Wild Lily (Those Notorious Americans Book 1)(28)
“Madam.” Marianne leaned over to take the woman’s tiny wrinkled hand. “You must keep your slippers.”
“Oh? Why?
“They fit you best. No one could mark the steps as you do in those shoes.”
“Hmm. That was so. Brought me my William, they did.”
“William was your husband?”
“Oh, no.” She leaned closer to Marianne and cackled. “My lover.”
Carbury cleared his throat. “Well, now, let me introduce the rest of our party—”
On he prattled, introducing three ladies, all young, one painfully so. That last was a blonde English girl with the chiseled features of a classical goddess. Mary Northridge was a distant cousin of Carbury’s and meek as a mouse. The other two were Americans, older than Mary by one or two years and with the self-assurance of old Knickerbocker New York. Hilda Berghoff, quiet and flirtatious, was a brown-haired sylph with the slit-eyed look of a rodent. Her father, a Manhattan banker, was an associate of her own father’s and Lily knew his reputation to be as mean as a rattlesnake. Priscilla Van de Putte was a plump redhead with a hearty laugh. She was making a spectacle of herself and Lily surmised her parents had given her specific instructions to find a lord and make him hers. Quickly.
There was no mistake that the three men in the party were the three young ladies’ quarry. Lord Pinkhurst, who’d escorted Marianne and her to the Montmarte cabaret, was in attendance, delighting all with his banter. Tall and rakishly tow-headed, he cut a fine figure of athletic build. That his dancing eyes retuned to Lily time and again was a compliment, but rather embarrassing. Priscilla Van De Putte rolled her eyes, put out by his attentions toward Lily. Though she tried to divert him, he seemed content to storm her defenses.
As for the other two men—Lords Torrington and Godophin—Lily questioned their abilities to court any lady. They were clumsy and nervous. Swarthy and intense, cousins, too, they grasped Lily’s hand, each in turn, with unreserved enthusiasm. Their one talent was in the art of trivial conversation. That drew Hilda Berghoff toward Torrington like a fly to honey. Godolphin focused his comical smiles on Priscilla Van De Putte. Alas, that lady cared only for Pinkie.
Lily commiserated with the man. He must have felt her sympathy because he made his way to her side. “Have pity on me, will you?”
She bit her lip.
“I can see you hide your giggles.” His mouth thinned. “I do the same.”
“I bet that she’s really quite nice when she isn’t…um…”
“Stalking? That’s the word you want, isn’t it?”
“Hush, Pinkie.”
“It’s you I want. I could be out of my misery, if you’d only accept me.”
He’d proposed marriage to her last week after tea. Complimented, she’d been flabbergasted and put him off. Indefinitely. “We have our understanding, do we not?”
“We do. I don’t like it.”
“I understand,” she said on a whisper. Accepting her tea from the footman, she looked up as the butler appeared in the doorway.
“Lord Chelton, my lord,” the man announced.
And in the tranquil room, cheerful in its yellow Chinoserie draperies and ivory appointments with its company of old and young, infirm and vibrant, seeking and sought after, the air changed. Fascination lent a fragrance to the atmosphere. She forgot Pinkie.
Who wouldn’t?
Lord Chelton, Julian Ash in all his glory stood tall and smartly attired for the afternoon, each fold of his cravat in elegant perfection, his pin in place, his buttons done up, his trousers finely creased, his smile for each in turn, lazy and genuine. His eyes rested in hers, and with the greeting there, despite Lily’s admonition to ignore him, bubbles of delight rose from her toes to her head.
Julian pushed aside the drapery and opened the casement window in his room. Dawn broke. Would that it might improve his sour mood. He gazed out upon Carbury’s stable yard and the path to his block. One of the best in the county for good horseflesh. Unable to sleep, he’d decided to take advantage of it and ordered his valet to put out his riding clothes.
The Carbury house party had begun with tea two days ago. Julian’s mother was in attendance and stayed well away from the younger set along with three other older ladies. They served as chaperones for the rest of the fifteen guests, plus their very solicitous host Lord Carbury. Among the chatty throng, he’d had not a moment with Lily. The lack made him testy, restless.
“Your coat, sir.” His valet Richards offered it to him.
Julian shrugged into it, eager to be gone and out the door before any others. If ever he needed to exercise his mind, it was now. The guest list consisted of five young ladies, including his sister Elanna, Lily and her cousin Marianne, and, aside from him, three young men. All he had met on previous occasions the ladies from social circles in London and the men from school. The men were as eligible as he and as financially wanting. Carbury had planned the numbers to his own advantage, making matched sets. That permitted the man to track Elanna like a hunting dog after a fox.
Julian took pains to hide his tension watching his sister ward off the earl’s interest. Consumed with ensuring Elanna could escape Carbury whenever she wished, Julian had not played well his role as guest. He’d done his duty to be polite to any of the young ladies’ conversations. But his efforts were muddled, all due to his uncontrollable focus on Lily Hanniford. Still, he hadn’t even had the opportunity to sit next to her. Though Lord Pinkhurst had—and she appeared to enjoy his attentions. Curse the man.