Page 19 of Wild Lily
He arched a brow. “A burgundy with beef. A white from the Loire with scallops. A Scots whiskey when I am happy.”
“And when you’re sad?”
“A Scots whiskey.”
She let out a laugh.
Had they overcome the tension? “And what do you like when you’re happy?”
“Beer.”
He guffawed and others in the box shot him a look.
She leaned close and he inhaled her alluring scent. “Do you?”
“Like beer?” He loved the look on her face, open and accepting, full of humor. “I like to drink it with good friends.”
“Me, too.”
Oh, he was undone. By her naturalness. By her lack of guile. “Then you and I must become friends and enjoy fine beer.”
She turned away, swallowed hard and opened her fan. Whipping the thing so that the air around them grew crisp with tension, she raised the hope that he might have unnerved her as she did him.
Good.
The others spoke, conversed. Remy was fully engaged with Mrs. Roland. Carbury with Elanna. His mother chatted with Killian Hanniford and damn, if she wasn’t smiling, unabashedly cooing to the American.
And Julian felt like a dimwit. Here he sat, silent. Undone. By the beauty of an American. A girl. Young and effervescent.
So much so, he had to admit to his great dismay, that he had lied to himself. Greatly. She was not forgettable. Not in looks or manner.
True, he liked all he saw. The elegant line from her ear to her shoulder. The delicate tendons along her nape. The way wisps of her hair fell, one by one, while she moved her head in tiny increments to or fro. The way she tipped her head when the orchestra struck up a chord that roused her. The unblemished expanse of her appealing décolleté.
He tore his gaze away, musing that he examined her like an artist memorizing his model. Remy, the true artist, would laugh at him.
He shook his head. Hot, bothered, he dug the program from his inner coat pocket. With blind eyes, he perused it. But he thrust it aside. He did not care a whit who sang. Or what. Or when. He lived only for the view. How she sat, her long arms swathed in formal white gloves. Her hands resting, cupped in each other. Her back arching, her shoulders rising, her derriere flexing.
He shifted in his own chair.
He was besotted. He sat in a crowded opera house with nearly two thousand others, lusting for a woman to whom he’d spoken ten words.
He breathed deeply, casting about to find some other enchantment. What he saw were two gentlemen examining her, too. One man with a pair of binoculars in the box opposite them. Another man in the audience looking up in pure intoxication. Julian had no idea who they were. They had good taste. But no chance with Lily Hanniford. Not tonight. He was here to shield her from adventurers and charlatans. To throw a mantel of English correctness over the upstart Americans. To bestow on her, by his very proximity, a legitimacy and a value to Parisian society.
He crossed his arms and stared the two men down.Oh, yes.Nothing like the medieval glory of the Seton duchy to assure acceptance whether here or in London.
Whatever possessed him, he had no idea. But he reached over and took one of her hands to place on his knee.
She went to stone.
He smiled in irony. He’d been hard as a rock for the last hour.
She focused on her hand in his and in a deliberate move, pulled it away even as she leaned over to him. “My lord.” Her voice was a whisper. “Please don’t stare at me.”
That she would mention his absorption in her was a faux pas no English lady of any breeding would ever commit. They’d take it as the compliment it was. Treasure it in silence and hope the man would come to call.
He could not respond. Would not. There was no discreet way. He had no alluring words. No apology, either.
Throughout the intermission when Remy adjourned briefly with Mrs. Roland to the Glacier and then through the next act Julian complied with Lily’s wish. He grew testy trying to fulfill her wishes. To his supreme irritation, he surveyed the boxes repeatedly. He counted the numerous men who peered up at her. But then he’d glance at her and excuse their captivation. He understood their fascination and he was undone by his own.
