Wild Lily (Those Notorious Americans Book 1)(11)

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 na?ve 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.”