Wild Lily (Those Notorious Americans Book 1)(18)

“No matter.” Marianne chuckled. “Monsieur Hanniford likes it.”

“And even though it cost more than all our wardrobes from Worth combined,” Lily said with amusement, “he had to own it.”

Marianne had found it in an auction house on the Champs-élysées and had told her uncle about it. “He comes in here to view it each morning after his breakfast.”

“Astonishing,” said Chaumont, bending forward to examine the brushwork. “When we were in Paris, I knew he liked to visit the galleries, but I did not know he wished to buy pieces.”

“He wishes he could draw or paint,” Lily said as she led them to sit near the fire. “Marianne does both and knows a brilliant work when she sees it.”

Chaumont put a hand to her throat, in her eyes stood awe. “I am enthralled. I did not know this about you, Madame Roland. I would like to see your work.”

“Thank you. But no, I will not show any of it.”

“She’s very good,” said Lily. “She won’t tell you that, but I can.”

“Oh, but you must let me see! I insist.” Chaumont touched her hand to Marianne’s wrist.

Lily answered for her cousin, “She refuses to show her works to anyone other than us at home.”

“Today, after all your guests leave,” Chaumont pleaded with Marianne.

“No, thank you. I do what thrills me. My work is not classical.”

“All the better,” Chaumont said. “In Paris, there is new interest in art. It spreads, I think, here too. We have—how shall we say?—new interpretations. Painters, sculptors. You met one of them a few months ago. He has created sensations with his women.”

Lily could recall having met no artists. “Who is this?”

Marianne glanced away.

“Who?” Lily asked of Chaumont.

“The Duc de Remy.”

“You did not tell me he is a painter,” Lily said to Marianne.

“A sculptor,” Marianne said quietly and strolled to the window.

Did she not wish to speak about Remy? “Does he have talent, Madame Chaumont?”

“Indeed.” The comtesse inclined her head. “He has recently acquired a new commission for the City of Paris.”

“How wonderful for him.” Lily raised her brows at Chaumont, puzzled by Marianne’s silence.

In answer, Chaumont lifted her shoulders. “He works in marble. Bronze, too.”

“I understand he has a mistress.” Marianne fingered the edge of the draperies. “Is that true?”

Chaumont gave a sharp laugh. “I understand he has sent her away.”

“Really?” Within the word was hope.

“Truly, madame. My friends say he was bored.”

“How can that be? She was lovely.”

Lily cocked her head. How would Marianne know if Remy’s lover were beautiful?

“Lovely or not, she has departed. The story goes that he gave her money to retire to the country. Gossips say he is…how you say in English… Pining.”

Marianne whirled to face Chaumont. “Pining?”

“For a new woman.”

“Oh.” She struggled to smile. “What you would expect from an artist, oui?”

Lily had never seen Marianne so secretive. Indeed she was a very bad actress, feigning disinterest in Remy.

Marianne grew nervous, her fingers clutched together so hard her flesh turned white. “He needs a new model, I expect. One who will pose for him in the nude.”

How does Marianne know that women pose for him without their clothes?

“Does he,” asked Lily, “need models who do that?”

“He does,” Chaumont confirmed.

“How else could he impart realism, eh?” Marianne asked. “I saw two of his pieces. A man, tortured, which he named Samson. He was spectacular. Diana was another form and she was breath-taking.”

Lily gazed at her cousin, marveling in surprise. “You’ve seen his works?”

“I went one day to a private showing. You’d gone to the book store along the Seine and I knew you would be hours.”

Lily recalled the day, a cold one, when Marianne had left her to her own devices in the book store and gone off for an hour or more. Lily suppressed a grin, but was eager to tease her cousin. “I thought you’d gone in search of a new hat.”

Marianne demurred with a small smile. “Perhaps, at first. But I’d seen a billboard outside the Louvre advertising Remy’s exhibition and since I had met the man, I was curious.”

Chaumont leaned toward her. “What did you think of his work?”

Marianne flourished a hand. “I liked the Samson, not the Diana.”

“Rumor has it, he sold the Samson,” said Chaumont. “For many thousands of francs, too. Enough to make his bankers smile.”

“I hope enough to feed him and a new mistress.” Marianne’s gaiety did not hide her jealousy.

“Oui, many artists earn a living,” Chaumont said with a sigh. “People can afford to buy art now that we are done with empires and wars and revolutions. All the more reason to cultivate your own talents, Madame Roland.”

“I am not accomplished. And I was never trained. The war took my land and home. There was no money for frivolities like art instruction.”