Wild Lily (Those Notorious Americans Book 1)(17)

“No. Very nice.” She put down a large card on the table beside her and went to work on the next one.

“Who? Do tell.”

“A dinner party at the home of the Earl and Countess of Ely a week Wednesday.”

“Ely? Doesn’t he have a son who is a widower?” Lily recalled her father saying something like that. Meanwhile, Marianne tore open another envelope like a child opening birthday gifts.

“Mmm. Yes. And an ancient keep in need of a new roof. But this—” Marianne covered her mouth with two fingers. “Oh, my.”

“What?”

“We’re to go to a house party.” Her dark green gaze locked on Lily’s.

“Whose? How many days?” Could anyone keep up polite appearances for days, especially if, as Papa said, many of the married couples switched bed partners at night?

“Five days. Kent.” She let the card drop to her lap, her vision glassy.

“Who?”

“Carbury.”

The name rang a bell but Lily couldn’t place— “Oh, no.”

Marianne nodded. “The Earl of Carbury. From the night at the Paris Opera.”

Julian Ash, in all his impeccable glory, swam up like a genie before her eyes. Graceful, ruthlessly correct, every black hair in place. Julian of the intense looks. Julian of the warm hand. Julian.

Lily swallowed. “Carbury and he are neighbors.”

“Yes. Chelton will be certain to attend.”

Lily shifted in her chair, swinging around to stare into the fire. Since that night by his side, she had not mentioned the illustrious, unforgettable lord. He of the heroism in the Rue de la Paix. He of the opera box. He of the inscrutable lure to her senses.

Foster’s voice intruded on her reverie.

“Miss Hanniford, Mrs. Roland, the Countess de Chaumont.”

The French lady sailed into the drawing room in her newest finery, a bright mandarin silk tea gown that she’d purchased from Worth with the compensation she’d received for her services to the Hanniford women.

“The orange is very becoming.” Relieved at the interruption, Lily rose from the sofa to greet her. Over the past few months, she thought of Chaumont more as a friend than an employee. “I’m so glad you decided to treat yourself.”

“The generosity of your father is magnificent, Miss Hanniford. I shall praise him ever more. His employment comes to me at a time of desperate need.”

“He is very grateful,” Marianne told her as she walked around her to inspect her attire. “And this is superb.”

“Only if I live,” Chaumont joked and put a hand to her midriff.

“I understand.” Lily put a hand beneath her breast and made a desperate face at the other two. “I am so corseted, I can barely breathe. And I’m so excited, I hope I don’t spill the tea.”

“You will do well.” Chaumont squeezed her hand. “Do not think of it. Converse. Smile. Enjoy yourself and it will come to you.”

“And if I make a mistake?”

“Never stop. Make the change when next you have the same task to perform.”

“Yes, of course. I will do this well.” Lily closed her eyes. Her father expected it of her. The three of them had traveled from Paris three weeks ago and upon their arrival had taken up residence in this house in Piccadilly. Beginning with a skeleton staff headed by Foster, the butler, they’d gotten on well enough while he hired a housekeeper, four more maids and three footmen. Chaumont had joined them from Paris last week and taken a small house near Hanover Square. With her, she brought two more trunks of clothes for Lily plus another two for Marianne. All had been tailored to the precise measurements of each lady, crafted by those at the House of Worth.

Dressing the ladies in grand style was Killian’s priority, closely seconded by furnishing the London house.

“No expense will be too great,” Killian had often repeated.

He wanted a showpiece and had rented the house from an elderly earl frantic to pay his bills. As a backdrop for his business dealings and a venue to exhibit his wealth and his family, Killian reveled in his skill to wrest it from the desperate Englishman. The house sat on one major thoroughfare in London, a few doors away from Number One, the home of the Dukes of Wellington. A few houses in one direction, the Duke of Devonshire lived. The Rothschilds lived in the other direction. An American bachelor from Montana who had made millions from mining silver had recently rented the house next door. Across the street was The Ritz, where Killian dined often or had terrines de frois gras sent over for his lunch. This afternoon, he’d insisted that the chef send over amuse-bouche for the tea party Lily and Marianne hosted. Their first event at home in London, he wanted every detail to be the finest.

Chaumont surveyed the art in the drawing room. Pausing in front of an oil over the mantel, she looked at Marianne. “Mon Dieu, I am overcome. Is that painting by Monsieur Delacroix?”

“Oui, madame,” Marianne said, walking toward the portrait of pianist Frédéric Chopin. “Marvelous for its delicacy, is it not?”

“Is this the one that some fool cut in half? The one with his lover, George Sand?”

“It is. Monsieur Hanniford likes Chopin’s etudes and he decided he must have it.”

“Even if,” added Lily, “the piano in the picture seems unfinished and his lover, Miss Sand, is missing.”