Sweet Siren: Those Notorious Americans, Book 3 Page 3

  "What shall it be?" Andre asked her.

  Liv smiled at the newlyweds. "For you, my dear Andre and Marianne, a composition that speaks of all the delights of love."

  "Wonderful," said Marianne, as she refused with a polite dismissal of her hand the footman's offer of a cigar.

  Liv strode to the huge black piano. "I think Chopin."

  Killian was at once beside her, pulling out the upholstered bench. "Please," he offered graciously.

  And she sat.

  Inhaling, she called upon the years in which she'd lost herself in music. Years of lonely torment when sanity came only from the notes of passion that flowed from her fingertips to fill her childhood home and later her husband's. Only in the technical demands of countless hours of sonatas or etudes or little ditties she herself composed, did she find an escape and a means to cope with the innumerable failures of her father and her husband.

  The audience grew quiet, rapt. To her left stood Killian Hanniford, hands clasped behind his back, at the ready should she ask for a score. But she needed none. Never had. Not for a decade or more. Bars of compelling notes danced in her head. She called on them when she needed inspiration for her work. Sonatas, particularly those by Chopin, were the pieces that flowed through her head when she designed the final elements of a drawing room, an orangerie or a bedchamber. Noblemen and aristocrats and the new American moguls like Killian Hanniford demanded extraordinary, monumental and above all, unique décor for their new country homes.

  Chopin. Who loved, lost, and died too young and too full of regrets seemed a poignant choice for the evening. He embodied romanticism and above all, she was here to celebrate how love could enhance one's life...even if she did not believe it. Even if she'd never had any evidence of it. Nor ever would.

  She put her hands to the keys, struck by her own paradox. She could not love. Not anyone other than Camille. She had lost. Lost her entrée to society and lost any desire to regain respectability. And as for regret, she'd vowed years ago never to waste her time regretting anything she could not change.

  That cut Killian Hanniford out of her life entirely.

  What then to do about that tiny corner of her heart where fondness for him had taken root tonight?

  She hit the first chord and sat back, jarred by the discord. Once an evil flower had grown in her heart. She’d tended it, named it vengence and hated herself for it. In its place, a different plant sprang up. Regret rooted and blossomed.

  Might she find it in her heart to enjoy his company? And if she did, could she ever forgive herself for her failure to shun him?

  Killian shook himself from his reverie. Olivia had given them Chopin's piano concerto Number 1 and he was unable to regain his equilibrium. He talked, he smiled, he refused brandy.

  But he needed only to talk with her, smile at her, understand how she had become so accomplished as a pianist. Indeed, he'd heard many a great composer in London concert halls. Here in Paris, he'd been honored to hear many more. Never, in any drawing room, had he heard their equal. Until tonight. She stunned him.

  He was astounded by her talents as a pianist. She had evoked such heartbreak and delight from the keys that his eyes stung with hot tears. No musician had ever done that to him. How could he possibly let her go without telling her how profoundly she affected him? Not only as a musician either.

  But as a stirring, irrepressibly strong and vibrant woman.

  And now, if he detected her movements clearly, he could see she was leaving, excusing herself from her hostess and Marianne and Remy. Other guests stood, presaging their own departures.

  Killian had to do more than say goodbye to her.

  "Andre, Marianne," he said as he reached their sides. "Forgive me. I will go too. It's been a long day. I'm sure you both could do with less company."

  They laughed and looked at each other like conspirators.

  "We could," Marianne told him and stood on tiptoe to kiss him on both cheeks. "But we've decided we're not going south tomorrow."

  "That's a surprise," he said. Marianne had written to them that she wanted to spend her wedding trip in the south of France in Provence. "I thought you'd taken a house in Arles for two months."

  "We cancelled it yesterday," Andre told him as he curled an arm around his bride's waist and kissed her on the crown of her head.

  "I'm expecting a child, Uncle Killian. Can you believe it?"

  "What? But...that's marvelous! That's why you look so pale." He shook Andre's hand and patted him on the back. He lowered his voice, and leaned close. "When did you learn?"

  "Yesterday. I felt so fatigued. The doctor came and examined me. I can't believe it, Uncle Killian. I didn't think I was capable of it."

  Andre hugged her near. "I told her I didn't care if it never happened. But it has. And believe me, I am thrilled. But I did want her to enjoy our wedding day more."

  Marianne pinched her husband's arm. "I did! All of it. Especially you carrying me down the aisle as if I were your prize."

  "You are! You will always be."

  Killian turned aside as his daughter Lily and her husband Julian approached them.

  "Good night, Madame la Princesse, Madame la Duchesse, et Monsieur le duc," Lily said with a flourish and kissed her cousin, then allowed Andre to kiss her on both cheeks. "Congratulations once more and thank you for a wonderful day, Madame la Princesse. We'll come visit you tomorrow before you both leave for Arles."

  Marianne looked like the cat that ate the canary. "But we were just telling your father that we're not going until next year."

  "Why ever not?" Julian asked Andre. "I thought that was to be your wedding trip."

  "It was. However, we now have a reason to remain here for many months."

  "Oh?" Julian asked him. "A new commission for you?"

  A broad smile played about Andre's face. "A new endeavor, oui. I am to be a father."

  "So that's why Marianne looks so pale," Julian said with a grin and embraced his friend. "Congratulations!"

  "Thank you. She hasn't been able to look at breakfast for weeks. She's been craving chocolate too. All odd. We should have known, but yesterday I called a physician and he arrived and confirmed it. Marianne is in shock, but laughing about it all!"

  "Oh," said Lily with a blank expression on her face. "I never thought—"

  "What?" asked Killian.

  Lily stared at her husband. "I've missed...um...well. You know and I—"

  "What?"

  She sagged, looking stunned.

  "What's the matter, darling?" Julian caught an arm around her back.

  "I'm—I'm—" She put a hand to her forehead.

  "Lily?" said Julian, Andre, Marianne and Killian as if in chorus.

  "I'm pregnant, too."

  "What?" Julian steadied her on her feet.

  "I should have known," she said in a daze. "No breakfast. No food. The smell of beef made me ill."

  Congratulations and laughter went all around.

  "We have to get you back to Boulevard Haussmann," Julian said. "Come on. We won't be going home tomorrow either."

  "Oh, but—"

  "No, if you're not up to it, we'll be fine here in Paris."

  "You will stay as long as you need to," said Killian.

  "And do come for luncheon," said Andre. "All of you."

  "Why not?" his mother asked. "You'll stay for a long restful time in Paris and dine with us tomorrow!"

  Killian couldn't believe the news. Two new babies soon to be in the family. When he'd sailed for Europe last year with Lily and Marianne, he'd hoped they'd find men they loved and who valued them. He hadn't planned beyond that. Not for children. A grandchild. A grand-nephew or niece. He was fortunate. Old.

  "What's this?" asked Olivia who made her way among them.

  "We are to have two new babies in the family." Andre was chuckling.

  "Marvelous news," Olivia said with a grin. "Babies are such fun."

  Lily who leaned on her husband's arm, said, "Perh
aps later they are. At the moment—"

  "Oh, dear," said Olivia with sympathy. "I see you suffer with the early stages. I am sorry. But it passes. And then the joy of expectation is wonderful."

  Killian admired her exuberance. Her delight at the idea of children. He wondered if she had more than Camille at home. Where was home? And where did she live?

  She tugged on her gloves as Andre's butler presented her cape. "Merci beaucoup for a marvelous wedding and all the festivities. I've not had such a good time in years."

  The Princess accepted her kisses on both cheeks and Andre embraced her. "You have not graced us as often as you should. I require you to return to us soon. Spring perhaps? We are to have the choirmaster and the organist at the Basilica of Sante-Clotilde at the Opera. You will want to see them."

  "I'd like to very much. Thank you, Andre. I will consider it. But well, you know I must consult my schedule."

  "Of course. But you have an open invitation."

  "I will remember. Au-revoir."

  "Have you a carriage?" Andre asked her.

  "No, I will hail one."

  No carriage? Killian seized the chance. She could not walk about alone in Paris at night. "She rides with us, Andre."

  At his words, Olivia stared at him. "I don't wish to impose."

  Andre shook his head. "Let Killian do the honors, Olivia. I would feel better. And you will be safe."

  She shot Killian a glance that said she did not believe that at all. But with Lily and Julian in the carriage, she had some safety.

  "My cape, please," Killian told a footman. "Good night, Madame, Andre, Marianne."

  Minutes later, he offered his arm to the lady who had refused him more times than any woman ever had. Behind them, Julian and Lily spoke in whispers of delight and concern as they descended the steps of the palace.

  "You're very proud of yourself," Olivia said as he and she awaited the arrival of his carriage around the bend from the mews.

  "I am. And you will be safely to your hotel."

  She huffed.

  "You don't believe it," he said with a chuckle.

  "Why must you always win? You realize, it's very tiresome."

  I don't always. "I can lose gracefully."

  She lowered her chin and glowered at him.

  His grin grew wider. "Shall I allow you a victory?"

  She blew a gust of air. "I must claim more than one."

  "Ah, but then you'd never see me again."

  His coach pulled up, the footman opened the door and Olivia climbed the step inside. Killian sat next to her. Settled there in the ruby velvet squabs, the street lamps casting rays of light gently upon her elegant face, Olivia looked ethereal and more carefree than at any time today.

  He brushed her skirts to one side and lowered his voice as Lily and Julian climbed into the large town carriage. "What if I offered you a bargain? One that was more than fair."

  She stared at him, her expression saying she did not believe him.

  "You would win in all but one thing."

  She grabbed a breath. "I suppose to be sporting I'd have to agree."

  "Want to hear it?"

  She turned away, laughing. "Yes. Tell me."

  "Whatever you want, it’s yours. But in return, I must have two things only."

  Lily settled into the opposite seat and her husband followed, sitting beside her. She sighed.

  "I'm glad the evening was not much longer. I'm really quite exhausted."

  Her husband cupped her face, brushing her cheek with his thumb. "We'll be home soon and then you'll go to bed to sleep as long as you want."

  "Thank goodness," Lily breathed and put her head on her husband's shoulder, then shut her eyes.

  Boulevard Haussmann was only a few minutes away from the Rue di Rivoli. Lily and Julian were out of the carriage quickly, bidding them good evening.

  Killian told the coachman to wait a moment. "Where to, Olivia?"

  She gave him the name of her hotel and they were off again in the enveloping silence of a crisp autumn Parisian night.

  "You said, you must win in all but two things. Tell me," she said, her gaze fully in his, "What they are."

  "The pleasure of your company."

  She huffed. Considered her folded hands in her lap. "I don't think I've given you much pleasure."

  "You could."

  She stiffened her spine. "I can't imagine how."

  "Laugh with me," he said. "Carefree, you are irresistible."

  Her dark gaze melted into his. "I am not carefree. And I laugh infrequently."

  "All the more reason for me to find ways to make you smile at me."

  She gave a rueful shake of her head.

  He tried for more. "Play Chopin for me."

  She squeezed shut her eyes in denial.

  How to win her over? "Dine with me."

  "No."

  "With others. Family. In public. A proper—"

  "No."

  That last was emphatic. Nigh unto vehement.

  "Women generally don't challenge you." She arched her elegant brows, her marvelous dark eyes twinkling. "I am no mountain to be conquered."

  "Most women want something from me. You want nothing from me and a part of you even dislikes me."

  The raw honesty of his remark made her flinch. "I dislike you less every minute."

  His fingers twitched. Victory could be had here. "Then I must extend the moments until you dislike me not at all."

  She tossed her head and grinned.

  "I want to enjoy your company. Have you not had any relationships with men based on that?"

  "Never."

  That told him he was right to pursue her. "Then now is the time."

  "And you are that man?" she asked as if she considered it possible.

  "Name what you want," he rushed to secure the deal. "Anything from me."

  She took her time thinking on that, her mouth pursing, her gaze tracing his mouth. "I would not want our relationship to appear more than friendship."

  I thought not. "Whatever we become to each other, no one would find fault."

  "I would never ask for things that were...risqué."

  More's the pity. "I have one condition."

  "I should have expected a bargain." She clasped her hands in her lap and considered them a long moment. "What is it?"

  "That you tell me the truth."

  She sank into the squabs. Her manner careful. "And if I say yes, will I regret it?"

  "Never."

  Her lashes fluttered. "How do you know?"

  "Because I will never ask anything of you that you do not wish to give."

  She studied him. And if he were right to wager, he'd say she did not breathe. "We are agreed."

  "What would you have first?" he asked her, his body mad with raging heat to have her in his lap, in his arms, in his bed. But at the pace they went, that would take eons. He'd be eighty or dead in his grave.

  Her eyes twinkled. "Would you walk with me along the Seine?"

  "Now?" He took her hand in his.

  She grinned at the sight of their entwined fingers, then looked up at him. "Yes, provided that..."

  "What?"

  She got a devilish smile on her lips. "That you wouldn't take it as an invitation."

  "Oh? To do what?"

  "Kiss me."

  Tempting woman. "I doubt I should."

  "Exactly."

  "A shame," he said, suppressing a laugh. "What else might be on your list?"

  Chapter 4

  The night was cool for late October in Paris. She pulled the collar of her cloak higher against the breezes off the river.

  The moon shone, full and buttery as he walked beside her along the quai. He'd chosen a portion of the Seine where filigreed black iron gas lamps illuminated the cobbles and he ordered his coachman to follow a few paces behind as they strolled along. He'd left his top hat and his gloves in his carriage and she had left her little evening purse upon the seat.

  Killi
an had relinquished her hand once they'd alighted, though his nearness, enticing and fragrant of bergamot, clung to her consciousness. How many years had it been since a man had made such an impression on her? Ah, she knew. Since she was an ingénue naive, gullible and unable to discern character from appearance.

  They walked along the water's edge, the sounds of the river lapping at the docks draining her anxiety of meeting this man and the shock of enjoying his company. If she could now continue to reconcile her previous hatred of him with her delight at his attentions, she might learn how to forgive what destruction she'd endured after his theft of her prospects and her happiness.

  "How did you learn to play the piano so well?"

  Struck that he should ask such a pertinent question about the origin of her wounds and her salve for them, she avoided looking at his all too handsome face. "Years, hours, days of devotion to it. Most young girls take lessons early and I used it as an escape. As a cure. Medication. Laudanum, if you will, for unhappiness."

  "I'm sorry. I've touched a nerve and meant only to compliment you on your expertise. I enjoyed it thoroughly."

  "Thank you." She could be gracious. "I'm glad you did."

  "Chopin is a favorite of mine."

  The American tycoon had culture? Of course. How could he survive here or in London without it?

  "My wife liked his etudes. I prefer his sonatas."

  Oh, give over, Liv. The man attempts to be engaging. "Did your wife play the piano?"

  "She did. Not as well as you. Your talents reminded me of her. I thank you for that as I don't remember her often enough these days."

  Manners would be a good thing to display here. "How many years have you been without her?"

  "Nearly thirteen. With her, I learned how to put all my efforts into winning."

  "She knew your strengths?"

  "And my weaknesses. She wasn't shy about reminding me of them, either."

  Liv laughed with him. "A proper partner does that."

  "I was fortunate."

  Liv could not say the same of her own—and she strolled onward. "The river is serene tonight. It splashes softly against the docks."

  He kept pace. "You like the water?"

  "Yes. I do," she said smiling. He knew when and how to change the subject to a more agreeable one. "The sound is like no other. Gentler than a bell. Sweeter than a chime. Oceans, rivers, streams, seas. I am free in water."