Wild Lily (Those Notorious Americans Book 1)(30)

“No. You haven’t. And you asked. Lord Carbury is a fine gentleman. He’s many years older than our Elanna but he has a solid income, a fairly old title and a sizable estate. He’s respected in parliament and known for his prudence in his investments. He doesn’t gamble, drink or…”

She tossed her head and her glorious eyes gleamed. “Dally where he shouldn’t?”

“Exactly.”

“Still you hesitate to approve of him. Why?”

Lily Hanniford was forthright. So unlike English girls. So unlike those who hankered after a title for its own sake and money for the spending. God, he liked that. Her. “He does not excite her.”

“According to many, that’s not a requirement for a good marriage.”

“No, but it helps to put one on the path to a congenial union.”

She grinned. “For children, you mean.”

And sport. “Men need heirs and spares. Daughters, too.”

A frown lined her forehead as she looked down at her gloved hands on the reins. “It’s true then that love is not a requirement for a proper match between an English lord and a lady?”

“Prudence has its benefits. Passion can turn bitter. Here in Britain, we’ve not been able to afford such a luxury for centuries.” Not now, either.

Shifting in her saddle, she seemed perturbed. “So, love is irrelevant?”

“Hopefully it comes later.” He shrugged. His own parents’ bitter relationship was his poor model.

“But does it?” She seemed to ask a rhetorical question.

Had her parents married for love? Was she as skeptical as he of the possibility of such unions? “We have a few instances where love came first and no good came of it.”

“Ah, yes.” She nodded once. “I’ve heard of the most famous one. Anne Boleyn.”

He laughed. “There is that.”

“And yet you advocate for a love match for your sister. How is that?”

“It’s not easy. Not favored by my father, either. Elanna’s sweet, charming. To her, the world is a treasure to be explored. I don’t wish to see her disillusioned by a pragmatic match. All she needs is time to find the right man.”

“Or the wrong one if she mistakes passion for love.”

“I believe she’s level-headed. Besides, I’d like to buy her that time.”

“Can you?”

He shook his head. Why not be honest with her? “Not much. Only to the end of this season.”

Her mouth dropped open.

They rode in silence for a bit.

Then very quietly she said, “So she’ll have to search diligently to put off Lord Carbury. Does she know this?”

Julian squinted into a brilliant ray piercing the treetops. “She does. And she accepts it. Although she hopes for a reprieve—”

“It’s not likely, is it?” she asked with some compassion.

“I’m afraid not. She’s had her debut. No men she’s met have appealed to her as husband material, sad to say. She’s had suitors but turned them down.”

“And now she’s being pursued by a man she does not want and must accept.” She sighed. “I hate to think of all the women who experience the same challenge.”

Are you one of them?

He scowled at the mere idea she’d belong to a man who did not value those eyes, those lips, the spark of rebellion in her. That blithe quality he so admired could lead him down a perilous path.

But he yearned to follow the trail. And he felt compelled to inject some memorable element into this or she’d return to the house concluding he was a dry piece of toast. To her, he wished, against all that was logical, to be at least memorable, if not irresistible. How to free himself of his fascination for her? “At home in Baltimore and Texas, how do you spend your days?”

She cocked her head. “Baltimore society is very much like this. Sedate, closed.”

“Interesting?”

She tipped her head to and fro. “If you like discussing ships in dock and the art of raising thoroughbreds.”

That surprised and pleased him. She was no faint miss without a thought in her head save ribbons and silks. “I wager you do?”

“I do.”

He was gratified by that. Could he predict that dinner conversation with her would never consist of a litany of the latest gossip about society’s scoundrels and ne’er-do-wells? “And what of your days in Texas?”

“I didn’t ever do needlepoint.”

“Terrible at it?” he asked with delight tickling him.

“Hideous.”

“Instead, you did what?”

She pursed her lips as she considered the trail ahead.

He wished he could commission a portrait of her in silhouette as she pondered a problem. In this, as in much else, she was exquisite. A beauty whose hair might gray, and whose eyes might dim, but whose dynamism would sparkle through. “Tell me. I don’t bite.”

“Hmm. You’re sure?”

“I might have been too forward at the opera, but I have learned my lesson.”

She turned the most distressing face to him. All large sad eyes, lax mouth and miserable longing.

Dear God. Did she value his advance? Even though she warned him away? Why?