Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)

“Don’t say that.”


Her dark eyes searched his. So beautiful, those eyes. He wanted to keep staring into them for hours—forever—but some devil’s imp had tied lead weights to his eyelashes. He couldn’t hold them up much longer.

“Go to sleep.” Her soft form receded.

“No, wait. Don’t go. I’m sorry.”

A spike of clarity pierced his drugged haze. He struggled up on one elbow. With his other hand, he reached for her, curling his hand around the back of her slender neck. He wove his fingers into the thick silk of her hair, holding her tight. Leaving her nowhere to look but at him. He needed to say this. Nothing in the world was more important than saying these words, right now. And he needed to know she understood.

He twisted his grip in her hair, and she gave a little gasp. He waited until her gaze fell to his lips. There. Now he knew she was listening.

“I’m so sorry, Lily. So damn sorry, and I wish to God … It’s my fault, you know. Leo’s murder. My fault. But I’m going to make it right. Not right. Can’t be put right. But better. I swear to you, I’ll …”

Damn it, he was rambling like a bedlamite. From the furrowed set of her brow, he could tell he’d lost her some ways back.

“Please,” she said. “Don’t distress yourself so.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice breaking into a hoarse whisper. He began again, forcing his lips to shape the words clearly, even if no sound came out. “You must know I’d do anything for you. For you. You and I … I wish …”

She shushed him, tapping her thumb against his jaw. “Rest, Julian.”

Julian. The name echoed through his skull until he scarcely recognized it as his own. Perhaps because it wasn’t.

“You should sleep,” she said.

His chin concurred, nodding in agreement. He should sleep. He should.

No. His eyes snapped open. He couldn’t let her go, not yet. And if he couldn’t reach her with words, he’d have to try something else. With his last bit of consciousness, he pushed up on one arm, pulled her close with the other—

And kissed her. God damn his soul, he kissed Lady Lily Chatwick for all he was worth. Which, unfortunately, wasn’t much at the moment.

Beneath his palm, her neck went rigid with shock. Her lips were warm, but firm. Resistant. Sealed.

Still he held her fast, pressing his mouth to hers with artless desperation. All his seductive techniques—clever caresses, murmured endearments, nimble flicks of the tongue—they’d deserted him utterly. After all these years, so many fantasies of this moment … Bloody hell. This was not going well, not at all.

He tilted his head, hoping a different angle might help.

A panicked sound creaked from her throat.

Julian cursed himself. Really, he wanted to pull back and insist, I’m a much better kisser than this.

But what was the use? He’d never have another chance to prove it.

Then, suddenly, something happened. Or nothing happened.

Because in that moment, neither of them moved. Neither of them breathed. They just … existed together. The tension melted away. And the kiss was still artless, still desperate—but only because it was real. The most honest, truthful moment they’d ever shared.

The sheer power of it was a lightning strike, jolting them apart.

He stared at her, unable to speak as the room contracted to a dark, narrow tunnel. He at one end, and she at the other. Sleep tugged at him with its clumsy grasp, stealing the edges from his vision and the strength from his limbs. His grip slipped from her neck. Strands of her hair slid through his fingers like water. Cool and abundant and vital.

Impossible to hold.

He fell back to the bed, and knew no more.

Chapter Two

There had been a time, not so very long ago, when Julian had counted few regrets in his life. The night of Leo’s murder, those “few” regrets multiplied to “many.”

And he faced today with the unhappy knowledge that at some point overnight, “many” had been revised to “innumerable.”

From the tangled nest of bed linens, he peered at the mantel clock. His head throbbed with pain as he struggled to focus. Noon already. He’d lost half the day.

Bugger half the day, his pounding brain insisted. You’ve lost your wits. You kissed Lily, you unmitigated ass. And you didn’t even do it well.

God. He couldn’t conceive of how to remedy the circumstance now. If it could be remedied at all. He had to get out of here.

Taking care with his wounded arm, he rose from the bed and staggered to the washstand. Unwilling to wait for a proper bath to be drawn, he made good use of the pitcher of water and cake of soap. After he’d sponged his face and torso clean, he dried his body with a small towel and cast about for something to wear. To the side, a set of clean garments was laid out. Crisp shirt and cravat, dun trousers, dark blue coat.