Chapter 1
October1878
Saint-Paul-Saint-Louis Church, rue Saint-Antoine
Paris
Killian Hanniford staredat the priest. Focusing on Marianne, his niece, the bride, he tore his mind from the lady in the third row who had eluded him months ago—and given him the cut direct at another familywedding.
Waiting in the vestibule for his niece to arrive, he’d spied the woman as she arrived at the church with a girl who, by her resemblance, had to be her daughter. Surprised to see the lady again, he made no effort to hide his interest. He was called a blackguard, and by God, he could act like one. So he skewered her with hot eyes. She glanced away…but returned to lock her umber gaze on his. Proud, wickedly pleased he’d made her turn, he grinned at her like the scoundrel he’d been. She’d caught her breath and spun away, then hastened down theaisle.
He’d jangled her nerves.Good.He’d do more.Few people ever insulted him. She’d done it in public. To say nothing of the fact that she was sin in motion. Tall, regal, with a crown of bright red hair, luscious pink lips and ripe breasts no corset shouldtouch.
He inhaled, burning to have this ceremony end. To waylay her. Trap her. Not let her escape him. Not again. She’d answer for her pique. Answer to him. And he’d enjoy undoing her. Her black witch’s eyes on him in the vestibule had told him she found him hellishlyattractive.
Well, that makes us even, dearlady.
Hesnorted.
The priest glared at him. Then continued the marriageceremony.
Killian smiled, counting all the fabricated reasons why women were attracted to him. Clear-eyed, he had no illusions about his so-called allure. First, foremost, he had money. Millions. Ridiculous wealth by American standards. A damned fortune by current European measures, considering the Irish upstart he was. He had friends, too. Bankers like the Rothschilds. Industrial leaders like the Frenchman Jean-Baptiste André Godin. Businessmen like John Garrett, president of the B&O Railroad in Baltimore. Painters like Renoir and Degas. The sculptor Remy and his bride-to-be, Killian's niece, Marianne. Noblemen like his son-in-law, the duke of Seton. If Killian also possessed moderate good looks and a healthy body, he called himself fortunate in that also. At forty-seven with another birthday next month, he still had a full head of black hair, albeit with a few strands of gray to add a distinguished mark to his poor Irish origins and his dastardly robber baronreputation.
When a woman approached him, Killian made it a rule to discern her motives quickly. Did she wish to dip her fingers into his pockets? Did she want a brief escapade, diamonds or a house for her trouble? Did she want the excitement of a longer affair with the man who could afford to buy and sell most British aristocrats and still live like aking?
For more than a decade as a widower, he'd enjoyed himself with women who'd desired each of those arrangements. He’d found not one woman who challenged him or understood his drive. He needed no mistress of his homes. He needed no heirs. He had a son and two daughters, plus a niece, all of whom he adored. His wife had died thirteen years ago. Loving her dearly as he had, he never intended to replace her. And when he used his wealth to expand his empire from Baltimore and New York, Texas and Connecticut to England and France, he found women everywhere eager to please him. Especially ones in need of funds. Ready to sell their bodies and their souls to get rights to his check book. In drawing rooms and gambling halls, at the opera and in restaurants, women of breeding and refinement flocked to him. He was never lonely. Never bored. Alone only when he wished tobe.
So it struck him as bizarre—funny, really—that a woman who refused to permit an introduction to him should command hisattention.
The Catholic priest cleared histhroat.
Killian snapped toattention.
“Sir?” The man gave him the signal that he could place the hand of his niece Marianne into that of her soon-to-be husband, the duc deRemy.
Killian handed her over. He should be listening to their vows. Rejoicing in their union, the culmination of a stunning love affair begun in the Rue de la Paix in Paris on the same day that his oldest daughter Lily met her future husband, the love of herlife.
But his duty done for Marianne, Killian stepped backward to the front row of chairs in the church. He sat wrestling back the urge to turn and meet the gaze of the woman who had dodged his reach. The hair at his nape bristled. Did she watch him? He smirked to himself. Of course she did. He filled with satisfaction that they might enjoy a mutual attraction. Certainly, she had lived in his thoughts for months. But he was no love-sick youth. No callowboy.
His oldest daughter swayed against hisside.
With a steadying hand to her elbow, he glanced ather.
She gave him a shake of her head and a smile of small apology. Lily and her husband, Julian, had arrived from London on the train two days ago. She'd seemed pale then and though she'd gone to bed early each evening, even after their dinner party last night, she didn't seem much better thismorning.
Hefrowned.
Marianne, his niece, had not looked any better. She, too, had seemed wan this morning. A bride might have nerves, but Marianne was not normally ill. Nor was Lily. And both young women looked decidedly unwell. Unsteady on their feettoo.
He should be focused on them. Not the woman behindhim.
Whatever her nameis.
"We've not met," he had said to her the first time he'd laid eyes on her five months ago in London at Julian's sister's wedding breakfast. She'd caught his eye with her vibrant red hair, her radiant gown of blue moiré and a funny blue feathered toque. She caught his imagination with her exuberant smiles and animated conversation. From across the crowded room, she seemed alone, without a male escort, which pleased him the longer he looked ather.
When he made his way to her side, she looked surprised. Worse, affronted, as he said, "Allow me tointroduce—"
"But I know who you are," she said in a rich voice that soothed like old brandy. Outrageously beautiful, she had an oval face, high cheekbones and delicate winged brows. Accenting her pearl-like complexion, she had dark chocolate eyes and an elegant bearing that spoke of breeding...andcondescension.
