Page 81 of Wild Lily
“Yes. You should. I mean, do look at all of this.” She waved a hand at the gold goblets on the table beside trencher plates made of Sèvres china. “Do you know where each piece came from? Country? Year? Purchaser?”
“No.” He led her to the dining table where only two places were elaborately set. “But I’m certain my estate agent must have an idea.”
The footman held out her chair and she sat.
“You may leave us.” Julian told his two servants. “I’ll serve Lady Chelton.”
The butler placed her napkin across her lap and bowed his way toward the far doors. Then he closed them.
“Will you drink?” Julian lifted a crystal decanter filled with red wine.
“I will. Thank you.” While he poured, she inhaled the aromas of the dishes on the sideboard. “I will compliment the cook when I meet her tomorrow. What do we have this evening?”
“Curried chicken. Young potatoes and squashes.” He recited the menu, nonchalant as she’d never seen him before. The charm of it suited him.
“Superb. I’ll have some of each.”
“A hearty appetite,” he said as he made his way over and picked up a china plate.
“Are you afraid I’ll become well-padded?”
“That’s up to you.” He heaped slices of ham over potatoes and ladled a sauce over it.
She craned her neck. “If you keep adding to that plate, I may not fit into any of my trousseau.”
As he marched over to her, he murmured something and deposited her supper before her.
“What did you say?”
He turned his back to fill up his own plate. But she heard him clearly. “Perhaps you might not need clothes for a while.”
She sputtered in laughter, her hands flying to her hot cheeks. “That ends my life as a debutante. Not only will I now waddle everywhere, but I will blush until Christmas.”
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 deliciously 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.
