Three Nights with a Scoundrel: A Novel (25 page)

The firm ridge of his manhood pressed against her inner thigh, and she wriggled in his lap to center herself. Now when she ground her hips, his hard length rubbed against her sex
—there
. Just there, in the perfect place. That perfect, beautiful, necessary place.

His hand tightened on her backside, and he guided her into a rhythm. His hips rode the swaying motions of the cab, lifting and thrusting against her as the wheels rumbled over cobbled streets.

Lily was soaring. Rocketing higher and higher with every wave of delicious sensation.

Oh, dear. Oh, God. She was going to—Right here in the hack, she was going to—

“Julian—”

He gave her no escape. He bucked faster, pressed tighter, suckled harder. Pleasure consumed her. It was too much, too much. Then not quite enough.

And then suddenly, it was
everything
.

She did not come softly. The climax hit with a spectacular crash of pleasure, receded, then returned with greater power than before. Through it all, he moved against her, relentless, wringing pulse after pulse of ecstasy from her body. For long moments afterward she shuddered with pleasure, then finally went soft with bliss, slumping against his chest.

“Julian, that was …” The mental search for superlatives exhausted her. “I have no words.” She felt certain she must have cried out something as she’d reached her peak, but she couldn’t even muster the energy to blush.

He gathered her in his arms, kissing his way from her breast to her throat. His lips covered hers, and he took her mouth hungrily, thrusting deep with his tongue. Reminding her that while
her
needs had been satisfied, his had not.

One strong, deft hand went to her thigh, rucking up the heavy folds of her skirts and sliding beneath to skim her stockinged leg and then her bared, still-quivering thigh. She rose up on her knees a little bit, giving him better access. His fingers went straight to her sex. He cupped her mound, petting lightly. His thumb stroked over her engorged, still-sensitive bud, and she trembled with a delicious aftershock. She was flushed with heat and oh-so-damp down there, and his fingers slipped easily between her folds. He slid a finger inside her.

This time, he was the one shuddering. Her intimate muscles embraced the tender invasion, clasping eagerly and drawing him deeper still. The thought flitted across her mind to be embarrassed, but from the increased vigor of his kisses and the throbbing pulse of his arousal against her thigh, she could tell he liked what he felt.

She wanted to feel him, too. She tugged off her gloves and let them fall where they would. Scooting back on his thigh, she reached for the thick bulge tenting his trousers. She stroked him through the fabric with one hand while she sought the buttons of his fall with the other, eager to touch and explore. He’d given her such indescribable pleasure. She wasn’t certain she had the expertise to return the favor in any commensurate magnitude, but she was determined to try. If it took several go-rounds, so be it. It would be no sacrifice.

He kissed her feverishly, delving deeper with his fingers while she set her own shaking hands to the task of working loose buttons. She managed two, then three. Enough to slide her fingers into the gap. Her first impression was that of scorching heat, radiating from his body. She pushed aside the wadded fabric of his tucked shirt. Beneath, she found only skin, sleek and taut. Did he always go without smallclothes? So very naughty. She nipped at his bottom lip, smiling in the dark.

He flinched a little—ticklish, perhaps—when she traced the crease between his thigh and torso. She followed that vulnerable curve to a springy thatch of hair, which felt much like hers. And then a thick, ridged column of heat that was completely different from anything she’d ever touched. She skimmed one fingertip along his length. So curious, how the skin moved with her touch. Like a swatch of rumpled velvet, stretched over steel. She marveled at the idea that this belonged
inside
her, this hot, intriguing combination of softness and strength.

Suddenly, he tore his mouth from hers. His head dropped back against the seat. His breath came as great clouds of vapor that caught what meager light filtered into the cab.

Yes, this was strength. Not just the quite-evident potency beneath her fingertips, but her feminine power over him. With the restrictive cut of his trouser fall and the fact that she hadn’t loosed all the closures, she couldn’t quite curl her hand around his girth. But she stroked up and down, just lightly, and leaned forward to kiss his neck. And he simply lay there, helpless to resist.

Until the coach stopped, calling a halt to everything.

Lily pressed her forehead to his chest, laughing a little. Well, perhaps it was best they continued from here inside. In a bed.

He withdrew his fingers from her cleft and re-draped the folds of her skirts down over her legs. Then he pulled her hand from his trousers and brought it to his lips for a kiss.

There was a little light now, filtering in from the street lamps. She could just make out her name on his lips, and a few mystery words besides. Sliding off his lap, she fixed her gown as best she could, tucking her well-loved breast back into the cup of her stays. She plucked a hairpin from her upsweep and used it to gather the torn edges of her bodice before Julian alighted and handed her down.

Arm in arm, they hurried up the steps. Lily floated, scarcely feeling the stone beneath her slippers. She couldn’t wait to get upstairs and continue where they’d left off.

When they reached the landing, she paused before rapping on the door. “Why doesn’t the hack driver leave?”

Julian held back. “He’s waiting for me. I asked him to stay.”

Suddenly, she wasn’t floating any longer, just … hollow inside. Surely those words were just a trick of the flickering lamplight. He couldn’t mean to leave her. Not considering what had just happened in that carriage—and more to the point, what
hadn’t
happened yet, for him.

“I have to go,” he said. “You don’t understand. Someone wants to kill me.”

“Someone wants to kill you?” she repeated. “Well, I want to make love to you. My goodness, Julian. With two such compelling alternatives, however will you choose?”

“I can’t be seen going into your house. I must leave you here, at the door.”

She took a deep breath and forced herself to be calm. “Julian, look around you.” She turned a pointed, slow gaze around the deserted square. “There is no one following us. No threat to your life or mine. No danger, unless you go in search of it. Don’t leave me tonight. Come to my bed, make love to me, and stay safe the whole night through.”

“I can’t do that. I’ve already done too much. I can’t engage you in a sordid
affaire.”

“This is love. Love isn’t sordid. And I’ve already told you, I want more than just an
affaire.”

“What, marriage?” He seemed to choke on the word. “To me? Lily, we are from completely different worlds. I shouldn’t have to remind you of that. You saw my childhood—the best part of it, mind—with your own eyes, just the other day.”

“I don’t care.”

“I’ve eaten scraps you would not throw to dogs. I spent a month picking oakum in Bridewell. For Christ’s sake, I didn’t even learn to read properly until I was nineteen years old.”

“I. Don’t. Care. About any of it.”

“Others will. Your relations, your friends.”

“Then I don’t care about them.”

He pushed a hand through his hair. “You make it sound so simple, but it’s not. Not for you, and not for me. I’ve spent my life hating the very notion of the aristocracy. The
ton
and I … we hold one another in mutual contempt. You would ask me to become a permanent part of it?”

She blinked. For a moment, she found it difficult to speak. “Oh,” she managed. “I see. So the problem isn’t that I’m too good for you. It’s that you’re too good for me.”

“No, Lily. Never. That’s not it at all. The problem is that someone murdered Leo, and that same someone may want to kill me. Until I have answers, I can’t promise you a future. I can’t even promise you a tomorrow.”

If she didn’t love him so much, she could hate him for speaking that way. Didn’t he know what a toll this constant anxiety took on her state of mind? There could be no peace for her, if this continued.

“Let me make this easier. Out there”—she nodded toward the square, and the city beyond—“there is danger, mystery, violence. And maybe … just maybe … an elusive answer or two. Meanwhile, in here”—she gestured behind her, toward the door of Harcliffe House—“I am offering you love, pleasure, comfort. A home. And perhaps, one day, a family.”

The cool night air took his sigh and made it a coil of vapor. A visible expression of his hesitance.

She grabbed the lapels of his coat and pulled him close, pressing her brow to his. “Choose me,” she said, in a tone that she feared was too close to pleading. “Choose
us
. I can’t go on like this, bidding you farewell over and over, not knowing what will become of you once you’ve left my sight. If you desert me tonight, Julian …”

Dear God, was she really saying this? In principle, Lily abhorred ultimatums. They made a woman look desperate and manipulative. But she
was
desperate, no denying it. And since reasoning, arguing, and outright begging hadn’t convinced him, manipulation seemed her only option left.

Before she could lose her nerve, she said, “Walk away from me right now, and I don’t want to see you again. Ever.”

Then she pulled away to wait for his answer. It was a lonely, unbearably quiet wait.

Everyone assumed that because she was deaf, her world was silent. But that wasn’t the case. She lived with a steady, cycling murmur of sound—much like the effect she’d experienced as a girl, pressing a seashell to her ear. A muted roar, forever washing and ebbing at the edges of her consciousness. For one hideous summer, a high, shrill whistle had lodged just inside her left eardrum, and its ceaseless whine had nearly driven her mad. She’d wept with relief the morning she awoke to find it mercifully gone. But even afterward, total quiet was something she’d never known.

Until now.

There was absence of sound—and then there was
silence
. Julian’s pause fell into the latter category.

After a long, soul-wrenching minute, he kissed her. So lightly, her lips trembled under his. As they ended the kiss, he cupped her chin in his fingers and stared deep into her eyes.

“God be with you, then.” His thumb stroked a tear from her cheek. “Good night, Lily.”

Chapter Sixteen

Julian ordered the hack driver to return to the assembly rooms, and be quick. He was back on the same street corner where he’d met Lily in less than ten minutes’ time.

Incredible. Had that entire blissful interlude really lasted less than ten minutes? He would make the memory last a lifetime. Her hot, sweet words sliding over his neck. The heady scent of her body, an intoxicating blend of citron and rosemary and feminine musk. Her fingertips, gliding along his …

Not now
, he told himself. Not now.

The pistol he’d dropped was, as expected, gone. Vanished into the night—or rather, into the hand of some lucky passerby. Something that valuable and shiny wouldn’t lie about unclaimed on a London street corner for more than a minute or two. Down the street, carriages were jostling for space, preparing to accommodate the departing guests. The immediate vicinity, however, was quiet and deserted.

So here he was. Alone, unarmed, and late for his appointment with Death. What happened now?

He stood there for a few minutes, just waiting to see if anything would occur.

When it didn’t, he started to walk.

He walked back to his house along his usual route, ambling down the streets and avenues. He was honestly surprised when he arrived before the modest Bloomsbury façade unchallenged. He then sat on his front stoop for a good quarter-hour. Try as he might to keep his attention sharp and scan the darkness for threats, his thoughts kept returning to Lily.

For Christ’s sake, he was a marked man.

But even a marked man was a
man
, and he was a man irrevocably marked by Lily, branded by her touch. The way she’d moaned for him …

Why hadn’t he called for the hack driver to circle the block? Another minute, and he could have had her coming again. He could have experienced the strength of her climax from the inside, felt her womanly flesh grasp his fingers tight. Her breathy cries, combined with the light touch of her fingers—all together, it probably would have brought him off, too. His loins stirred, just at the thought.

Not now
, he told himself. Not now.

He rose, brushed off his trousers, and started to walk again.

He walked back to Mayfair, back toward the neighborhood of the assembly rooms, this time working a serpentine route down smaller streets and back alleys. Aside from the occasional sleeping beggar, some early carts on their way to market, and a few passing cabs, he met with no one.

And he found himself back on the same damn corner, still alone and undisturbed.