Page 82 of Wild Lily
“The marriage settlement. Did your father tell you what he offered?”
That topic could lead her to alcohol and so she took a hearty draught. “He did. Generous, it was. What did you think of it?”
“Bountiful is the word that springs to mind.”
“Ah.” She took another sip.
“I never wanted to marry for money.”
“So you said.”
“Did I?” He ran his hand over his mouth, his look bleak.
Had he forgotten their conversation? Or he wished to make a point of his position? Whatever it was, it irritated her. “I didn’t want to pay for a husband. That makes us equal.”
“Did he tell you about his purchase of the shipping line stock from my father?”
Now she grew angry. “He did. I know it all, Julian. I’m not proud of it.”
“You’re not?”
“I wanted to be wanted for myself.” She drained her glass and stood. “Might I have another?”
His gaze locked on hers. “I want you for yourself.”
Words stuck in her throat. But important ones rose. “And I for you.”
The tension fell from his face and he came to stand before her, then take her glass. “I can pour you another or we can go upstairs. It’s your choice.”
He wanted to undo that elaborate looking frog at her breasts. Open it. Reveal all that was beneath. Sweep every layer aside that divided them.
And here he was at sixes and sevens. Nerves eating at him. Asking her preference on their wedding night, of all damn things.
At thirty-one years of age, with a few mistresses to his credit, he should possess enough finesse to enchant his new wife. But she was a virgin, a novel entity for his jaded soul to deal with. Willing as she was, he perceived her anxiety—and too, her dislike to discuss money. He’d been an ass to bring it up. He rued his folly. His experience, however copious, did not bear the patience nor skill that was now demanded of him.
“I’d like to go to our rooms,” she said and handed over her empty glass.
She did want to be his wife, in deed as well as law. Even in spirit. That he was happy about, but it was yet another reason to take her with caution and with care.
Commanding his wildly beating heart to slow, he found a smile and led her up the stairs.
He opened the door to his suite for her. The footman had turned the gas lamps to low earlier when Julian had gone down to supper. The rooms shone to soft perfection.
Lily swept inside, the train of her wrapper softly scoring the Aubusson carpet, raising his pulse once more.
“I had my rooms redecorated after our engagement was announced,” he explained as he followed her into his sitting room, the glow of the lamps lighting the way toward his bedroom beyond. “I’d done with the place as it was for ten years, not wishing to spend the money on it nor having a need. The last time it had a re-fitting was more than fifty years ago when my grandfather welcomed his own bride here.”
She walked around, touching the blue settee, the backs of the sapphire brocaded arm chairs and the cream-colored chaise longue. The black lacquered chest caught her eye and she paused to admire it.
“Most of the furnishings here date from the period when the family traded in the Orient. That Chinese chest is more than a hundred years old. The chairs are from an Indian maharajah, a gift to my father. Only the upholstery is new. And the wallpaper.”
She continued around the walls, stopping here and there before a framed work. “This man is who?”
“My paternal grandfather. That lady there?” He indicated the portrait on the opposite side of the mantel. “That’s his wife. My grandmother.”
Lily put her hand to the pearls that she still wore around her throat. “Do you have a portrait of your great-aunt?”
“I do. Or rather, you do. She’s in your dressing room.”
