Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)

Julian didn’t recognize the clothes as his own. Which meant they were likely Leo’s.

Suppressing a morbid shudder, he rang for a servant. “I want my own clothing,” he said to the footman who promptly appeared.

“But sir, they’re soiled. The laundress hasn’t yet—”

“I don’t care. Just bring them.”

The liveried youth bowed. “Yes, sir.”

While he waited, Julian turned his attention to a tray of covered dishes on the side table. He lifted a silver dome to find an array of food: cold meats, cheeses, pickle, bread and butter, a dish of grapes and apricots. His stomach churned. Much as he hated to admit it, Lily had been right in this respect. He needed to make more effort to take sustenance, even when he didn’t feel like eating. Brandy and fury could only fuel a man for so long.

He forced himself to choke down some cold ham, a small hunk of bread, and a wedge of hard cheese. By the time he’d washed the food down with a cup of tea, the footman had reappeared with his clothing.

The shirt and cravat had been washed out and hastily ironed. The left sleeve still showed a jagged rent, of course, and some faded bloodstains spotted the fabric. But the unstarched linen felt warm and fresh against his skin. The silk front of his waistcoat was largely unblemished.

His topcoat, however … the thing was beyond saving, but someone had made a valiant attempt. The garment had been carefully hung and brushed, and, he judged with a sniff, steamed with a light perfume. The tear on the sleeve was not so obvious to the observer, but inside, the lining was streaked with dried blood.

Julian’s nose wrinkled as he slid his arms into the sleeves. He would have to burn the thing as soon as he returned home. Underneath that misting of eau de cologne, the wool retained the faint odor of filth.

Much the same, his detractors would doubtless say, as Julian Bellamy himself.

Tugging violently on his cuffs, he cursed his stupidity. Of all the places to collapse—on the street in front of Harcliffe House? He was no stranger to the gutter, but he’d sworn he would never return. And for Lily to see him like that …

He rubbed his temples. Time to make his escape.

“If you please, sir.” Swift, the butler, appeared in the doorway. “Lady Lily requests that you join her downstairs, once you are feeling quite”—the silver-haired man gave him an assaying look—“restored.” He bowed and left.

Restored. Julian mused on the word. Was he feeling quite restored? With a full belly and a bandaged arm, perhaps he approached that definition. But feeling restored was a different matter from feeling redeemed. The latter sensation would continue to elude him, he feared.

Couldn’t he just sneak out of the house? Send her a note of apology later, perhaps with a flower arrangement of outrageous size?

He sighed heavily. No, he couldn’t.

He took the stairs slowly, then ducked his head into each open room in turn, searching for Lily. She wasn’t in the salon. Nor the morning room, nor the parlor. The music room seemed an unlikely spot, but he crossed the corridor and tried it anyway.

No Lily.

Leo’s library was next. He breezed by it, not expecting to find her there. When he glimpsed a flash of muslin inside, he pulled up short, stumbling against the doorjamb and banging his injured arm.

“Blast. Bugger. Bloody hell.”

The string of oaths—even so violently uttered—was spoken without consequence, swallowed whole by the stillness of the room.

Lily sat at the desk, quill in hand, her dark head bent over an open ledger. From the doorway, Julian observed her closely. The plume of her quill continued its slow, stately promenade across the page. He could just make out the gentle scratch of her script over the fierce drumming of his heart.

He leaned against the doorframe—on his good shoulder this time. “I’ve mucked it right well this time, haven’t I? Tell me, Lily. How do I make this right?”

The pen stilled. Her slender, elegant hand slowly replaced the quill in the inkwell. She raised her head a few degrees, giving him her exquisite profile. Midday sunlight streamed in from the window behind her, gilding the soft features of her face and dusting her eyelashes with bronze. She had the loveliest ears he’d ever seen, each one a delicate porcelain spiral, like the handle of a teacup. So perfect.

So fragile.

“Do you know,” he said, “there are men who would like very much to see me dead. Powerful men. Obscenely wealthy men. Men who can afford to be patient and engage the services of large, ruthless brutes. I’ve managed to evade them all. But you … God’s truth, I think you’ll be the very death of me.”