Wild Lily (Those Notorious Americans Book 1)(16)

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.





Chapter Four


March 1878

No. 110 Piccadilly



“Our latest invitations!” Marianne sailed into the drawing room, flourishing aloft the latest crop of large envelopes in her hand. She lifted one to her nose and, closing her eyes, inhaled.

“How many?” Lily stopped her pacing, grateful for the diversion from her worries over the imminent arrival of their first guests for tea.

“Three. Smelling marvelous, too,” she said with the charm of a conspirator as she tore open one and plunked in the wing chair opposite Lily.

So many had arrived in that past few days that Lily had had to make a master list of all the details. What to wear was the least of their worries. Papa’s expenditure of more than forty thousand dollars on both her and Marianne’s wardrobes meant they could appear anywhere and be appreciated, even envied. But who their hosts were, what their rank was, who else might attend, who got the deeper curtsy, all were delicate points that could kill their social acceptability. And acceptable, they must be, declared her father.

Dizzy with the complexity of who had invited her and her cousin to an array of luncheons, teas and musicales, she and Marianne had reassured each other their studies of such niceties had been superb. Their knowledge of etiquette finite. But the crush was great. Into the London Season only a week, they were exhausted and not rising before ten. Today was their first at-home tea and they’d been nervous as cats all morning.

“Oh, dear,” Lily said beneath her breath. “I don’t like the look on your face. Is it from someone on Papa’s ‘Awful List’?”

Writing down names of undesirable contacts from his business dealings, her father had dubbed his list ‘The Unsuitables’. These were men or entire families whose presence was not welcome to the Hannifords’ home. He’d made it clear they were not to be accepted under any circumstances, even if their lineage in Debrett’s Peerage did go back to William the Conqueror. Among them, the names of the Duke and Duchess of Seton, their son, the marquess of Chelton, and their daughter, Lady Elanna, did not appear—and Lily was delighted. But feared none of them would ever call.