Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)

She frowned at the ledger, then flipped it closed. Sliding the book aside with a graceful turn of her wrist, she withdrew a neat stack of letters from a drawer.

While she unfolded the topmost missive, Julian reached for the mirror. As was the case in every room of the Chatwicks’ graciously appointed Mayfair town house, a small mirror dangled from the doorjamb, affixed there by means of a length of ribbon and a tack. He twisted it, angling the reflective surface to face the window. Catching a ray of sunlight, he flicked his wrist back and forth until the flutter of bright flashes drew her attention.

Blinking with surprise, Lily lifted her face to the doorway. As she took in his appearance, her lips curved in a welcoming smile. “Oh, Julian. Forgive me, I didn’t notice you there.”

“Good afternoon.” He made a gallant bow, crossed the room to her, and took her outstretched hand in his, giving it a light squeeze, nothing more. When he released her fingers, her expression was puzzled, perhaps even hurt. But today he didn’t trust himself with a kiss.

She gave the cuff of his sleeve a smart twist. “You needn’t use the mirrors. They’re for servants, not friends or family. You’re both.”

“I didn’t want to startle you.”

Julian wondered if it would ever cease to startle him, the boundless generosity of the Chatwicks. Ever since he’d formed an acquaintance with Lily’s twin brother, Leo, the late Marquess of Harcliffe, Julian had been welcomed into this house. First as a friend, then as honorary family. They knew nothing of him. Not his ancestry, not his origins. Not even his true name. But never once had they treated him like one who ought to use the mirrors rather than tap a noblewoman’s shoulder to draw her attention.

Leo and Lily Chatwick were, without question, a singular example of goodness among the social elite. Now Leo was dead, and it was Julian’s fault. And Lily was left alone, and that was his fault, too.

“You look lovely,” he told her, as if a feeble compliment could make everything right.

“Thank you. You look dreadful.” Her dark brown eyes scanned his appearance. “Just look at that coat. Once it fit you to perfection, and now it hangs loose on your frame.”

“I’m making it the new fashion. Next Season, they’ll all be wearing ill-fitting coats with ripped sleeves. The tailors will despise me.”

Lily gave him a chastening look. “We need to talk.”

Here it was. The moment he’d been dreading. “Very well.” He took a straight-backed armchair and placed it just a few feet from hers, positioning it to facilitate lipreading. “Let’s talk.”

“No, not here.” She replaced the bundle of letters in the drawer, then shut and locked it with a small key. Reaching for her gloves, she said, “Let’s go out to the square. It’s a lovely afternoon.”

Julian hesitated. “Really, I’m not fit for public view. And I ought to be—”

Ignoring his protest, she threaded her arm through his. He promptly misplaced any will to argue.

It truly was a lovely afternoon, Julian thought as they stepped out into the crisp late October air. This was that rare time of year when the London air could actually be crisp, rather than wavy with humidity or fuzzy with soot. A clear sky capped the rows of lavish town homes and the square they framed. The sun floated bright and yellow overhead, and the world was sharp beneath it. Every edge glinted; each pane of glass reflected blue. And he had Lily on his arm.

Yes, indeed. A lovely afternoon. Goddamned heartbreakingly beautiful.

As they crossed into the square, Julian decided to face the matter head-on. They found a vacant bench and sat on opposite ends, turning to face one another.

“I’m sorry for last night,” he began. “Or rather, for this morning.”

“You should be.”

“What I did was … unconscionable. You have my word it will never happen again.”

“I should hope not.”

In some other circumstance, with some other lady, his pride might have taken a knock or two, simply from the sheer alacrity of her agreement. But then, they were often of one mind, he and Lily. He told himself this quick consensus was a good thing. A humbling thing, but a good thing.

He went on, “I don’t know what possessed me to take such liberties. I can only blame the sleeping powder, combined with my state of extreme exhaustion, and I—”

She held up a hand. “Wait. What are you talking about?”

He paused, suddenly unsure. “What are you talking about?”

“You can’t possibly be apologizing for that kiss?”

“I … I can’t?” Did she not want him to apologize for that kiss? She couldn’t possibly have desired it. Much less enjoyed it. Could she have? The mere possibility sent stupid, irrational hope blazing through him.

She made a dismissive gesture. “It was scarcely worth mentioning, let alone deserving of apology.”

Right. Just to confirm: The hope was both stupid and irrational.