Wild Lily (Those Notorious Americans Book 1)(56)

The ormolu clock on her sitting room mantle struck eight o’clock when Lily left her bedroom and stood upon the landing. She fingered the one embroidered frog closing her wrapper. The garment flowed around her, the swish of the soft brocade against her silk nightgown a sensuous tease to her overheated body and her erotic aspirations for the evening to come.

Although it was not considered appropriate for a lady to leave her bedroom in such meager attire, this was her home. Her new home. She wanted to live in it as she and her husband saw fit, not as nameless others might dictate. She’d spent most of her life adapting to others’ rules, others’ wishes. If she were honest with herself—and she wished to be—then even her marriage to Julian was conformity with society’s rules. Albeit, one that held promise of more than a suitable arrangement. His desire for her was evidence. And hers for him was a lure to passion greater than that she’d found so often in his arms. She must trust herself to risk losing her heart to him.

She descended the stairs, taking in the marvelous decor of the house. Its stately magnificence sent ripples of excitement up her spine. She was chatelaine here.

She grinned.

And stopped.

Julian stood at the bottom of the staircase, one foot to the first step, an elbow to the banister. He wore an onyx velvet smoking jacket and gray trousers, a soft white shirt open to his throat. With a finger across his lips, he stared up at her with glowing dark eyes. A marvelous specimen of manhood. And he was hers.

“You make this old house sparkle.”

She resumed the stairs down, an imp in her emerging to play. “You must be careful not to compliment me too much.”

“Will you grow proud and dismissive of me?” he asked, his question half joking, half serious.

“I don’t know how I could.”

His face froze.

“What did I say?” She paused again, anxiety eroding the romantic aura she’d felt ever since they’d kissed this afternoon.

“Come down,” he said, waggling his fingers at her and trying to be debonair. “I was obtuse.”

She stood a step above him, their eyes level. “I doubt it. What struck a wrong chord in you? Should I be proud and haughty? If that’s what you want—”

He sank both his hands in her hair and kissed her mightily. Her lips stung with his ardor. “I don’t want that. I want you as you are.”

She steadied herself with one hand on the banister and one around his waist. She searched his gaze and in his words, she heard truth. But only a portion of it.

“You’re perfect.” He winked at her, put a finger to the embroidered frog and offered his arm. “Come to the dining room. Do not look at the butler or the footman. They will be admiring the new mistress of the house. And then they’ll disappear.”

“Wonderful.” She inhaled, relieved that his plans focused only on her comfort. “Will you show me the house tonight?”

He patted her hand. “If you wish.”

“I want to absorb it all,” she said as they strolled by Chinese porcelains, two giant medieval tapestries and a huge landscape painting of a hunting party. “But my goodness. Such a tour may take days.”

“Indeed.”

“Do you have a catalogue?” He led her past a small red salon where two card tables sat beneath a portrait of the Tudor Queen Elizabeth.

“A list?” He seemed incredulous.

“Yes. You should. I mean, do look at all of this.” She waved a hand at the gold goblets on the table beside trencher plates made of Sèvres china. “Do you know where each piece came from? Country? Year? Purchaser?”

“No.” He led her to the dining table where only two places were elaborately set. “But I’m certain my estate agent must have an idea.”

The footman held out her chair and she sat.

“You may leave us,” Julian told his two servants. “I’ll serve Lady Chelton.”

The butler placed her napkin across her lap and bowed his way toward the far doors. Then he closed them.

“Will you drink?” Julian lifted a crystal decanter filled with red wine.

“I will. Thank you.” While he poured, she inhaled the aromas of the dishes on the sideboard. “I will compliment the cook when I meet her tomorrow. What do we have this evening?”

“Curried chicken. Baked ham. Young potatoes and squashes.” He recited the menu, nonchalant as she’d never seen him before. The charm of it suited him.

“Superb. I’ll have some of each.”

“A hearty appetite,” he said as he made his way over and picked up a china plate.

“Are you afraid I’ll become well-padded?”

“That’s up to you.” He heaped slices of ham over potatoes and ladled a sauce over it.

She craned her neck. “If you keep adding to that plate, I may not fit into any of my trousseau.”

As he marched over to her, he murmured something and deposited her supper before her.

“What did you say?”

He turned his back to fill up his own plate. But she heard him clearly. “Perhaps you might not need clothes for a while.”

She sputtered in laughter, her hands flying to her hot cheeks. “That ends my life as a debutante. Not only will I now waddle everywhere, but I will blush until Christmas.”