate it.”
Elanna adored expansive buildings, bustling city thoroughfares and garrulous people. She was effusive, alluring in her ready acceptance of the universe. That included her embrace of avante-garde music, impressionist painting and all sorts of unconventional people. Men flocked to her, finding her exuberance enchanting. Last spring in London, two had seen her as fair prey. Julian had discouraged them easily, describing Elanna’s depleted dowry and sending them packing. His parents never knew. He prided himself on a few scruples, yet for his sister, he wished to find a man with hundreds. Refreshing to be with, Elanna was a treasure Julian intended to guard. No roué nor chap with debts long as his arm would darken her path if he could help it. He’d welcome a rich man, but finding one of those in these dire financial times for a poor duke’s only daughter would be a miracle.
“Your Grace! Lord Chelton!” A tall, hawkish gentleman approached them along the gallery. “Lady Elanna. How wonderful to see all of you here.”
“Lord Carbury.” His mother inclined her head as the earl strolled up to them. “We’re delighted to see friends from home.”
The man lived in the adjoining estate in Kent and their families had mingled and intermarried off and on for centuries. Carbury was a decade or more older than Julian and bore the signs of age in his lined forehead and thinning gray hair.
“Good evening, Carbury,” his mother addressed him. “Are you in town for the running of the races?”
“I am. Cannot resist the lure.” He took the duchess’s hand to bow over it and then took up Elanna’s to offer the same homage. “Here for another few weeks, then back to the lair. Winter comes. Must do the accounting. Hideous task. What of you? Here for the winter?”
“We return home next week.” Julian had to smile at the way Carbury could not seem to take his eyes off Elanna. The widower was too old, too much of a fuddy-duddy for his virginal sister, but Elanna enjoyed his company when he came to call. And he had called often last spring and summer. He’d made no overture to Elanna. Made no offer for her hand. Yet the fact that he was here in Paris at the same time seemed a bit of a coincidence and Julian wondered if Elanna or his mother had told the middle-aged duke of their travel plans.
“I return for my scheduled instructions in landscape painting,” Elanna told Carbury with a grin.
“Ah, yes, your efforts to exceed Mr. Turner,” he joked. “I do recall.”
Elanna lifted a shoulder. “I mustn’t disappoint Monsieur de la Bran with my lack of advancement.”
“You have determination,” he said with assurance. “You will succeed.”
A tall, dark, figure strolled abreast of their party. Waiting politely for an opening, he had turned to the two ladies who accompanied him. Julian’s skin prickled with a sensation of being watched. And he stepped to one side.
When he looked into their faces, he had jolt. Beside Killian Hanniford stood the two women whom he’d met this afternoon in the midst of the accident. And like a magnet, he focused on the startling blue eyes of Miss Lily Hanniford.
“Good evening, my lord,” the American millionaire said to Carbury in his leisurely American accent. “Forgive us for our tardiness.”
“I am most delighted to see you. All of you,” Carbury said, shaking hands with the gentleman and bowing to the ladies. “You are not late at all. We are reminiscing. Allow me to present my friends. My neighbors, too, they are.”
Carbury did the honors with social precision, so well in fact that Julian could greet Killian Hanniford with equanimity. He’d met with the infamous American blockade runner three times in the past two weeks and known him to be blunt, forceful but polite. As a scrapper from the docks of Baltimore, Hanniford had acquired polish with his fortune. Here as in his offices, the man was tailored, barbered to a far thee well and his manners were impeccable. So fine in fact that Julian’s mother, whether or not she knew of Hanniford’s proposed raid of Cardiff Shipping, accepted the introduction with a smug look of satisfaction. A rare thing.
So when the moment came for Carbury to introduce Julian to the luscious Miss Hanniford, he easily grasped her hand and bowed over her soft leather glove. “I had the honor to meet Miss Hanniford this afternoon. And Mrs. Roland, as well. Good evening, ladies. I trust you have recovered from the upset of the afternoon.”
“We did. Thank you, Lord Chelton,” Lily told him with a cool politesse that surprised and distressed him.
“You were very helpful, my lord,” Mrs. Roland added with more graciousness than Julian perceived in Lily’s greeting. “You saved us from disaster. Especially Madame le Comtesse.”
“What is this?” his mother asked. “You told me nothing of a disaster.”
Julian inclined his head. “It was a runaway horse and a frightened hack, Mama. Remy and I dealt with them both.”
“And I, Lord Chelton,” said Killian Hanniford with earnest thanks, “am the one most grateful for your intervention. Lily and Marianne told me all the details and I’m in awe of your quick thinking and your skill.”
His mother cocked a haughty brow. “Chelton has always made a habit of walking into danger.”
Thank you, Mama. Such a dubious commendation is so unwelcome.
“No wonder he did well today,” Lily Hanniford said with smooth flattery that warmed him and made his mother turn to glass.
Julian did not know what to say to that. It was not often someone could take his mother’s words and turn them into a compliment. Amusement curled his mouth. Appreciation made him grin.
“Here’s Remy,” his mother said and smiled at the man who bowed graciously to them all.
“Bon soir. Forgive me my tardiness,” Remy said, his twinkling eyes traveling the party and pausing for a second on the widow Roland. “Another accident along the Rue de la Paix tonight. I fear we have a contagion on our hands.”
His mother rushed to introduce Remy to the ladies, Hanniford and Carbury as if she wished him gone. But the chimes sounded for an intermission between acts and Carbury bent over Elanna, eager as a puppy and smiling at her.
He extended his hand toward the door to a nearby box. “I hope all of you will join me here. The Hannifords are my guests and the four of you would turn us into a very grand party.”
Elanna pressed back against Julian’s arm.
Remy grinned, his attention to Mrs. Roland as apparent as a billboard.
And for himself, desire to be near charming Lily was raw. Better judgment screamed he should refuse.
But his mother was quick to agree.
“Let us go in, then.” Carbury offered his arm to Elanna.
Not to be impolite, she nodded and hooked her hand in the crook of his elbow.
Julian’s mother cast them a sideways glance, and at once, Julian’s skin prickled. Was this his mother’s ploy to push Elanna and Carbury together? It might very well be. The woman preferred her own company. Unless it benefited her to be social.
He set his teeth.
But as the party reshuffled to allow the pair to pass, Lily was at once by his side. His duty as a gentleman was to offer her his own arm.
“Thank you,” she said in that voice that melted his rational mind and she placed her warm palm on his sleeve.
“Do you like Offenbach?” he asked out of the blue.
“I’ve never heard his works before.”
“Ah,” he said like a dolt, his brain utterly, ridiculously blank.
As all eight of them filed in to the box’s anteroom where they could remove their wraps, instinct and manners drove him forward. He stood like a statue as Lily turned her back to him to help with removing her cape. Her fox fur-lined sateen was a deep shade of sapphire, darkly complementary to her flawless skin. His fingers brushed her bare shoulder as he slid the garment off her, only to make him catch his breath at the sky-blue silk gown that sluiced over her slim form. She looked like a shimmering ice goddess. She smelled like faint roses of summer. He was entranced. Silly him. She was quite exquisite, her skin as perfect as a pearl, her throat and the swells of her breasts, pristine.
What is wrong with me? For God’s sake.
He never ogled a lady. Not since he’d been a randy twelve-year-old.
Still, he stepped to one side in the box so that Lily had a choice to sit next to him or insult him and walk to the other side where the only other seat was open. She checked his gaze, glancing away as if their eyes had never met. But she sat beside him.
He let out his breath, relieved. The others took up the gilded red damask chairs and he settled in his own, congratulating himself like a lovesick fool that he could bask in the glow of the lovely American. She had more than beauty, too. He crossed one leg over the other, suppressing his satisfaction. She had wits enough to turn his mother’s insult to a compliment.
Then Lily faced him.
He locked on to those remarkable blue eyes. She searched as if she rummaged for some lost treasure. He wished he knew what it was. He’d give it her in a second if only she’d remain forged to him. “Can I get you champagne from The Glacier?”
“No, thank you. Perhaps later.”
Very well. What else might we discuss? “Did your fitting with Monsieur Worth go well?”
“It did.”
If she were any other woman, she’d be heaping him with details of fabrics and colors, shoes and bonnets. Instead she gave him silence. How was he to get on?
But she raised her face. Dear God. Her perfect oval face and the eyes that spoke of banked blue fires. Was that interest in him? Or not?
He despaired of ever learning.
Frustrated, he removed his gloves. Her gaze fell to his hands, drifted away and returned. She seemed troubled, flexing her fingers. “How was Madame le Comtesse when you took her home? Better?”
“Remy did the honors. But when I left the carriage, she seemed quite…bubbly.”
Lily’s tension collapsed and she wore a grin. “She loves champagne.”
“Shouldn’t we all.”
“You don’t?”
“It depends on my mood.”
“So. When you are happy, what do you drink?” she asked, playing with him now.
He arched a brow. “A burgundy with beef. A white from the Loire with scallops. A Scots whiskey when I am happy.”
“And when you’re sad?”
“A Scots whiskey.”
She let out a laugh.
Had they overcome the tension? “And what do you like when you’re happy?”
“Beer.”
He guffawed and others in the box shot him a look.
She leaned close and he inhaled her alluring scent. “Do you?”
“Like beer?” He loved the look on her face, open and accepting, full of humor. “I like to drink it with good friends.”
“Me, too.”
Oh, he was undone. By her naturalness. By her lack of guile. “Then you and I must become friends and enjoy fine beer.”
She turned away, swallowed hard and opened her fan. Whipping the thing so that the air around them grew crisp with tension, she raised the hope that he might have unnerved her as she did him.
Good.
The others spoke, conversed. Remy was fully engaged with Mrs. Roland. Carbury with Elanna. His mother chatted with Killian Hanniford and damn, if she wasn’t smiling, almost cooing to the American.
And Julian felt like a dimwit. Here he sat, silent. Undone. By the beauty of an American. A girl. Young and effervescent.
So much so, he had to admit to his great dismay, that he had lied to himself. Greatly. She was not forgettable. Not in looks or manner.
True, he liked all he saw. The elegant line from her ear to her shoulder. The delicate tendons along her nape. The way wisps of her hair fell, one by one, while she moved her head in tiny increments to or fro. The way she tipped her head when the orchestra struck up a chord that roused her. The unblemished expanse of her appealing décolleté.
He tore his gaze away, musing that he examined her like an artist memorizing his model. Remy, the true artist, would laugh at him.
He shook his head. Hot, bothered, he dug the program from his inner coat pocket. With blind eyes, he perused it. But he thrust it aside. He did not care a whit who sang. Or what. Or when. He lived only for the view. How she sat, her long arms swathed in formal white gloves. Her hands resting, cupped in each other. Her back arching, her shoulders rising, her derriere flexing.
He shifted in his own chair.
He was besotted. He sat in a crowded opera house with two thousand others, lusting for a woman to whom he’d spoken ten words.
He breathed deeply, casting about to find some other enchantment. What he saw were two gentlemen examining her, too. One man with a pair of binoculars in the box opposite them. Another man in the audience looking up in pure intoxication. Julian had no idea who they were. They had good taste. But no chance with Lily Hanniford. Not tonight. He was here to shield her from adventurers and charlatans. To throw a mantel of English correctness over the upstart Americans. To bestow on her, by his very proximity, a legitimacy and a value to Parisian society.
He crossed his arms and stared the two men down. Oh, yes. Nothing like the medieval glory of the Seton duchy to assure acceptance whether here or in London.
Whatever possessed him, he had no idea. But he reached over and took one of her hands to place on his knee.
She went to stone.
He smiled in irony. He’d been hard as a rock for the last hour.
She focused on her hand in his and in a deliberate move pulled it away even as she leaned over to him. “My lord.” Her voice was a whisper. “Please don’t stare at me.”
That she would mention his absorption in her was a faux pas no English lady of any breeding would ever commit. They’d take it as the compliment it was. Treasure it in silence and hope the man would come to call.
He could not respond. Would not. There was no discreet way. He had no alluring words. No apology, either.
Throughout the intermission when Remy adjourned with Mrs. Roland to the Glacier and then through the next act Julian complied with Lily’s wish. He grew testy trying to fulfill her wishes. To his supreme irritation, he surveyed the boxes, once, twice and then again. He counted the numerous men who peered up at her. But then he’d glance at her and excuse their captivation. He understood their fascination and he was undone by his own.
When the lights came up, with the rest of their party, the two of them rose and conversed, mingled and laughed.
Remy rubbed his hands together. “Shall we adjourn to a café for refreshments?”
Lily was first to respond. “Forgive me, I’ve enjoyed this tremendously, but I fear I must return home. It’s been a very long day. Excuse me, please. But, Papa, if you wish to continue the evening, do.”
Hanniford made his own excuses and Mrs. Roland in turn. They would leave.
The party reclaimed their coats and made their way down the massive staircase, into the rotunda and on to the portiere where the private coaches lined up.
Julian was careful, bidding all good evening with polite enthusiasm. And he stood beside Remy, watching the Hanniford carriage depart.
“Care to join me for a bit of fun?” Remy asked, an arched brow indicating his interest in quite another topic.
“Thanks, no.” He inclined his head toward his own conveyance far down the line. “I’ll join the family for home.”
“I need a drink. Conversation, too. Don’t you?”
Julian recognized the light in his eye. Only a few women did that to Remy. “The comely widow interests you?”
“She does. I wish she didn’t.”
“I understand.” He clapped a hand on Remy’s broad shoulder. “Go home. Think better of it in the morning.”
“One would hope so.”
“Au revoir. Tomorrow then?”
Julian left him to climb into his coach and sink against the squabs. His mother chatted on about Carbury, all his marvelous assets, financial included. Thank God Elanna seemed immune. She sat back into the shadows and nodded at their mother’s words of praise. At length, without response from Elanna, their mother grew silent. Only the rhythmic clopping of the horses’ hooves on the cobbles pervaded the night air—and Julian was free to mull his dilemma.
Lily had warned him away from her. Good of her. Wise, too.
He’d not mix business with pleasure. Never had. Wouldn’t start now.
Devil of it was that he wanted her more than before. He ached with it. Swearing silently, he paused, struck with the clarity of his problem. And hers.
She enjoyed him, but she didn’t want his attentions.
That was precisely how he himself wished to relate to women. Enjoy them. Admire them. Seduce them.
But not this one. Never delectable Lily Hanniford.
His conclusion was a dreadful one. He must not ever see her again. Let alone spend an entire evening watching her every breath. And getting lost in her blue, blue eyes.