Wild Lily (Those Notorious Americans Book 1)(4)

But she was ready to reveal the depth of her commitment to directing her own destiny. “I will return home on the first ship I can book passage.”

He flexed his square jaw. “And do you think to return to your status as my daughter in my home?”

She had always known how hard Black Killian Hanniford played to achieve his own ends. In business, he was ruthless, driven. But not merciless to his children. His forgiveness of Pierce’s folly years ago was her best proof that his love for his family was his Achilles heel. Lily had seen how to hinder him by attacking him there.

She shook back her long dark ringlets over her shoulders. “I would return not to Baltimore but to Texas. Open the ranch that my mother left to me, rebuild the house and live there.”

“Alone?”

She considered her clasped hands. “I’d hire a foreman and vaqueros. Take my maid. Raise longhorns and quarter horses.”

“You wouldn’t return to Corpus Christi to marry that doctor you both worked for?”

Marianne and she had volunteered in a small hospital in the small town on the Gulf of Mexico and nursed poor workers afflicted with cholera and all sorts of infections. But their tenure had been short-lived when Hanniford learned of their actions and demanded they come with him to Baltimore and on to Europe.

“No, sir,” Lily told him. She didn’t love the man.

“Or you?” He turned to Marianne.

It was her cousin who favored nursing and who had mourned the injunction not to aid the doctor and his patients, even as she seized the opportunity to move to Baltimore and live with the Hannifords in style and comfort.

Marianne shook her head in resignation. “I won’t return, sir.”

And Lily understood that. Marianne was many things. A widow of thirty, a genteel lady of education and breeding, a former mistress of a four-hundred-acre farm near Spotsylvania, a caring nurse of Confederate soldiers wounded on her land, she was all that. But Marianne was also a woman who wanted to laugh again, a lady who yearned to forget the wounded and dying whom she’d tended, and a very accomplished artist who longed to sketch and paint far away from the turmoil of war and pestilence. She did not like conflict of any kind. And she appreciated that her maternal uncle had welcomed her into his family and into his home when she was without hope or hearth. He had given her an annual income in honor of her mother, the dead sister whom he’d loved dearly. Banking the money, she spent little of it and could count herself wealthy in her own right. She owed her Uncle Killian her own allegiance and cooperation and would not risk his disfavor.

“Thank you for that,” he said.

Her cousin nodded.

He was silent for a long moment while he examined them. “Very well. We have a deal. One year for you, Lily. And for you, Marianne, my largesse, for as long as you behave discreetly.”

His lips spread in a strained smile. “Now go. I understand from Foster you have a fitting at Worth’s.”

Lily breathed in relief. “We do.”

“Well, then spend my money. Buy everything you love. Buy some of what you hate. I told Worth’s assistant weeks ago that the sky was no limit. You’re both to have everything you need for the Season.” He nodded toward the door. “I have an appointment in an hour. I must prepare. So the two of you must get out.”

“Thank you, Papa.” Lily beamed at him, giddy at the reprieve, delighted she hadn’t had to use her father’s own indiscretion here in Paris against him to win her case.

“I am grateful, sir,” said Marianne.

“Good. Go.” He waved them off. “And prove it to me.”

They hastened to leave him.

“We must have our coats. Our hats. Where is the comtesse?” Lily was rattling on, nerves jumping inside her as she surveyed the hall. “She should be here by now to accompany us to Worth’s.”

The Comtesse de Chaumont was an impoverished comely widow whom her father paid handsomely to introduce them to Paris customs and the cream of French society.

But the vast foyer was empty, save for Foster who awaited them with a frown.

Lily’s heart was pounding like a mad thing. She’d survived. Bargained. Won! The prize far off, but nonetheless a victory. But soon they’d go to London where men by the droves would dance upon her and kiss her hand. Aside from her sizable dowry, she hated to think why they’d bother. She had never thought of herself as a beauty. She saw herself as attractive, good looking with ink-black hair, a firm figure and pale blue eyes with rather thick lashes, but she’d seen much lovelier girls. More stunning women.

Yet other aspects of her life had preceded her appearance in any London drawing room. Those were not flattering. ‘The Blockade Runner’s Daughter with a Dowry Fit for a King’ declared one English gossip sheet, describing ‘Black’ Hanniford’s business interests in the City. Another called her ‘The Millionaire Cowgirl’ and ran a sketch of her riding a bull, her hand in the air as if she were busting a bronco. She was no porcelain doll to pour their tea and smile like a simpleton in their parlors. She had intelligence and health and a desire to spend her days doing something useful. That might not be nursing, but it definitely was not acting like an aimless, spoiled creature with feathers for brains.

“I can’t believe he agreed to my condition,” she said to her cousin as Foster fetched their coats and parasols from the hall closet. “I know you think I’m mad, but I had to try again.”