Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)

Shopping? Maybe it would boost her spirits to purchase something frivolous and pretty. Several somethings, at that. On credit. But while she knew such a strategy worked for other ladies, Lily had never experienced similar success. Her mathematical bent would not allow her to stop mentally tallying expenditures and balancing them against the pleasure accrued. Quite spoiled the whole exercise.

Exercise. Now there was an idea. Perhaps the park should be her destination. Yes, a nice long stroll along the Serpentine would be just the thing. She could ask Holling to accompany her. The housekeeper would appreciate a chance to show off her new winter cloak.

“Oh. That cloak.” Lily sniffed back a tear, thinking of that lovely, luxurious garment. It was just like Julian, to be so inappropriate and so thoughtful at once. “Even Holling has a cloak to remember him by, and what has he left me? Two ruined gowns and an intact maidenhead.”

A bright flutter caught her attention.

“I’m sorry, Tartuffe. I didn’t mean to discount you.” She crossed to his cage and put one finger through the bars. The parrot nipped it playfully. “You’re right. I suppose I can’t say he didn’t leave me anything.”

But the bird would not be soothed. He bounced about his cage, flapping with agitation. Something must be happening downstairs.

Lily left her suite and padded down the corridor. She descended the front stairs and stopped three risers from the bottom. There was Julian, standing in the entrance hall, dressed in morning attire and clutching a rolled paper in his hand. His face was unnaturally pale. She thought he looked like he might swoon again.

“Good morning,” he said.

“No,” she replied. “No, it’s not. It’s a wretched morning, as you well know. I thought I told you if you deserted me last night, I didn’t want to see you again.”

“You did.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“I’m hoping you’ll reconsider. Obviously.”

She gripped the banister, trying to steel herself. Yes, she was relieved beyond measure to see him alive, if not completely well. But she couldn’t go through this same torment, over and over again. The books had already been packed away. “Julian, I don’t—”

“Wait.” He approached, coming to stand at the bottom of the staircase. “Let me have my say. Please.”

Lily held her ground. If she was going to make it through this conversation without losing her nerve, she needed some space between them. Not to mention, the advantage of an extra eighteen inches’ height.

“I’m sorry for leaving you last night,” he said. “But I just couldn’t do it. All threats and mysteries aside … You’re a woman of remarkable character, Lily. Your brother was my very good friend. I couldn’t soil your reputation and disrespect Leo’s memory by taking your virtue that way.”

This? This was the reason he’d come here? Just to reject her to her face, all over again? Lily couldn’t believe it.

“However …” He made a beckoning motion to the side. A man emerged from the drawing room. He was youngish, with thin brown hair and an earnest mien. Tucked beneath his arm, he carried a formidable tome. Swift and Holling followed close behind.

“However what?” Surely Julian didn’t mean to present this poor fellow as a substitute? There was matchmaking, and then there was … well, she didn’t even know the word, that’s how unthinkable it was.

“I mean to do this properly. The way you deserve.” Julian gestured toward the man and said, “Curate.” With a nod in Swift and Holling’s direction, he added, “Witnesses.” He unrolled the paper he’d been holding and raised it for her inspection. “Special license.”

“Julian, what are you on about?”

He went down on one knee.

The room made a sudden twirl. She clutched the banister. “Julian, do get up.”

“Marry me.”

She stared at him. “What did you say?” She couldn’t rush to conclusions. She had to be sure. Although, there weren’t many other phrases that resembled “marry me.” Except “bury me,” perhaps. But given his sickly pallor—and the fact that the presence of a curate might be required for that activity, too—she thought it best to make absolutely certain.

“Lily Elizabeth Chatwick,” he said, slowly and solemnly, “I am asking you to become my wife.”

Oh. There was no mistaking that word, wife.

“Here?” she finally managed to ask. “Now? This very morning?”

“Yes.”

That extra eighteen inches of altitude was suddenly a dizzying height. She sank to the stairs, landing on her bottom with a jarring thud. Now she understood why he looked so pale.

“I’m no marquess, but I have the means to support you. I swear to be faithful, all my days. You may rely upon it.” He leaned forward and took her hand. His fingers were so chilled.

“What about Leo’s murderers?”

“They’re still out there, somewhere. I wish to God they weren’t. But if I have to choose between finding the killers and holding on to you, there is no contest. I choose you. I choose us.”

The words sent hope spiraling through her. “You’re done with it then? The searching?”

“Yes.”

“Truly? You’ll leave off all the late-night walks, the blood sport, the suspicion?”

“Yes.” He gripped her fingers tight. “I see the skepticism in your eyes, and I know I’ve earned it. But believe me, Lily. Leaving you last night was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I doubt I have it in me to ever do it again.”

His assurances should have been enough, but he just looked so miserable about the whole thing. “Tell me this isn’t because you think I’m ruined now, and no one else will ever have me. I can’t bear to think you’re here just because you feel obligated.”

“You don’t want me to feel obligated? Well, I’m sorry, Lily. I am here because I feel obligated.” He brought her hand to his chest, pressing her palm flat against his rapidly thumping pulse. “I’m obligated by my heart. It’s decided you’re essential to my existence, you see. And it’s threatening to go out on labor strike if I don’t make you mine this very day. So yes. I am here on bended knee, acting from a deep, undeniable sense of obligation. I am, quite simply, yours.” He swallowed hard. “If you’ll have me.”

If? If she would have him? Her own heart pounded in her throat, making rather stern demands of its own. Did the man honestly think she could turn him away?

Yes, she realized suddenly. Yes, he did. This was why he was so pale. He was terrified. Even after all the love she’d confessed last night, he thought there was a goodly chance she’d refuse him this morning—or that if she did accept him, she might change her mind in the time it took to secure a license and curate.

Oh, Julian. She saw it all in his eyes—the vulnerability, the hurt, the years of perceived rejection and scorn. After a lifelong quest to take success, steal pleasure, and wrangle admiration from the world, it didn’t occur to him he might actually deserve those things, freely given. Now the task of correcting this misapprehension fell to her.

She could not imagine a happier or more rewarding life’s work.

“Yes,” she said, keeping her words simple and few, so that they might be absolutely clear. “Yes, I will marry you.”

When he made no discernible reaction, Lily put her free hand to his face. “Julian, breathe.”

He did, with sudden and apparent relief. Color rushed back to his cheeks.

She touched her thumb to the corner of his mouth, attempting to tease it into a smile. “We are going to be so happy.”

He looked unconvinced. “We’ll be together.”

“Yes. Precisely.”

Chapter Seventeen

There was astonishingly little to a wedding.

Julian was surprised. He’d never attended any actual wedding ceremonies. Oh, he’d been invited to dozens, but he preferred to save his appearance for the celebration afterward. Somehow, he’d imagined a sacrament with such eternal implications would be accordingly lengthy and dry.

But even with the curate speaking slowly and every so often handing his liturgy to Lily so that she might read and respond, it took less than a quarter-hour to bind Lily Chatwick and Julian Bellamy in the eyes of God and man, for the remainder of this life and—with some outrageous luck—beyond.

The ceremony took place in the morning room. After vows were exchanged, he produced a pair of simple gold bands. They were unadorned, but weighty in both substance and significance. He thought nothing in his life would thrill him more than sliding that ring on her slim, elegant finger—until a half-minute later, when she slid the matching band on his. The first was the triumph of claiming his bride. The second was the poignant, bone-deep relief of being claimed.

It had been so long since he’d belonged to anyone.

They all signed the register: Lily, Holling, Swift, the curate. Julian went last. He hesitated, wishing the name he prepared to sign was actually his own.

But it was too late for attacks of conscience now.

He scrawled the signature. There, it was done.

He looked to his bride—his wife; good Lord, she belonged to him now—and she gave him a wide, gracious smile. She’d seemed genuinely shocked by his proposal this morning. On close inspection of her appearance, however, he wondered if she hadn’t expected it all along and dressed expressly for the occasion.

She looked timeless in her beauty, as a bride should be. Fifty years from now someone could say the name “Lily,” and Julian knew his sieve of an octogenarian memory would still retain this image, from this day. No matter what changes time wrought on her aspect, he would always think of her thus. Looking not only lovely, but so very much herself. Straight-spined and resolute, but soft and feminine in that cherry-pink dress and pearls. Dark, gently curving tendrils of hair framed her milk-white cheeks and burnt-sugar eyes. So tempting and sweet.

Positively edible.

“Well,” she asked, clasping her hands behind her back and bobbing on her toes, “what now?”

What now? Oh, he would show her what now.

With his thanks and a generous donation for the parish, Julian dismissed the curate.

To Swift and Holling, he directed, “Give the staff a feast and good wine, then the remainder of the day off. Place a tray for us at the top of the staircase. After that, no one, and I mean no one, is to venture abovestairs unless we ring. No lady’s maid, no footman, no chambermaid, no boy carrying coal for the grate. Not today, not tomorrow. I don’t care if it’s been three days and you’ve given us up for dead, do you understand? We are not to be disturbed.”

“But sir, the—” Holling began.

He cut her off. “Not to be disturbed.”

The housekeeper curtsied. “As you please, Mr. Bellamy.”

Once the servants had cleared out, Julian crossed the room until he stood about an arm’s length from Lily. He didn’t trust himself any closer just yet. “I very much wish to kiss my bride.”

Her rosy lips curved in a smile. “Your bride very much wishes to be kissed.”

“But there’s a problem, you see. If I kiss you here, there’s a fair chance we’ll never make it upstairs.”

“Well.” Dark lashes fluttered as she surveyed the room with mock seriousness. “There is always the divan.”

“Some other time.” He moved toward her, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Do take pity on poor Holling’s nerves, and try not to shriek.”

With that, he scooped her straight off her feet and into his arms. And she did shriek, but only a little. She clung to his neck with surprise—and perhaps a touch of playful desperation. The bite of her fingernails against his nape sent desire rippling down his spine. She weighed next to nothing, and rationally, he knew lifting her was no great feat of strength. But hefting her compact frame in his arms, fitting her tight against his chest … making a Julian-shaped bundle of Lily’s precious angles and curves … he felt protective. Powerful. And just a bit savage. His male pride swelled. Other parts of him swelled, too.