Wild Lily (Those Notorious Americans Book 1)(8)

Shaking off his fascination with the brunette, Julian marveled that rarely had he seen ladies jump to another’s aide with such concern. Never had he seen such efficiency among nobility for the health of another. Not even when his father had suffered a stroke in his club had any but the butler come to his side.

Like ministering angels, the two fluttered over the countess, soothing her. The dark one looked into the comtesse’s eyes, widened each in turn to murmur about the size of her pupils. Then she crooned sweet words while the blonde tested the fragility of the lady’s ankles and shins.

“Your pulse is rapid,” said the one whose voice wrapped around him like the red velvet ribbons of her tiny toque. “We should take you inside Worth’s. We’ll get a chair. A brandy.”

“Can you stand?” asked the blonde.

The comtesse moaned and shook her head.

Julian found his wits. “She should not walk, Remy.”

The two women glanced at him with such sharp surprise, he wondered if they’d noticed him restraining the horse.

“My friend is right,” Remy said. “Madame le Comtesse is weak.”

“But we must go inside for our appointment,” Chaumont said.

“Worth can wait,” Julian said.

The dark one locked her gaze on his.

He was pinned in place, struck by her frank search…and the crystalline blue of her eyes. First the voice, then the hair, now the eyes. He definitely needed coffee, sleep and a bath. Not usually given to raptures over feminine attributes, he smiled and reverted to politeness and some sanity. “Monsieur Worth has a sitting room, chairs, brandy and tea. Madame needs every one.”

The dark-haired beauty agreed and turned to Chaumont. “Can you point your toes, madame?”

“Oui, you see?”

“Wonderful. Nothing’s broken. But I’m not certain if she’s turned her ankle.”

The blonde directed her attention to Remy. “Can you carry her?”

Remy peered down at her with an intense sensual regard Julian recognized from years of accompanying his friend on midnight pleasures. “Certainment. Shall we adjourn, mdame? Hmm?”

“Oui,” said the comtesse with obvious joy at the invitation.

“I’ll see to the driver,” Julian announced to the assembly with some envy that Remy would accompany the ladies and learn their names.

As the dark-haired one began to follow Remy, the comtesse high in his arms, she smiled at Julian—and the glory of it struck him like a ray of sunlight. “Thank you, sir. I saw what you did. You were quite gallant and I know many in the street are grateful for your service. My cousin and I are.”

He inclined his head. “My pleasure, madame.”

“Miss,” she corrected him and offered her hand to shake. “Lily Hanniford.”

He nodded in deference, his one hand tight to the horse’s reins, the other taking hers. Her name flashed through his brain like fire. Hanniford. She is Black Killian’s daughter? He forced a smile and let convention and decades of training take him. She had flaunted etiquette and introduced herself, but the situation was unique. He could’ve laughed, but found her naturalness refreshing. Even her accent had a captivating wistfulness about it. He’d match it. “An American, I gather?”

“Right you are, sir.”

“Perhaps I may present myself?” Despite the harried nature of their meeting, some propriety was in order.

“Of course.” She tipped her head. Her complexion was as spotless as a camellia, her cheeks pink roses and her blue eyes danced in merriment.

Panic washed over him. Uncharacteristic as that was, he pushed away the need to analyze the emotion now. He wanted to bolt but recounted her assets instead. After all, he appreciated beauty. He applauded spontaneity. She possessed both. And something more. He liked her readiness to help her friend. Her skills at it. All that he reluctantly added to the marvelous smoke of her voice, her flat American pronunciation and her heavenly azure eyes. God, he loved her eyes. “The Marquess of Chelton, at your service.”

Her lashes fluttered. So she might not observe the finer points of etiquette when meeting a strange man, but she understood what was required of her when meeting a titled gentleman. And no, her manner indicated she did not recognize his title. He had the advantage for now, and he exhaled, in odd and silly relief.

She dipped into a small curtsy. “Lord Chelton, I am pleased to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine, Miss Hanniford. Please do attend Countess Chaumont and your friend.”

“The lady with me is my cousin.”

“I see. Well. Let me deal with the business here. The driver, the horse, the damage. Do please go inside.”

“You’ll join us?” she asked with a polite regard that he could have sworn held a winsome note of hope.

Such anticipation usually repelled him. Proper young ladies found him and his title alluring, even if he rarely returned the sentiment. But Miss Hanniford raised her brows in appeal and for the life of him, he had no idea why he could not disappoint. “I will indeed.”

She lingered, taking in his features with a subtle caress of those incredible eyes. “Very well. I’ll tell them.”

He nodded. “Of course.”

Minutes later, he’d sorted the business of the damaged hackney. Paying the driver for the Countess de Chaumont’s journey, he added twenty extra francs for the wheel and frame of the conveyance. Julian also promised the man he’d look for the owner of the dog who had caused such disaster. Then he strode back to the main boulevard and entered the foyer of the establishment of the couturier Charles Worth.