Wild Lily (Those Notorious Americans Book 1)(20)

Foster appeared in the doorway.

“Yes? What is it?”

“Miss Hanniford, the first guests have arrived.”

“Wonderful.” She could get on with this little tea party and end this useless argument. “Do show them in. We’re ready for them, aren’t we?”

Marianne tossed her a grin.

Chaumont nodded.

The procession began. The Templetons were an older couple, graying and doddering. Assisting them to their chairs was their son, Charles, also gray but very sprightly, talkative and nervous. Charles, his parents were quick to tell the ladies, was a bachelor. With a deftness borne of years in good society, he changed the subject to the weather.

In the midst of that, Lord Hardesty and his sister, Lady Rose, arrived.

“They rented a house near mine in Troyes last summer,” said Chaumont as the two took their seats and were introduced all around. “Lady Rose is a talented pianist. I thrilled to hear her play each evening, the notes waltzing on the night breezes to my little house.”

Lady Rose, a pale blonde with small plain features, inclined her head in polite acceptance of the praise. “You are more than kind, madame. I play only to amuse myself and my brother. Do either of you play? I notice you have a portrait of Chopin.”

So on the conversation went among them all at a pleasant pace when Foster once more appeared to announce a new set of arrivals.

“Superb, Foster,” Lily said, glowing that this reception was going along so very well with lively discussion and great harmony among them all. She rose to her feet.

But froze in her tracks.

Behind Mr. and Mrs. William Manchester and their daughter, Dahlia, stood the very man who had not been invited. He was imperious, tall and dark and faultlessly attired in a black suit, fine linen shirt and bronze waistcoat that set golden fires in his dark brown eyes. He smiled, his gaze finding hers, friendly and cool for teatime ambiance. With a small sigh of gratitude from her training, she discovered her manners did not desert her and introduced them all in turn. He was appropriately apologetic for having intruded on the invitation. But Manchester came to his defense sighting a meeting between them that had gone on too long and the hope to bring him along, knowing the Hannifords wished to make new acquaintances here in London.

“We’re delighted to have you, Lord Chelton,” Lily lied through her teeth.

“Thank you, Miss Hanniford. I assured Mr. Manchester we had met before and you approve of me.”

Approve? You rogue. You know I do no such thing. “We did meet in Paris when Madame le Comtesse’s coach was waylaid by a dog running in the streets.”



Lily moved, a hand out indicating he should sit beside her on the sofa. It was no particular honor as it was the only seat vacant. Settling into a quietude, she let the others complete the tale of the afternoon when Remy performed his valiant service in the Rue de la Paix. Taking his tea from her, Julian sat back to enjoy his proximity.

Manchester was an acquaintance of his father’s. Well known in the financial streets, the American banker was hale and hearty, a fellow most got on with, including indebted English aristocracy. Like his father.

Like me.

He’d known of the Hannifords move from Paris to Piccadilly. Following the details in the gossip sheets was easy. Too much so. His fascination with the Americans’ comings and goings, their house, their furniture, their art purchases, had devolved into a habit. One he hated. One he could not seem to break. And he had tried. Repeatedly.

Lily Hanniford had rejected his advances at the opera.

He should move onward. Forget her.

The eyes, though.

They were the lure that drew him back.

The fact that she had told him to go hang was the other bit that hooked him.

Galled him.

Intrigued him.

Damn her.

He watched her. Poised, energetic, she lost herself in the conversation. Forgetting about him? Had she? The consummate hostess, she appeared. Was she that well trained? He’d have to acknowledge the skills of an American finishing school and concede the possibility that she had learned very well. Such was possible. He had done the same. Spending years at his governess’s knee, with his tutors, at Eton and Cambridge, he’d developed the art of banter, the challenge of the drawing room to remain pertinent and witty.

Whatever he contributed to the topic now was polite drivel. He knew it, didn’t change it. Perhaps it was no more or less unimportant than what the others had to offer.

And in the meantime, he had the distinct pleasure of watching Lily Hanniford laugh and gesture and comment. She was, as before, natural, correct but uncomplicated. Exactly as he had remembered her, she shone above the other ladies. But he suppressed the compliment. It did him no good to think so well of her. He had come with one clear purpose to rid himself of the irritating curiosity that her eyes were not sheer blue. But navy. Or black. Or even red.

Red because she was a veritable witch to obsess him so.

And he’d come here, determined to exorcise her.

And he was a man of his word. Keeping promises, above all, to himself.

The afternoon passed. His tea grew cool. His goal grew colder.

Her eyes, he had copious occasion to note, were various colors. Resembling a summer’s sky. A blue opal. A rare blue diamond.

Her brows, dark as her lustrous hair, were a perfect long arch.

Her cheekbones prominent.