Wild Lily (Those Notorious Americans Book 1)(5)

“And you won!” Marianne smiled at her with twinkling green eyes. “Amazing.”

“I always feared I’d walk down the aisle with a bouquet comprised of my newly beloved’s tailor’s bills.” The smile on Lily’s face disappeared as she leaned over to whisper. “Now I bet the publisher will not dare put in a cartoon of Papa with his French mistress.”

Marianne smoothed the skirts of her day dress. “How right you are.”

Foster approached. The butler’s long face was a cipher. He’d been recommended to them by the Jeromes, whose daughter Jennie had married the second son of the duke of the Marlborough a few years ago. Mister Jerome had said that Benjamin Foster excelled at smoothing the path for American families in Europe. The servant understood the challenges of etiquette, but he was also discreet, a vital asset to those attempting legitimacy among the old aristocracies.

Marianne turned toward the mirror and checked her hat and her long platinum curls dangling from her elaborate coiffure. “I plan on telling anyone who’ll listen how he earned his money.”

Lily fingered a ribbon hanging from her red velvet toque. “It’s not the kind of story they’re used to.”

“Definitely not,” Marianne said, her forest-green eyes wide with pride. “They’re for those who claim supremacy by an accident of birth. Men who rise to power by packing others off to the guillotine. They don’t understand men who rise from poverty to wield a fortune. Isn’t that right, Foster?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Lily sighed. “Nor do they understand women who don’t want to be the doyennes of high society.”

“Quite so,” said Marianne with a tip of her head. “I personally prefer to become an expert in chocolate macarons.”

“And increase the width of your corsets,” Lily teased.

“Precisely. Speaking of clothes, where is the comtesse, anyway?”

“She would harp at us for a moment’s delay for our showing,” Lily complained. Clemence Bernier, the countess of Chaumont, was never late for a fitting, claiming it the height of incivility. “Foster, do we not have any messages from her?”

“I’m afraid not, Miss.” He held up Lily’s coat. “This is unlike her.”

Lily sniffed. “Very.”

“Might she regret and apologize?” Marianne asked with a wry smile.

Lily lifted a finger in imitation of their tutor. “‘Regard! It is forbidden to be late for your appointments with your designer, your milliner or your jeweler. However, enter a ball an hour later than the invitation. And for the opera, arrive at midnight.’”

Marianne chuckled. “‘And two hours late for a rendezvous with your lover.’”

Lily made a face at Marianne. “As if you and I shall ever have lovers.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Marianne said as she let Foster help her on with her coat.

“You wouldn’t!” Lily was laughing.

Marianne met her gaze with serious eyes. “I can dream, can’t I?”

“No. You can’t. Papa would have you for breakfast.”

“Foster,” Marianne said to the servant, “you are listening to none of this.”

“No, madam. I am quite deaf,” he said, but his mouth twitched with a rare smile.

“Shall we go on without the comtesse?” Marianne asked Lily.

“Let’s.” She considered her cousin’s quick change of subject. Marianne had become a widow when her husband had died on the battlefield at Gettysburg more than thirteen years ago. Never, to Lily’s knowledge, had she been attracted to another man. Beautiful as she was with a wealth of shining white-blonde hair and eyes green as a glade, Marianne could attract any man she wished. But she had never received anyone in Galveston or Baltimore. None in Paris, either. Yet. “I’m certain she’ll meet us there.”

Lily allowed Foster to assist her with her coat. “She wouldn’t want to miss the ability to gossip about us to her friends.”

“Oh, you have a dastardly view of our dear poor Chaumont.”

“Don’t you?”

Marianne lifted a shoulder. “She’s so eager to please. A little like a pampered hound. When she’s not barking orders at you, she reaches for approval.”

Marianne stared at herself in the mirror. “I would bet she has a lover.”

“Whom she supports on Papa’s money.”

“Oh, you are bad,” Marianne reprimanded her with a grin.

“Foster, do you know any of this? Is our comtesse enamored with a gentleman?”

“Miss, even if I knew, I could not say.”

She took her gloves and parasol from him. “I long to hear her explanation. And in the meantime, we can sip Monsieur Worth’s white wine and eat his marvelous French cheese.”

“The better to grow fat.”

“And spill over our corsets.” Marianne hooked her arm through Lily’s. “All the better to lounge in our morning gowns in flagrant dishabille.”

“Outrageous, Madam Roland.” Lily had never heard Marianne desire anything. She seemed content living with the Hannifords without a home, husband, or children of her own. So this outré declaration was so deliciously flamboyant of her. Lily chuckled as Foster opened the front door and their coachman doffed his hat. “It’s time to order the most expensive silk and satin Papa’s money can buy.”