Wild Lily (Those Notorious Americans Book 1)(57)

He shook with glee, his broad back in the exquisite jacket an alluring sight. He piled his own plate in silence punctuated by occasional outbursts of chuckles. Then he turned, his eyes dancing. “You are a treasure, my lady. Eat your dinner. Then I shall attempt to do the house justice with a decent description of its wares.”





His tour was quickly done, his excuses for not knowing the provenances of his possessions numerous and apologetic. “I’ll have a list drawn up for you, ancestors included,” he said and led her into the salon where weeks ago he had kissed her and sealed both their fates.

“I’ll like that. But oh,” she enthused as she glanced around the room, rays of gaslight shining on the rich deep purple finish of the walls. In these glorious shadows, Julian took on a delicious, dangerous complexion. The rogue in his element, the aristocrat commanding all in his reach. “I love this.”

“The Violet Saloon. Designed by my great-grandmother to conceal the effects of her bout with smallpox.” He directed her to a large Chippendale chair before the fire. The subtle flames complemented his complexion and form. In the warm hues, his black eyes and hair were in handsome counterpoint. He was so suave, so devastating to her composure. Always had been. And soon he would see just how deeply he affected her. She’d surrender much to him tonight. Innocence. Loyalty. Some of her independence.

“Would you care for a brandy?” He raised a bottle from a glass cart. “Very good. French. And old.”

“That means strong, doesn’t it?”

“It does.”

She lifted her chin, adventure always appealing to her. “I’d like to taste it. What I drank this morning was, I think, watered down.”

“Become a connessieur, would you?”

“Certainly.” She relaxed in her chair. “A lady must have unique qualities to recommend her. Plus if we finish that, then I’d need to buy more. I should purchase what I think is best for us and our guests.”

His grin was beguiling as he poured two small glasses and gave her one, only to leave her to walk to the other side of the room. He swirled his brandy in silence while he stared into the fire, legs splayed, a hand on his hip, his profile stern.

“What bothers you?” she asked him, thinking it ironic that he should be the one to be troubled on their wedding night.

“The marriage settlement. Did your father tell you what he offered?”

That topic could lead her to alcohol and so she took a hearty draught. “He did. Generous, it was. What did you think of it?”

“Bountiful is the word that springs to mind.”

“Ah.” She took another sip.

“I never wanted to marry for money.”

“So you said.”

“Did I?” He ran his hand over his mouth, his look bleak.

Had he forgotten their conversation? Or he wished to make a point of his position? Whatever it was, it irritated her. “I didn’t want to pay for a husband. That makes us equal.”

“Did he tell you about his purchase of the shipping line stock from my father?”

Now she grew angry. “He did. I know it all, Julian. I’m not proud of it.”

“You’re not?”

“I wanted to be wanted for myself.” She drained her glass and stood. “Might I have another?”

His gaze locked on hers. “I want you for yourself.”

Words stuck in her throat. But important ones rose. “And I for you.”

The tension fell from his face and he came to stand before her, then take her glass. “I can pour you another or we can go upstairs. It’s your choice.”



He wanted to undo that elaborate looking frog at her breasts. Open it. Reveal all that was beneath. Sweep every layer aside that divided them.

And here he was at sixes and sevens. Nerves eating at him. Asking her preference on their wedding night, of all damn things.

At thirty-one years of age, with a few mistresses to his credit, he should possess enough finesse to enchant his new wife. But she was a virgin, a novel entity for his jaded soul to deal with. Willing as she was, he perceived her anxiety—and, too, her dislike to discuss money. He’d been an ass to bring it up. He rued his folly. His experience, however copious, did not bear the patience nor skill that was now demanded of him.

“I’d like to go to our rooms,” she said and handed over her empty glass.

She did want to be his wife, in deed as well as law. Even in spirit. That he was happy about, but it was yet another reason to take her with caution and with care.

Commanding his wildly beating heart to slow, he found a smile and led her up the stairs.

He opened the door to his suite for her. The footman had turned the gas lamps to low earlier when Julian had gone down to supper. The rooms shone to soft perfection.

Lily swept inside, the train of her wrapper softly scoring the Aubusson carpet, raising his pulse once more.

“I had my rooms redecorated after our engagement was announced,” he explained as he followed her into his sitting room, the glow of the lamps lighting the way toward his bedroom beyond. “I’d done with the place as it was for ten years, not wishing to spend the money on it nor having a need. The last time it had a re-fitting was more than fifty years ago when my grandfather welcomed his own bride here.”