Wild Lily (Those Notorious Americans Book 1)
Cerise Deland
Dedication
For my friends and colleagues in Romance Writers of America,
Professionals and marvelous teachers, every one!
Chapter One
September 12, 1877
Boulevard Haussmann
Paris, France
“Be quiet as a mouse,” Lily whispered to her cousin Marianne as they took the first step down the central staircase toward the foyer. “Papa arrived home a few minutes ago. I bet he’s in his study and maybe he hasn’t seen that scandal sheet.”
“And never does,” said Marianne, holding her hat on her head as she ran. “Hopefully, the comtesse should be here for our appointment.”
“So we might get past Papa’s study easily if—”
“Oh, no.” Marianne halted mid-stride. “Foster.”
The Hanniford family butler here in Paris appeared at the bottom of the stairs. His wispy white hair fell was combed back in perfection and he focused on Lily and Marianne with droopy eyes like a sad bloodhound. He’d unlocked the front door to them both at midnight with his usual silence. Lily had asked him not to mention to her father what time they arrived home, but she was certain the man, referred to tycoon Killian Hanniford by another American millionaire, would not withhold such information if asked.
She descended the steps, her hope of concealing last night’s escapade from her father, fleeing on a sigh.
“Miss Hanniford,” he said, directing his gaze at her, “and Mrs. Roland, please follow me.”
“Foster,” Lily said, wishing for a clue as she tried to keep pace with the servant’s crisp walk. “Does he know?”
The man turned his head and considered her, dare she say, with pity. “He does, Miss. The tabloid is in his possession.”
Marianne clutched her arm. “I thought the footman said the one he brought to us this morning was the only copy on the doorstep?”
Lily’s heart skipped a beat. “He did.”
“Mr. Hanniford,” said Foster, “brought home his own copy when he arrived minutes ago.”
“Oh, dear.” Lily might have guessed her father, who prided himself on up-to-the-minute knowledge of any importance to his family or his businesses, would learn of her and Marianne’s escape to Montmartre last night. “Not good.”
“Precisely,” said the butler as he knocked on the door to his employer’s study and opened it for the two women. “Sir, Miss Hanniford and Mrs. Roland.”
Lily and Marianne advanced on the carpet in front of the forty-four-year-old millionaire whom many in America feared, envied and even admired. He stood tall and imperious, hands clasped behind his back, still in his evening clothes. The sleek black wool was a match for his thick hair and his large ebony eyes, while the ivory scarf and shirt, the gold waistcoat, were rich counterbalances to his ruddy complexion and the commanding demeanor that beguiled women and intimidated adversaries. In his hand was a copy of the broadsheet that the family footman had given to Lily’s maid this morning.
This interview would not be pleasant. Lily girded herself for the coming storm.
“I understand from Foster and Thomas, the downstairs footman, that you’ve already seen this.”
Lily nodded.
He leaned toward her. “What’s that?”
“Yes, sir. I have.”
“Perhaps you’d like to learn, too, that I sent Thomas out and he has returned, confirming that local Parisian kiosks have hundreds of copies for sale on every corner.”
Oh, a disaster. She clasped her hands together, even as she understood that one did not show weakness in front of a man like her father. “I am sorry for this, Papa.”
“Sorry,” he said as if he considered one who had spilled tea on the expensive Aubusson rug. “Intriguing word.”
She winced.
“Wouldn’t you like to choose another?”
“Sir?”
“Such as ‘appalled’?”
“Regret. That’s a better word.”
“It is. But it does not match my sentiment.”
“No, sir.” She was certain it didn’t.
He stared at her. “I won’t debate this with you any longer, Lily.” Her father threw the scandal sheet on top of his desk and peered at her over his wire-rimmed glasses. “I want only a good marriage for you. Last week it was riding in the Bois de Boulougne without an escort. The week before, trying a bicycle on the sidewalk. Now this. Why must you fight me with these escapades?”
Yes, she’d gone to the Montmartre café and watched those women throw up their skirts in the cancan. Shocking as that was, her night had been thrilling. But she did have two defenses. “I didn’t go to embarrass you, Papa.”
“You did, anyway.”
Still. What was she? His to dispense with? Order about? She was his daughter, almost of age. Almost. And she countered him with her other weapon. “No business dealing of yours depends on my behavior.”
He arched a black brow. “You are not so na?ve as that.”
She wasn’t. But she’d gone for another reason. One her father repeatedly refused to accept. “I don’t want a husband—”