Wild Lily (Those Notorious Americans Book 1)(79)

Lily set her jaw, determined to maintain her dignity. “He, madam, is referred to as ‘His Grace,’ and I detest the insult to my father and myself.”

“As do I, Mother.”

In the entrance to the dining room stood Julian. He looked the very devil, his hair plastered to his skull, wet from the rain, his dark eyes heavy with fatigue.

“This is unseemly, Mother.” He approached her and she sniffed, uncowed. “I thought better of you.”

Lily frowned over that. She hadn’t thought better of the dowager. She’d been given no reason to think highly of her. If Julian and his mother were to have a confrontation, Lily was determined to witness it.

But the woman did not give in easily. “I will not have your wife creating havoc in this house, Chelton.”

Lily’s stomach knotted. How could the woman be so insulting to her son? Was she determined to ignore her husband’s death? Why? Honoring the man now did nothing to redeem herself for the way she’d treated her husband when he was alive.

Julian raked his hands through his disheveled hair. “For Lily to take her breakfast where she pleases does not inspire havoc.”

“The servants will take advantage of her.”

You take advantage of me.

“I doubt that, Mother. She’s had servants.”

“Not ours.”

“Well, I tell you now, madam,” he bit off his words, “she may dine here.”

And soon, I’ll do the menus. Consult with the cook. And the housekeeper.

“You make a mistake to allow it,” the dowager warned him.

Lily put down her napkin and rose. She’d take her power into her own hands. “I must begin my correspondence. You may find me, Julian, in the pink parlor.”

“No!” Her mother-in-law shook in her vehemence.

Giving a small curtsy to both, Lily sailed past them.

“Let her go, Mother, and stop this arguing. She is my wife.”

I am. And always will be.



One look out the window of the salon and Lily put down her pen. Had the rain finally stopped? Days and days of it had become oppressive.

In a rush, she finished her letter to her father. The day the Setons and she had left London for Broadmore, her family had once more departed for Paris. Her father and Pierce had meetings with bankers in Paris and Ada had appointments with Worth and French lingerie designers.

Her father had bid her goodbye on the steps of their house on Piccadilly. Julian left her to her privacy and spoke with the coachman as she bid adieu to her father.

With a kiss to her cheek, her father whispered, “Enjoy your new husband. He’ll recover from this loss in time and be yours again soon. And I like him.”

She hugged him. “Me, too.”

“I noticed that.”

“Write to me of Paris. How Ada and Pierce get on. And Marianne.”

“Ah, well.” He raised a wicked black brow. “That one will have no troubles. Remy will be upon us, I’m sure, with all due haste.”

“Do you object?” she asked while the coachman cooled his heels holding open the door for her.

“I’m not sure yet. That depends on many things. Now get in. Off you go.” He’d handed her up into the carriage. The coachman climbed to his box and slapped the reins.

She’d left her family to come to this one, this house, these conflicts with her mother-in-law. She was not quite as happy with her husband as she had been at the start of their marriage, but perhaps that was a normal change. She was not happy with much else, especially here at Broadmore. And the rains only exemplified her dour mood.

But since the sun was shining…

And it appeared to be glorious outside, she must take advantage of the weather. She sealed her letter to her father, and gathered her others to Ada and Marianne. Lifting her skirts, she raced from the salon, up the staircase to her rooms. Hopes to escape the house and its troubles burst like bubbles in her brain.

In minutes, she’d changed her black gown to her riding outfit. This new one, fine red serge and part of her trousseau, had a skirt she loathed, but it was normal attire—and God forbid, her mother-in-law see her in pants. She hated to think of it. Down the back stairs and out the kitchen doors, she hurried along the shady lane toward the stables. She hadn’t yet visited. Not in the torrential rain. But this was a perfect time.

She’d been introduced to the stable hands the day after they’d arrived from London. The master groom, Docker, was a burly, balding man who had kindly brown eyes and a big smile for her. His two stable boys were sturdy chaps who resembled him. Introduced by only their given names, they were most likely his sons.

The stable block was a long red-brick structure half a mile from the main house. She’d glimpsed it from her bedroom, just through the evergreens. The doors were open and she walked in, expecting to see one of the hands. No one was about. All the horses were gone, out to pasture, she surmised. The sliver of sunshine that pierced the heavy clouds must have inspired everyone to get out and about.

Well, she wasn’t going back to the house, that was certain. She wanted to walk, clear her mind.

She turned for the lane south. This was a perfect time to introduce herself to the tenants. As with so much else, the dowager had her own dictums about how Lily must comport herself with these people. At all costs, she had ordered her to stay away from the village.