Three Nights with a Scoundrel: A Novel (12 page)

“Yes.” Lily nodded, feeling years of resentment uncoil within her. “Yes, she was.”

“As if an illness could somehow be your fault, or God’s will.”

Sensing an opportunity in this vein of conversation, Lily asked, “If not mine or God’s, whose fault was it? The doctor’s? My parents’?”

“No one’s, of course.”

He pried her fingers from the ceramic dog and held her hand in his. Strange, confusing sparks of sensation traveled from her wrist to her elbow.

“It wasn’t anyone’s fault,” he went on. “Sometimes bad things just happen, and there’s nowhere to point the finger of blame.”

“Exactly.” The current of electricity buzzed through her whole body now. “Just like with Leo. Sometimes bad things just happen, and there’s no one to blame.”

“That’s different. That’s different, and you know it. Where there’s murder, there’s blame. By definition.”

“But—”

He dropped her hand and stalked to the unused hearth, propping one boot on the grate and leaning his forearm on the mantel, glaring hard into his fist.

She crossed to him. “We have to talk.”

“We’ve been talking.”

“No, I mean …”

Curse him, she’d been hoping to avoid this conversation. Ever since Leo’s death, Julian had become so protective of her, so intense in their every interaction. And now it would seem she’d caught the same contagion. Unable to put him out of her mind, ascribing strange tingles to his casual touch. Perhaps if they discussed this tension between them, it would dissipate.

“Ever since my brother died,” she began, “I’ve been struggling to answer this question: Without Leo, who am I? He was such a large part of my life, and in many ways I defined my existence in relationship to his. In
too
many ways, I fear. I’m sorting out the tangle, slowly. But as if that weren’t hard enough, there’s this other question. It comes to the fore whenever we’re together. I can only imagine it’s the reason we’re always quarreling of late.”

He stared at her, impassive. “What question would that be?”

Anxiety prickled in her throat. Using all available willpower, she blunted her nerves and met his gaze. “Without Leo … who are
we?”

A glimmer of some inscrutable emotion lit his eyes, but she didn’t dare focus on it too long. Instead, she dropped her gaze and concentrated on his mouth, awaiting his reply. As much time as she’d spent staring at him, she couldn’t help notice that his lips were so well-shaped. Wide and sensual, curved at the edges just a bit. The faintest pull of his jaw muscle could tweak that curve into a playful smirk or a genuine smile or a wicked suggestion. He must be a very good kisser, when he wasn’t under the influence of pain and sleeping powder.

Her own tongue darted out to moisten her lips. Oh, this was terrible.

Words, Lily. Concentrate on his words
.

“I mean,” she continued nervously, “we became friends through Leo, and now that he’s gone, it’s only natural that we would be forced to … ask ourselves that.”

“And have you arrived at an answer?”

“I know what we aren’t. You can’t be Leo’s replacement. I don’t need a substitute brother, watching over everything I do.”

A little tug of his jaw tipped his mouth. “I don’t want to be your brother.”

“I don’t need a guardian, either. I’m eight-and-twenty, not a girl.”

“I’m well aware of that, too.”

“Then why have you become so protective and overbearing? Always demanding that I marry, then chasing off any man who so much as dares to touch my hand?” Even as she asked the question, Lily knew the heat building between their bodies was a very good clue.

Still she prattled on, hoping more words would dispel it. “You …” She touched a hand to his chest. A mistake. Too solid, too strong. Those sparks again. “You feel guilty and bound to protect me, and I …” She withdrew her touch and pressed the same hand to her own breast. Softer, uncertain. Quivering with each pounding beat of her heart. “I feel lonely and unmoored. We’re both emotional and searching for answers, and I just wish …”

She dropped her gaze, because she couldn’t bear to be interrupted. She had to get these words out. “I just wish our friendship could be the one thing that’s never in question. Can you understand? It pains me so much, to always be arguing with you, worrying about you. Just because Leo died, it doesn’t mean everything between us must change. I want to go back to the way we were before.”

She paused, eyes lowered and breath bated, wondering why those words tasted false on her tongue.

He seized her by the shoulders, forcing her gaze to meet his. “We can’t, Lily. We can’t go back. Too much has changed.”

“I don’t want things to change. Why can’t we just stay friends forever?”

“Because …” His grip tightened on her shoulders, and excitement rippled through her veins. “Lily, you can’t tell me you don’t know.”

No, she couldn’t. A hidden, deeply feminine part of her understood him perfectly. And yet … “I want you to say it.”

He pulled her to him, bringing her body flush against his. “Because I want you, Lily, the way a man wants a woman. I always have.”

He held her fast, and she stood breathless, slowly becoming aware of his body. Then, slowly, growing aware of her own. She had a thin, willowy build. People always teased that there was scarcely anything to her. But here in his arms, she felt her own substance. Her weight, her heat, her curves.

“There’s always been a tension between us,” he said. “I know you must feel it. Tell me you feel it, too.”

She nodded. Oh, yes. The tension, the attraction, the force of his ardor. She felt all those things. But she could also feel
it
—a firm ridge, swelling against her belly. The physical manifestation of male desire, and yet she wasn’t made timid by the display. To the contrary, for the first time in months, she felt powerful and strong.

His eyes searched hers, then dropped to linger on her lips. She watched his mouth as he formed the unmistakable syllables of her name. “Lily.”

So prescient of her parents, giving her that name. L-sounds were among the easiest to lip-read. The trouble was, the shape of her name always looked a bit silly to her. Especially with her honorific attached: “Lady Lily.” Two l’s were bad enough, but three were ridiculous. All that tongue-flapping made her want to giggle.

But when Julian spoke her name, it never looked like a joke to her. No, it looked vaguely … 
naughty
. Sensual, not silly. She’d always loved watching her name on his lips.

Always
.

The word seeped down into her bones, into her soul, where it simply … fell into place. Like the moment of triumph she felt after scouring a ledger a dozen times and finally finding the six shillings unaccounted for, in the column where she’d mistaken a seven for a one. At last, it all made sense—all the quarreling and worrying and strange tingling that resulted from his touch. This explained why he’d grown so inordinately protective of her, and why the sight of his blood on her fingertips had thrown her into absolute panic. Because he’d always wanted her this way. And deep down—so far deep down she hadn’t even been fully aware of it until this moment—she’d always desired him, too.

Here was the answer. Who were they, without Leo?

They were two people who
wanted
each other.

And right now, they were two people who were just about to kiss.

Chapter Seven

Lily leaned into his embrace, needing to touch him. Wanting him to know that she craved this, too. She knew she ought to close her eyes for the kiss, but she just couldn’t. So she watched, restless with anticipation, as his mouth lowered to hers. And just as his breath caressed her lips …

He startled. And leapt back.

Left with nothing to lean against, Lily pitched forward. She barely managed to catch the mantel’s edge before tumbling to the floor. She shook herself, confused and gasping and uncertain where to look. Had she merely misread his words, or the entire situation? How much mortification could fit into one evening, anyway?

Finally, unable to do otherwise, she looked to Julian for an explanation.

He said, “My God. You’re pregnant.”

What? Her mind rattled in her skull, shaken by the utter impossibility of that statement. To be sure, she’d just felt the tangible proof of his virility pressed against the general vicinity of her womb … But no man was so potent as
that
.

Then she realized Julian wasn’t speaking to her.

Lily turned, pressing a hand to her chest. In the corner of the room she spied Claudia, the duke’s young ward, shyly emerging from behind a fold of velvet drapery.

“You’re pregnant,” Julian repeated, moving toward the girl.

Claudia placed a hand on her belly. “So the doctors tell me.”

He turned to Lily. “Did you know about this?”

She shook her head. “They’ve kept it very quiet. I only learned of it this afternoon. Claudia’s condition, I mean. Believe me, I had no idea she was hiding in the draperies.” She turned to the girl. “I thought you were to remain upstairs.”

“I was,” she said, biting her lip. “I was supposed to stay upstairs. I only wanted a look in at the party.”

And at the naval officers, Lily imagined. Claudia was nothing if not curious about handsome young men.

“Then you came in,” she went on, “and so I hid. I meant to simply wait until you left the room, but …” Her cheeks colored. “Eventually, it seemed better to reveal my presence than conceal it.”

Claudia cast a wary look at Julian, causing Lily to wonder if the girl believed herself to be protecting Lily with her interruption. It would have been almost sweet of her, if it weren’t so wholly unnecessary. Not to mention unwanted. She looked to Julian, but he was studiously avoiding her gaze, frowning at the carpet instead. She doubted his frustration was meant for the interlocking rings of cream and gold. No, he was angry with himself. He regretted what had just occurred between them. Or rather, what had
almost
occurred.

“You’d best slip upstairs now,” Lily prompted the girl.

Claudia nodded and turned to leave. “Please,” she said, pausing on her way to the door. “Don’t tell the duke I was downstairs. And kindly don’t tell anyone about …” Her hand circled her belly. “… this. I promise not to speak a word of what happened here.”

Julian caught the girl by the elbow. “Nothing happened here.”

“Exactly.” Claudia smiled, looking from Lily to Julian. “You needn’t be concerned. I’m very good at keeping secrets.”

The girl left the room, and Julian flopped into an armchair and buried his face in his hands. With that disappeared Lily’s last bit of hope that they might resume where they’d left off.

He dropped his hands. “God only knows what that child thinks she saw.”

“What
did
she see?” Lily wasn’t certain herself. “Julian, can we—”

He shot to his feet. “I have to leave. There are places I need to be.”

“No.” She moved toward him. “No, please don’t go. I won’t sleep at all, if I know you’re out wandering the streets alone.”

“You shouldn’t lose sleep over me.”

“I can’t help it.” She couldn’t help but lie awake at night and wonder where he was. Because she wanted him there, in bed with her. How could she not have understood it before now?

As she neared his side, she could actually
see
his breath come faster, in the accelerated rise and fall of his chest. If she laid a hand to that spot just beneath his cravat, slid her fingers under the edge of his waistcoat … she sensed she’d feel his heart pounding every bit as fiercely as hers. But there the similarities would end. She would find hard muscles there, and the masculine heat of his skin. Did he have hair on his chest, she wondered? How strange, to think that she didn’t know. Of course, she’d always known he was a man, and a fine-looking one, at that. But she’d heretofore focused on their commonalities, their affinity.

Now she looked at Julian and saw … 
otherness
. Differences. New contrasts to explore. With each passing moment, she grew exponentially aware of the essential, primitive masculinity raging beneath those fine clothes and flip expressions. And her own essential womanhood asserted itself in response, plumping her flesh to a feverish pink in all the obvious places—and a few surprising ones, as well. Lips, breasts, mons—she understood the significance of these. But what the backs of her knees had to do with anything, she could not possibly have guessed.

She reached for him, hoping he might help her understand. “Julian …”

He intercepted her touch, grasping her fingers in his and pressing them briefly—chastely—to his lips.

“We’ll be missed,” he said, releasing her hand. “And it’s growing late. I’ll speak with Morland. He’ll see you home in his carriage.”

“But can’t we—”

“You were right, I was an ass to the lieutenants earlier. I’ll make it up to them, take them round to the clubs and such.” In an apparent effort to collect himself—or avoid her—he tugged down the front of his waistcoat and ran both hands through his tousled black hair. “No boxing or bull-baiting, I promise.”