Page 10 of Wild Lily
Julian peered around to catch sight of Remy reaching inside the cab to offer his hand.
“Can you walk?” he asked her in French. “Shall I assist you?”
“Oui, oui, merci.Oh, Monsieur le Duc, it is you. An honor to have you help me. An honor,” the lady ran on in French, her tone that of a frightened bird. Julian recognized her as the Comtesse de Chaumont, a young impoverished widow who befriended rich Americans to pay her way in Parisian society.
She put one long gloved hand in Remy’s and stepped gingerly from the interior, her chestnut hair hanging in clumps in total disarray, her elaborate gown torn at the hem, a hank of lace dangling from her generous bosom.
“Madame! Oh, my dear lady!” One woman ran toward Chaumont.
“Madame!” called another.
Two ladies—one blonde, one dark—sailed down the alley toward them. Both held on to their hats and lifted their skirts well above the dirty cobbles as they approached.
“Merci,Monsieur le Duc,” the Countess de Chaumont said with a watery smile at Remy. “I fear I am quite weak.”
Remy offered his arm. “Lean on me, madame.”
“I will.” She took a step and crumbled.
Remy caught her up just in time and led her to rest against the side of the carriage.
“Are you in pain?” the young woman with ink-black hair asked the injured Frenchwoman. “If she’s hurt her neck or back, she must not stand.”
Her voice struck Julian, a low contralto, seductive as good, warm scotch. As he beheld her, two long waves of hair escaped her little red hat. And he killed the urge to reach out and rub the strands beneath his fingers.
“Do you have pain, madame?” Remy asked Chaumont.
“Pain?” The comtesse offered a small smile to the lady, a hand going to the crown of her head. She patted her lank curls, her eyes dazed. “I-I don’t think so. My hat? My hat is gone. My hair’s a fright. We will be late for our appointment. We mustn’t. MonsieurWorth will be angry.” She went on into laments in French.
“Do not worry, madame,” the dark-haired girl told her, focusing on the older woman with fierce concern. As she spoke to the comtesse, she took the woman’s hand, wrapped her fingers around her wrist, her lips moving and counting. Meanwhile, her companion bent to lift the comtesse’s skirts above her ankles.
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, gently soothing. 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.
Thecomtesse 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?”
