Sweet Siren: Those Notorious Americans, Book 3 Page 2

  "You succeeded, Madame."

  "A lovely party, Madame la Princesse."

  Liv froze. He'd come. His rough voice wrapped around her like a velvet vise. He seized the opportunity to appear at her side now that the princess spoke with her. In such company, especially with Camille here, how could she once more be rude to him?

  She stared up at him. He was so tall, he hovered over her. Like a gargoyle. Or a dark angel.

  "Monsieur Hanniford, it is nothing," the Princess said. "I'm glad you allowed me to host the reception."

  "I see what you mean now," he said. "Your home is much larger than our drawing room in Boulevard Haussmann. Better able to hold all the guests."

  "We have so many in Paris whom we must acknowledge. I must extend greetings to all I know when I see how happy my Remy is with the woman he adores." The lady tipped her head. She was haute Parisien society, a descendant of the dethroned Bourbons and the rascally Bonapartes. She fluttered her fan against the necklace of sapphires and diamonds that some said Napoleon had purchased for his second wife, the Austrian girl. Marianne today wore the pearls that the first emperor had indebted himself to buy for his beloved first wife Josephine. "Have you met Monsieur Hanniford, my dears?"

  "Not formally," Liv answered attempting politesse, but the princess knew the reasons why introducing her was nothing she'd ever wanted. Still, no matter those hideous facts, Liv had to set a good example in society for Camille.

  Hanniford, infamous rogue that he was, did not turn a hair. He bowed slightly, a mischievous smile curving those full lips.

  The princess did the honors. "Lady Savage, may I present my daughter-in-law's uncle, Monsieur Killian Hanniford?"

  There was nothing for it. Liv held out her hand.

  He took her fingertips and bowed over her hand like a prince. "Lady Savage, I am delighted to meet you."

  "Miss Camille Bereston is Lady Savage's daughter whom I am to understand persuaded her mother to take her from school just to witness Remy finally take a wife."

  Camille held out her hand and Hanniford took it and sweetly shook it. "I am honored to meet you, Miss Bereston."

  "And I you, sir. Mama says you are one a person must know."

  Liv sucked in air.

  "Did she?" His eyes seared Liv's with silver flames. "My reputation precedes me in far too many ways."

  "Oh, sir, she said nothing derogatory about you."

  The princess was smiling.

  Liv felt her cheeks flame.

  "I'm glad to hear it, Miss Bereston."

  "Camille, ma cherie," said the princess, "I understand you and your mother will return to London tomorrow. Come talk with me, will you? I miss our discussions of novels. Forgive us, will you, Olivia, Monsieur Hanniford? I shall return Camille to you in a few minutes."

  Liv agreed. Of course she did. What else could she do?

  "The princess engineered that nicely," he said, his gaze following the lady and Camille, but turning back to her with a wicked smile.

  Liv would not surrender to his charm. "She is very adept socially."

  "One would believe it," he said, moving ever so slightly closer, engulfing her in his subtle bergamot cologne. "I am grateful."

  She licked her lips.

  He narrowed those incredible silver eyes on her. Piercing her with his intent, he said, "You've heard of me. What I do. Who I am. And you thought I was a monster. That's what Camille was referring to, wasn't she?"

  "You do have a reputation, sir. Ruthless, indomitable."

  "I am not always that. Especially not when I meet a lovely woman who—"

  "Sir, this is not proper. I must go."

  "Where is your husband, Lady Savage?”

  How dare you ask that. “Not here.”

  “Clearly. Will he not come with you to social events?”

  “You are bold, sir.”

  His silver eyes sparked with interest and no shame. “Is that why you stay away?"

  "No." She pressed her hands together. Could she not escape?

  Hanniford stepped closer. "Will he look kindly on you attending dinner alone here tonight?"

  "Yes. No. Mister Hanniford, do stop."

  "My lady," he said as he drew away, "I do not wish to alarm you. Forgive me."

  Hanniford does not give in. Hanniford does not apologize. He presses. Demands.

  Liv put a hand to her ribs. She had to stop remembering her father's words. "My husband is dead, Mister Hanniford."

  His mouth dropped open. But satisfaction replaced his surprise. "My condolences."

  "There is no need. He died six years ago. My daughter and I are accustomed. Forgive me, I must collect Camille."

  "Stay, please."

  Could he be pleading?

  He touched her hand briefly. "Drink your champagne."

  She stared up at him. She could live every day looking into his eyes that sparkled with apology.

  "You look uncomfortable but if you drink your champagne, you'll appear more at ease. Besides," he said, his heavy masculine voice dropping to a silken whisper, "you'll relax. I won't bite."

  She did take a sip. The alcohol whirled in her brain while she gave into the mesmerizing spell of his quicksilver gaze. "I must ask her how she knew to leave us alone together."

  "Knew?" he asked, laughter playing at the corners of his eyes and lips.

  Oh, curse the man.

  "Easily, I'd say." He glanced over her shoulder, for all the world appearing nonchalant. "Your words to me are sharp. Lethal, even. But the way you look at me?"

  She could not breathe. "Yes?"

  "Says you cannot have enough."

  She swallowed, forlorn, defeated. "A terrible mistake."

  "Why?"

  "I'm not anyone you should know."

  "Why?"

  She took another drink of her champagne.

  "Lady Savage, I don't think your formal title suits you. I wish to call you by your given name. What is it?"

  She sputtered in outrage. She had to put him in his place. But the imp inside her wanted to yell at him—or grin at him. "You cannot know what I am. Savage, kind, impertinent, sweet."

  "But I'd like to."

  Oh, had all her bravado deserted her? She shook back her curls, the wisps escaping her coiffure and distracting her. "I see now how you have earned your millions, Mister Hanniford."

  "Do you?" He grew playful. His stance protective, proprietary. "And what is your assessment?"

  "That one must be fast to outfox you."

  "I'd like nothing more than the pleasure of your company." He inched ever closer.

  Her spine stiffened. Her eyes widened. "Impossible."

  Horrified, he stayed his ground. "I'm sorry. I've frightened you."

  "No. That's what's remarkable. You're not frightening."

  Irritated he saw her attraction to him, she lowered her armor. Like a silly debutante she wanted to be coy with him, not thrust and parry in a game she hated to play. She closed her eyes. Waved a hand. "Do all women fall at your feet? Do as you wish? Give you what you seek?"

  Raising his face to the ceiling, he laughed heartily. "Well, ask my children. Ask my niece too, will you?"

  She found herself beaming at him.

  "That's more like it," he murmured. "I marvel at how beautiful you are when you're happy."

  Foiled, she glanced at the wedding guests. How could he disarm her like that? "Sir, you must not."

  "Admire you?"

  "Stop."

  "If I admire your laughter and your looks, I cannot help it, my lady."

  "Olivia—" she corrected him and mentally kicked herself. She shouldn't humor him.

  "Olivia." He rolled the name around his tongue as if it were a sweet meat. "I like it."

  She beckoned a footman and she placed her empty glass on his tray. She was making a fool of herself, one minute arguing with him, the next eating up his compliments. "I really must go."

  "Don't. Talk to me. The princess has not returned Camille to u
s yet. We have time."

  "I should collect her."

  He put a hand to her wrist. His long fingers were a warm solid band that set her pulse jumping. "I hope you will attend the Princess's supper party this evening. Do you?"

  "No." Looking at his hold of her, she shook her head. She mustn't come, though she had packed dinner gowns. Three of them. For what? In hope that she'd feel comfortable in Paris? More comfortable here than in London society? Or that she would see this man. Want to be in the same room as this man. Why? To assault him with her accusations? Ridiculous. She was too polite, too worn by years of sadness, too devoid of that fire to confront him with her litany of woes.

  She loved to dine, converse, and yes, laugh, but usually did not except with clients. Now that she'd seen Hanniford again, talked with him and dueled verbally with him, she understood why her father had warned her that she must never do that. He can seduce you with a trick, a word, a grin.

  "We won't attend the supper tonight. My daughter and I return to London tomorrow."

  "Must you go so soon?"

  "I hadn't planned to stay long. Only enough to see Remy happily wed." And yes, I shall admit it to myself, to see you again and reaffirm how handsome, how devilish, how fiendish you are.

  His brows knit. "I am in London often. I hope you'll permit me to call on you after I do arrive."

  "Thank you, no." She would not wish to be so near to him again. Not wish to be lured from her old hatred of him. Not want him to see her humble house. Small, dark, spare as it was.

  "Then I will invite you to dine with me. With other guests, of course. No one will think it amiss if you join me for a large gathering."

  The scene flashed through her brain like golden rain. She’d relish the décor, the guests, the conversation. Him. Oh, if only I could...

  "I like it when you smile at me," he said with a sincerity that had her grinning at him like a Mad Hatter. "Allow me to take you home."

  "No."

  "Obstinate woman," he bemoaned. "Then do promise me you will return here for supper tonight."

  "I can't." Mustn't. The temptation to seek you out would be too alluring.

  "All right. Instead I will bring dinner to you."

  She laughed, long and hard. "No. You will not!"

  "I'll take a private dining room at the Grand Hotel de la Paix. Have the chef in the Cafe send up five courses."

  "Ridiculous!"

  "Good! Tell me your hotel. I’ll be there to fetch you at—"

  "No, sir. Do not!" But she was chuckling, captivated by him.

  He seized her hand and brought it to his lips, supple and enticing on her skin. This time he lingered and when at last he gazed into her eyes, she had no breath. "Dine with me, Olivia. I will show you I am no ogre, but a man of culture and honor."

  "Do you attempt to charm all women with such eloquent declarations?" She tossed her head, loving the thrill of clashing with him—and flirting with him.

  "Only you, Olivia. Only you."

  "Thank you, sir. But do not continue. Excuse me, please." Her head high, her heart low, she left him where he stood.

  Chapter 3

  Liv managed a glance down the long dining table in the Remy Palais on the Rue di Rivoli. For more than two hours, she'd avoided looking at that particular spot where Killian Hanniford sat. In his black swallowtail tuxedo and starkly white cravat and red satin waistcoat, he'd captured her attention when first she entered the palace again tonight at eight. He'd greeted her with a heated smile and kind words that all could overhear. If she detected hints of undue interest, if she caught intimations of invitations to speak personally with him, she assured herself those were wishes. Unwise ones.

  She concentrated on the glories she enjoyed of an evening in a glamorous home with famous people. Breathing such fine air was such a rarity that she was giddy with it. The food, the wine, the wit of the combined families of Hanniford, Seton and Remy filled her with a delight and a gratitude that she'd been invited—and that she'd decided to come.

  Camille, as was her place for one not yet officially out, had not come for the formal soirée but remained at their hotel. That establishment tucked in the corner of Boulevard Saint-Germain on the left bank was not among Paris' most elegant, but it was what Liv could afford. And it was safe. Respectable. She'd had no misgivings about leaving Camille alone in their small suite. And her daughter was happy to bid her good night.

  "Remember everything, Mama. I will write about it in my newest novel."

  Her daughter fancied herself a writer. Liv did not discourage her, either. Camille, like Liv, would have to find a means to earn a living. Her daughter knew her place in society, disgraced as she was by both her mother's and her father's names. And like Liv, her daughter predicted that should she marry, she should not depend upon a husband to support her. Or even if he did at first, he might lose any wealth he possessed. Just as her father had. And her grandfather.

  "Shall we retire to the drawing room?" the Princess d'Aumale said and rose to her feet. "No need to split, do you think? I'd say we need cigars and brandy. All of us together, eh?"

  Andre, the duc de Remy, laughed. Sitting at the left hand of his mother, he arched a brow at his new bride across from him, and said so all might hear, "Mama would like to enjoy a cheroot."

  "I think she should," said Marianne with a wink at her mother-in-law.

  "Will you join her?" Andre leaned forward to ask her.

  "Not tonight. But I'll save my marker for a future date."

  Andre waved a hand toward his guests. "On notice already, and I'm not married twelve hours yet!"

  The party of sixteen, all family in one degree or another, got to their feet. Led by the Princess, Andre and Marianne, they filed out to the hall and drifted toward the drawing room or the ladies or gentlemen's retiring rooms.

  As the throng thinned, Killian fell in beside Liv.

  "I like the purple on you. It highlights the pink in your cheeks and the eloquence of your dark eyes."

  Liv grinned and smoothed her long gloves over her elbows. "I like the red of your waistcoat. It reminds me what a rebel you are."

  He laughed. "If you refer to my years running ships though the Union blockade, that was long ago."

  "But it's how you gained your wealth."

  As they strolled into the drawing room, he took her arm to lead her to a settee for two. "You know so much about me and I know very little about you."

  Sitting beside him, her hip against his, she grew warm. She put a hand to her throat. She’d worn one of her best pieces, inexpensive silver. Cheap really. All the estate jewels gone to the auction houses decades ago.

  His eyes followed.

  Of course he could tell their worth or lack. But his gaze was too intimate to indicate he assessed the value. He appraised her. Only her. “Won’t you tell me about yourself?”

  Her mouth watered. Why did he unnerve her so? Because he was nothing she had anticipated. Ruthless, brusque and mean was how she had pictured him. But she'd witnessed him be only courteous and funny. Kind and unnervingly intuitive. "I would have thought in the interim, you'd ask Andre or the Princess about me."

  He pursed his lips and considered the others who gathered in the room and took their places. "I prefer you tell me."

  "Why?"

  "You'll tell me the truth."

  You would not appreciate it. I would hate it. So why would I even attempt it? She fought for some diplomatic exit. "Ah, but I could embellish the tale. Most people do when describing themselves."

  "I doubt you'd do that with me."

  She drew back, once more impressed with his insights. "You have faith in me but don't know me at all."

  He sat back, one arm gliding along the back of the settee and creating the illusion that he embraced her. The heat of his body infused her. "I make it a practice to examine those I find intriguing."

  Is that how you've gained your wealth? Your ruthless reputation? She fiddled with the sticks of her fan. "Oh? How
, exactly?"

  "I examine posture, breath. Even poise, eloquence. I read you during supper."

  She had to counter him, didn't she? "And what did you learn?"

  "You love being here. You were natural, born to this, but oddly sad."

  That took the wind from her sails.

  "I don't know why," he added in a bass murmur full of sorrow. "But I will learn."

  "I don't wish it."

  "If we are to continue, I will need to know how to make you happy."

  "Continue?"

  He nodded. "We will. I wish it. You do too."

  She shook her head. "No."

  "The way you look at me has changed since this morning's festivities."

  She swallowed, trapped. "Please don't."

  "But it has. Then you appeared curious."

  A thrill ran up her spine. And fear ran down. "I will not ask how."

  He looked triumphant. "Now you are hungry."

  She snapped her fan together. My God, this conversation was becoming outrageous. Torrid.

  "You've no need to panic."

  "I'm not," she found it necessary to declare.

  "No need to run, either."

  Oh, hell. Why not be as blunt with him as he was with her? "I do not want to know you, sir. And you should not wish to know me any better."

  "Both lies."

  She met him, eye to eye. "I cannot believe you've succeeded in business by pursuing those who do not wish it."

  "On the contrary, that is exactly what I've done." He leaned closer, his mouth an appealing slash. "And most were happy that they'd made my acquaintance."

  I know one who had never said that.

  The princess, Andre and Marianne were seated, the footmen passing round brandy and cigars, while the guests took up various stances or chairs.

  "I think," said the princess as she nodded toward the grand piano, "we could do with entertainment. My dear, Olivia, would you do us the favor of your talents?"

  Delighted to escape him, Liv gave no thought to refusing. She shot to her feet.

  Hanniford was up beside her. "Shall I turn the pages for you, my lady?"

  "No need. Thank you." She noted the surprise in his silver eyes. Good. I need to stun you. Make you ignore me.