Page 26 of Wild Lily
He’d known of the Hannifords move from Paris to Piccadilly. Following the details in the gossip sheets was easy. Too much so. His fascination with the Americans’ comings and goings, their house, their furniture, their art purchases, had devolved into a habit. One he hated. One he could not seem to break. And he had tried. Repeatedly.
Lily Hanniford had rejected his advances at the opera.
He should move onward. Forget her.
The eyes, though.
They were the lure that drew him back.
The fact that she had told him to go hang was the other bit that hooked him.
Galled him.
Intrigued him.
Damn her.
He watched her. Poised, energetic, she lost herself in the conversation. Forgetting about him? Had she? The consummate hostess, she appeared. Was she that well trained? He’d have to acknowledge the skills of an American finishing school and concede the possibility that she had learned very well. Such was possible. He had done the same. Spending years at his governess’s knee, with his tutors, at Eton and Cambridge, he’d developed the art of banter, the challenge of the drawing room to remain pertinent and witty.
Whatever he contributed to the topic now was polite drivel. He knew it, didn’t change it. Perhaps it was no more or less unimportant than what the others had to offer.
And in the meantime, he had the distinct pleasure of watching Lily Hanniford laugh and gesture and comment. She was, as before, natural, correct but uncomplicated. Exactly as he had remembered her, she shone above the other ladies. But he suppressed the compliment. It did him no good to think so well of her. He had come with one clear purpose to rid himself of the irritating curiosity that her eyes were not sheer blue. But navy. Or black. Or even red.
Red because she was a veritable witch to obsess him so.
And he’d come here, determined to exorcise her.
And he was a man of his word. Keeping promises, above all, to himself.
The afternoon passed. His tea grew cool. His goal grew colder.
Her eyes, he had copious occasion to note, were various colors. Resembling a summer’s sky. A blue opal. A rare blue diamond.
Her brows, dark as her lustrous hair, were a perfect long arch.
Her cheekbones prominent.
And her lips….
He focused on them much too often.
Her mouth made a perfect full bow. Laughing, smiling, grinning, speaking in glowing terms about their experiences in Paris and their move into this house.
The hour waned. The time for tea had passed.
The Hardestys and the Templetons made their farewells. The Manchesters rose to leave.
He must, as well.
As they stood in the foyer and the butler collected the guests coats and umbrellas, Mrs. Manchester told the Hanniford ladies that she hoped they would meet again soon.
“We’re to present our Dahlia in society,” Mrs. Manchester said with a frisson of delight. “Just like you, Miss Hanniford.”
Dahlia Manchester pressed her lips together, blushing red as a radish. “Mama, please.”
“You understand, I’m sure,” the lady said by way of apology for her forwardness. “We’re eager to get on with showing her about. Will all of you attend the Earl of Darforth’s supper?” She took on the air of a conspirator.
Marianne shifted uncomfortably. Chaumont froze, her face made of ice, at the lady’s gauche mention of another’s invitation.
