Daring Widow: Those Notorious Americans, Book 2 Read online

  Daring Widow

  Those Notorious Americans, Book 2

  Cerise DeLand

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2017 by Jo-Ann Power writing as Cerise DeLand

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  W. J. Power Publisher

  Photographic art: Period Images

  Graphic designer: Wicked Smart Designs

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9908943-6-0 Digital

  ISBN: 978-0-9908943-7-7 Print

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Author’s Notes

  About the Author

  Also by Cerise DeLand

  Prologue

  September 11, 1877

  Rue des Abbesses

  Montmartre

  Paris, France

  Remy skimmed his hand across the page. With an arc here, a shadow there, his impression of the line of dancers blurred, sharpened. A rush to capture their expressions and exertions in graphite flitted through his imagination. All were impressions to develop later when he was alone tomorrow morning as he drank his coffee.

  He cocked his head, stopping to consider his sketch. Not bad for midnight and a liter of wine. He liked the idea of painting a chorus line, the women laughing, hoping for a few men to seek them out backstage. Remy had made one of these women famous and sought after last spring when he debuted a portrait of her alone in the dressing rooms, her long red hair falling to her shoulders, her hand to her pert breast. Pretty thing, she’d retired from the cabaret line to one comte’s love nest in the Rue Moncey.

  Remy was a connoisseur of bodies. Their form. Their function. The supple flow of muscles beneath the obliging skin. The toned ones that showed dexterity. The thin ones that showed their poverty.

  The fat ones, the gross ones, whose gluttony had induced an effluence of flesh. The crippled ones. The children, too pale, too pocked to have ever been a heavenly cherub. The deprivation that deformed the perfection of their birth and left a wreck prone to disease and catastrophe. All showing the disease that could kill and the charm that could enchant.

  Remy folded his foolscap sketch pad and tucked his graphite into the special pocket in his waistcoat that he’d designed so it didn’t mark his clothing. He hailed the garçon to deliver another flask of vin rouge for him and his friend.

  “No, don’t,” said Julian Ash, the Marquess of Chelton. “I’m ready to leave. You appear to be too.”

  “You’re right. I’m done for tonight.” Andre Claude Marceau, Duc de Remy, Prince du sang, and the English marquess had been friends for years. Fellow bon vivants since their mothers had introduced them eight years ago, they traveled the city together whenever Julian’s business brought him to Paris. Though Julian was five years Andre’s junior, they shared a view of the world that accommodated them as aristocrats with land and a greater desire than skill for administering it. That was why Julian applied his nighttime activities to gambling and Remy himself to the pleasures of molding bodies. In bronze or marble, graphite or pen, Remy called himself an artist. More than that, he styled himself a lover of bodies.

  Human bodies. Strong or weak, lean or well-fed. A man, now and then. A child, less often. But women. Ah, the female of the species lured him as no other fascination. And tonight’s bevy of women at this cabaret could appeal for perhaps another five minutes.

  “I like Sabine there.” Remy lifted his chin toward the woman who pranced onto the riser, her glossy cheap red satin skirts hoisted to her waist.

  “Her charms are—” Julian choked on a laugh. “Abundant.”

  “Certainly.” Sabine, spicy dish that she was, loved to display her copious charms. In particular, she was adept at the new sensation in this northern arrondissement of Paris, the cancan. She drew an audience—and embellished her salacious reputation—by her acrobatic skill to kick high and yet keep time with the three musicians. More than that? Well, few could say her best offering was her long Gallic face. Nor her curvaceous legs. Non. What attracted attention to her was the thick curly black hair at the junction of her thighs.

  Remy considered what it would be like to make love to Sabine. “She provides a good cushion for the romp, would you say?”

  “I will pass, thank you.” Julian downed his glass. “I bet you have too.”

  “You know me too well.”

  “Time to go to Tourelane’s,” Julian said.

  “You’ve a desire to lose more money to the marquis?” Remy asked him. Julian was a gambler who had motivation to play, but not the persistent skills that could embellish his meager coffers.

  Julian stood, straightening his white shirt collar and sapphire waistcoat. His dark good looks cut a fine figure in his black evening clothes. A few ladies cast their greedy glances down his elegant form. “A man must try.”

  Patrons were clapping in time to the raucous music, leering, laughing and pointing at Sabine and her distinguishing charm.

  “Agreed. We can find better amusement.”

  Remy stood, waved their garçon over and pressed a few francs into his hand.

  “Monsieur le duc, merci,” the waiter began. “You and le Marquis have not finished your wine.”

  “Take it for yourself, Henri. Tell the owner I said it is yours. With my regards.” Remy put his top hat on his head, adjusting it to the wealth of tawny curls he could never seem to tame.

  “Sabine will finish this number but we have a new dancer you may like better.” Henri liked his money from Remy and wished to keep him here drinking.

  “Non, Henri. Le Marquis and I have another engagement. Pardon e moi. We’ll see you soon.”

  The man bowed with small deference. “Merci, a bientôt. Merci.”

  “You overpay him,” Julian remarked with a smirk. “Again.”

  “He’s good. Knows what we like.”

  As Remy turned, an ostrich plume caught his eye. A flash of platinum hair followed. Pink lips. Skin of cream topped with cheeks that spoke of strawberries. The colors of her, the health of her, the wealth she wore were complements to the symmetry of her long winged blonde brows, the perfect oval of her face and the wide lush sweep of her mouth.

  He paused. “Who is that, Henri?”

  “Pardon? Que?” The waiter followed Remy’s line of sight.

  “The lady with the white feather in her hat?” Remy cursed the flickering gaslight that gave him nothing more of the champagne blonde with the expressive brows and kissable lips. “The one with the dark-haired woman in blue and the tall blond man? There.”

  “I’m certain I do not know, Monsieur, but I can inquire and—”

  “No, merci, Henri. That—” That would be improper. And he’d learn who she was. Well dressed, expertly coiffed, she was graceful as she crossed the room and took a table with her escort and her companion. “That won’t be necessary.”

  Julian had already made it to the door. Pushing aside the heavy red velvet drape covering the entrance, he raised his brows at Remy as if to ask what the delay was.

  He’d just se
en an angel.

  But he’d find her again.

  Watch her.

  Memorize her.

  Draw her.

  He smiled. And if he were fortunate, he’d do more.

  Chapter 1

  September 12, 1877

  Rue Haussmann

  Paris, France

  Marianne Roland inhaled the brisk clean air of Paris and grinned at her cousin Lily Hanniford who climbed in to sit beside her in their family town coach.

  “I’m glad we left without waiting for Madame Chaumont. We were lucky to avoid your father’s wrath!” She couldn’t believe her Uncle Killian had not gone into one of his famous tirades. Their escapade last night to go to the cabaret was such a fabulous adventure. But downright scandalous. No lady should ever be caught attending a performance of nude dancers. But because their French comtesse who was their companion in Paris was late this morning for their dressmaker’s appointment, she and Lily had quickly escaped the man to their carriage. “He was kind, too, after he saw that terrible cartoon of you in the English gossip sheet.”

  “He hated it more than I did.”

  “That cartoon was awful.”

  “That woman looked nothing like me,” Lily said with a scowl. “He made me hook-nosed and skinny!”

  Marianne winced at the memory of lovely Lily portrayed as a cowgirl atop a bull drawn from dollar signs. The artist had done his best to make her appear ugly. And absurd. All in the effort to discredit Americans who visited Europe and brought their families and their millions with them.

  Well, Uncle Killian had earned his fortune. He’d worked hard and long, running blockades during the American war between the states and later in manufacturing. He deserved to enjoy his riches. He also wished to enjoy them without a tinge of ridicule and he’d asked for Marianne and Lily to cooperate with him in that. Time and again, her uncle had warned them both to be careful and not create a scandal while abroad. In the few weeks they’d been in Paris, both of them had been perfectly behaved until last night when Lily’s avid suitor, Lord Pinkhurst, agreed to take them to the cabaret in Montmartre.

  “When we go to London,” she told Lily, “I’m sure he’ll have a few harsh things to say to the publisher of that rag.”

  “And in the meantime, you diverted his attention with that discussion about singing and dancing in the chorus line. You were splendid.” Lily shivered in delight. “My heart is still pounding wildly. I thought he’d die of apoplexy when you told him you liked how the ladies did the cancan.”

  “Those were no ladies, my dear.”

  “So true,” Lily said with a chuckle.

  Marianne smiled. It was always sublime to see Lily laugh. She was younger than Marianne by nine years. But they’d formed a friendship borne of shared joys and sorrows. The loss of Marianne’s aunt, Lily’s mother, soon after Marianne had arrived to live with the Hanniford family in Baltimore, had been the first that bound them closer. Their mutual respect for each other made love all the easier.

  “But when you admitted to singing with the patrons? That was outrageous!” Lily shook with laughter.

  “He even expected that of me. Did you notice?”

  “I did.” Lily sank back into the cushions.

  “Besides, I sang only with the other patrons,” she said suppressing a grin. “That’s surely acceptable, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Ha! To others, not to Black Hanniford, the robber baron of New York and Baltimore.” Lily often referred to her father by his less than noble monikers. She was proud of him, despite some people’s accusations that he was a ruthless businessman.

  “Still, he didn’t punish us.”

  “Papa knows you so well that punishment would not change you.”

  “Or you.”

  Lily tipped her head to and fro. Her little red velvet toque wobbled on her lustrous dark hair. “True. Two peas in a pod.”

  “He could tell I’d like to learn how to do that cancan.” Marianne gave her cousin a sly look. “But I’d never raise my skirts like that.”

  “Oh, definitely not,” Lily added. “Especially without any drawers!”

  Marianne put a hand to the lace bodice of her mint green walking dress. But the memory of the dancers’ black lace garters and silk stockings had her grinning. “Oh, but of course, I’d wear drawers. That is, if I could and still kick that high.”

  The two of them sputtered in laughter.

  “No, honestly,” Lily recovered herself first. “I think if Papa were older, you’d have given him a heart attack with that admission.”

  “Well, it was only right to do so.” Marianne dug a handkerchief from her reticule and wiped a happy tear from the corner of her eye, then cleared her throat. “Uncle Killian likes the truth. I only wish to please.”

  “Still. You promised him you wouldn’t return.” Lily’s dark brows knit together.

  “I’ll honor that,” she said in truth.

  Lily gave her a skeptical glance. “Even if you don’t want to?”

  “What your father has done for me deserves my compliance.” Marianne shifted in the plush squabs of the family carriage. Her uncle had offered her hope and hearth when she’d had none. She would never forget that or be ungrateful for his kindnesses to the poor Confederate widow who’d lost everything in a cruel war. But someday, she’d leave her uncle’s nest and be totally independent. “Someday I may go back to Montmartre. Not soon.”

  Lily’s pale blue eyes danced in glee. “When you have a lover to escort you?”

  “Which is doubtful.” Marianne patted Lily’s gloved hand in reassurance, knowing her cousin teased her. “I haven’t found a soul yet who’d please me. It’s been so many years since Frederick died. Honestly, I said I’d take a lover just to make you laugh.” But one would definitely brighten my days and nights.

  “But if doing that made you happy—”

  “I’d still not do it, Lily. I’d never hurt any of you and taking a man to my bed would cause a scandal that even I would not know how to live down.”

  Lily squeezed her hand.

  “And you? You have no regrets about what you just said to your father?” Marianne asked Lily to be certain of the twenty-year-old’s intentions about marriage.

  “None. You know Papa.” Lily tossed her dark curls, appearing satisfied with her bargain. “He loves a wager.”

  Marianne lifted a brow. “One he can win.”

  “I promised I‘d stay for one year and look for a husband, but that’s my time limit. I won’t be made fun of. That cartoon of me on that bull made me look like a fool.”

  Marianne recalled the ugly sketch and hated the man who used his art to insult people.

  Lily set her gaze out the window. “I don’t intend to be put up on an auction block.”

  No young girl does. Nonetheless it happens, too often, for one reason or another. “Uncle Killian wouldn’t do that to you.”

  Former blockade runner, factory owner and American buccaneer Killian Hanniford wanted a British lord or a European nobleman for his oldest daughter. Most likely for his younger one, too. And if he could find one for his niece on whom he’d settled a large inheritance equal to his daughters’, he’d do that too.

  Lily fidgeted. “It’s not so much what he would do as what I would feel. I agreed to come to Europe for the fun of it, but I won’t be corralled into taking a man I don’t care for. Especially if he seems to like me for Papa’s millions.”

  “No one is forcing you to take any man. We’ll go slowly and enjoy the opportunities before us. All of them.”

  Lily glanced at her and Marianne wiggled her brows.

  Then Lily challenged her with narrowed eyes. “There you go again. Implying naughty things.”

  Like having a man without all the folderol of marriage bonds? “As if you don’t want to experience a few risqué activities?”

  “Well, last night was definitely fabulous,” Lily said smug as a bug, folding her gloved hands in her lap.

  “Astonishing.”
They’d left the dinner party they’d attended with an English nobleman who had an eye for Lily. Lord Pinkhurst was a charming fellow and he sought favor with her cousin by assisting her in escaping to Montmartre and a scandalous cabaret. The raucous show consisting of female dancers had amazed Marianne not only for the women’s agility to kick their legs above their waists but also because they wore no drawers. Marianne, however, had found something else much more fascinating. Someone else, actually. A man. A most virile and captivating creature.

  “I’ll admit I want new gowns,” Lily went on while Marianne smiled recalling her favorite moments of last night’s adventure. “From Worth.”

  “Of course.” Marianne’s marvelous male specimen had sat in one corner of the dim cafe with a male friend. Dark though the room was, his huge form caught her attention. It wasn’t merely his shock of bright blond hair strictly combed, slicked back to his nape that held her, handsome as a god though he was. It was more. His formal evening frock coat, open to a crisp white, if loosely tied stock showed him to be a gentleman. His numerous rings—three or four—twinkling on his long fingers marked him as a man of wealth. But his hands were her focus. They were large, massively boned, as was the rest of him. But long, elegant and agile. Deft, his fingers swept across his bound sketchbook, his graphite stokes forming impressions she longed to see.

  “And of course, I want new lingerie from…what is the name of that designer?” Lily rattled on.

  “Piderot.”

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  In her reverie, Marianne saw her giant stand again, felt her heart leave her chest at his height and his beauty. She bit back her self criticism for how she’d looked away when her eyes couldn’t get enough of his power and might. She’d never seen a man so tall or commanding. He shocked her with his size, his health, his stamina. His broad shoulders and thick muscular arms seized her will power, as if she were a fawn frozen in a bear’s sight. He was a man of consequence and presence. And if that were not enough to fascinate her, he possessed this other occupation, so unusual in so raucous a place as the cabaret. How could a man so large do so delicate an act as draw? And care to draw women? Have the skill to draw them dancing? Marianne felt her blood warm at such evidence of his sensibilities. A man like that was one a woman would never wish to leave. Unless she was mistaken and he was an artistic dilettante…and a brute.