Three Nights with a Scoundrel: A Novel (27 page)

If?
If
she would have him? Her own heart pounded in her throat, making rather stern demands of its own. Did the man honestly think she could turn him away?

Yes, she realized suddenly. Yes, he did. This was why he was so pale. He was terrified. Even after all the love she’d confessed last night, he thought there was a goodly chance she’d refuse him this morning—or that if she did accept him, she might change her mind in the time it took to secure a license and curate.

Oh, Julian
. She saw it all in his eyes—the vulnerability, the hurt, the years of perceived rejection and scorn. After a lifelong quest to take success, steal pleasure, and wrangle admiration from the world, it didn’t occur to him he might actually deserve those things, freely given. Now the task of correcting this misapprehension fell to her.

She could not imagine a happier or more rewarding life’s work.

“Yes,” she said, keeping her words simple and few, so that they might be absolutely clear. “Yes, I will marry you.”

When he made no discernible reaction, Lily put her free hand to his face. “Julian, breathe.”

He did, with sudden and apparent relief. Color rushed back to his cheeks.

She touched her thumb to the corner of his mouth, attempting to tease it into a smile. “We are going to be so happy.”

He looked unconvinced. “We’ll be together.”

“Yes. Precisely.”

Chapter Seventeen

There was astonishingly little to a wedding.

Julian was surprised. He’d never attended any actual wedding ceremonies. Oh, he’d been invited to dozens, but he preferred to save his appearance for the celebration afterward. Somehow, he’d imagined a sacrament with such eternal implications would be accordingly lengthy and dry.

But even with the curate speaking slowly and every so often handing his liturgy to Lily so that she might read and respond, it took less than a quarter-hour to bind Lily Chatwick and Julian Bellamy in the eyes of God and man, for the remainder of this life and—with some outrageous luck—beyond.

The ceremony took place in the morning room. After vows were exchanged, he produced a pair of simple gold bands. They were unadorned, but weighty in both substance and significance. He thought nothing in his life would thrill him more than sliding that ring on her slim, elegant finger—until a half-minute later, when she slid the matching band on his. The first was the triumph of claiming his bride. The second was the poignant, bone-deep relief of being claimed.

It had been so long since he’d belonged to anyone.

They all signed the register: Lily, Holling, Swift, the curate. Julian went last. He hesitated, wishing the name he prepared to sign was actually his own.

But it was too late for attacks of conscience now.

He scrawled the signature. There, it was done.

He looked to his bride—his wife; good Lord, she
belonged
to him now—and she gave him a wide, gracious smile. She’d seemed genuinely shocked by his proposal this morning. On close inspection of her appearance, however, he wondered if she hadn’t expected it all along and dressed expressly for the occasion.

She looked timeless in her beauty, as a bride should be. Fifty years from now someone could say the name “Lily,” and Julian knew his sieve of an octogenarian memory would still retain
this
image, from
this
day. No matter what changes time wrought on her aspect, he would always think of her thus. Looking not only lovely, but so very much herself. Straight-spined and resolute, but soft and feminine in that cherry-pink dress and pearls. Dark, gently curving tendrils of hair framed her milk-white cheeks and burnt-sugar eyes. So tempting and sweet.

Positively edible.

“Well,” she asked, clasping her hands behind her back and bobbing on her toes, “what now?”

What now?
Oh, he would show her what now.

With his thanks and a generous donation for the parish, Julian dismissed the curate.

To Swift and Holling, he directed, “Give the staff a feast and good wine, then the remainder of the day off. Place a tray for us at the top of the staircase. After that, no one, and I mean no one, is to venture abovestairs unless we ring. No lady’s maid, no footman, no chambermaid, no boy carrying coal for the grate. Not today, not tomorrow. I don’t care if it’s been three days and you’ve given us up for dead, do you understand? We are not to be disturbed.”

“But sir, the—” Holling began.

He cut her off. “
Not
to be disturbed.”

The housekeeper curtsied. “As you please, Mr. Bellamy.”

Once the servants had cleared out, Julian crossed the room until he stood about an arm’s length from Lily. He didn’t trust himself any closer just yet. “I very much wish to kiss my bride.”

Her rosy lips curved in a smile. “Your bride very much wishes to be kissed.”

“But there’s a problem, you see. If I kiss you here, there’s a fair chance we’ll never make it upstairs.”

“Well.” Dark lashes fluttered as she surveyed the room with mock seriousness. “There is always the divan.”

“Some other time.” He moved toward her, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Do take pity on poor Holling’s nerves, and try not to shriek.”

With that, he scooped her straight off her feet and into his arms. And she did shriek, but only a little. She clung to his neck with surprise—and perhaps a touch of playful desperation. The bite of her fingernails against his nape sent desire rippling down his spine. She weighed next to nothing, and rationally, he knew lifting her was no great feat of strength. But hefting her compact frame in his arms, fitting her tight against his chest … making a Julian-shaped bundle of Lily’s precious angles and curves … he felt protective. Powerful. And just a bit savage. His male pride swelled. Other parts of him swelled, too.

He carried her through the entrance hall and up the stairs. Visualizing the windows as he’d so often viewed them from the street, he set off down the corridor, counting doors until he arrived at her apartment.

“How do you know which one is mine?” she asked, as he shouldered open the door to her sitting room.

“Lucky guess.”

He covered the carpet in three paces, swept her into the bedchamber, and fell with her onto the bed. A heap of white pillows and downy quilts sucked them in like a snowdrift. Julian sputtered at a bit of lace in his mouth and rolled onto his side, facing her. What with all the white, and the hour of noon approaching, the room was wild with sunlight.

“Oh, it’s dreadful, isn’t it?” she said, batting away clouds of white bedding. “I had it done up this way when I was seventeen, and it’s never been redecorated.”

He huffed at a tiny feather floating between them, then gave her a wolfish grin. “Very virginal.”

All the better to ravish you on, my dear
. This bed was like his most depraved adolescent fantasy come to life. Taking a well-bred lady on a cloud of white lace; pushing his crude, baseborn cock into her immaculate, tightly guarded virtue. And this was even better than the fantasy, because Lily belonged to him. She was his wife. Her immaculate, tight … God, he just
knew
she would be so tight … virtue was his. Not for the taking, but for the keeping. Forever.

It was the most heart-tugging, frightening, and flat-out arousing notion he’d ever contemplated. His trousers pulled snug over his groin.

“Then it’s still appropriate, I suppose. I mean … that is to say …” Her face went pink against the white linen. “You know there haven’t been others.”

Dear, sweet Lily. He smoothed the hair from her brow, forcing himself to rein in his lustful impulses for the moment. “Are you anxious?”

“No. Well, only a little. But it’s a pleasant sort of anxious.”

“You needn’t worry. This is going to be amazing. Spectacular.”

She laughed. “Perhaps I should fault the arrogance of that statement, but I’m rather comforted by it, truthfully.”

“It’s not arrogance, it’s a promise. This is going to be wonderful,” he insisted, “and I will tell you why. Because if at any time, you are feeling something less than indescribable bliss, you are going to tell me so, and I will stop at once. Do you understand? I would never hurt you.”

She nodded. “What a very husbandly thing to say.” With a little gasp, she bolted straight up in bed. As if she’d just now received an express notifying her of the fact, she grinned down at him and said, “I’m your
wife
, Julian. I’m Mrs. Bellamy.”

Her eyes sparkled with delight, sending bright shards of happiness to pierce his heart. She’d never looked so beautiful.

“No,” he said, struggling to sit up next to her, “you are still the daughter of a marquess. You are Mrs. Nothing. You are, and will always be,
Lady
Lily Bellamy.”

“Heavens.” Her hand went to her brow. “Another L sound in my name. That’s four now.”

“Too late. You can’t take it back.”

“Are you sure?” She toyed with his cravat. “You still haven’t kissed me, you know.”

He slowly leaned in, giving her ample time to retract that teasing smile to a soft, luscious pout. Their noses touched. She inhaled a quick breath. And just the instant before he pressed his lips to hers, she whispered, “I love you so.”

He covered the precious words with his mouth, needing to drink them in. Sipping at each of her lips in turn, then delving lightly with his tongue. She reached for him, curling her fingers in his hair, and as he deepened the kiss, she moaned in the back of her throat.

Desire swept him like a flame through dry bracken. It took everything he had to hold to that promise he’d just made, and not simply push her back against the counterpane and sink into her at once. But he was determined to make this every bit as good for her as it was doubtless going to be for him.

He left her mouth and began a thorough investigation of the spot beneath her ear. Nuzzling first, then tasting with lips and tongue. She was so delicious, he couldn’t resist a playful bite.

She gave a sharp cry.

He pulled away. “Have I hurt you?”

“No.” She looked puzzled. “Why do you ask?”

“You … you made a noise.”

“Oh, did I?” She smiled sheepishly. “I suppose because I liked it.”

Right. He needed her
under
him, now. His hands gathered fistfuls of billowing white lace.

“Now who’s anxious?” she asked, skimming a teasing touch along his jaw. “Last night in the hack, I’m positive I was making all manner of sounds. You weren’t so concerned then.”

“Last night was different.” Last night,
he
was different. Julian wasn’t sure how to explain it. In that carriage, he’d been a thief, taking what didn’t belong to him under cover of night. Today, he was a bridegroom, who’d just pledged to cherish and protect this woman all the days of his life. The difference was so profound, it was … well, it was night and day.

“Let’s settle on a signal,” she suggested. “A word. If I’m uncomfortable or in pain, I’ll say that word. With all other noises, you can assume the best. Do you agree?”

He nodded. “What word?”

She considered. “How about ‘spider’?”

“Spider?” He couldn’t help but laugh. “Who wants to think of spiders in the throes of passion?”

“No one, of course. That’s why it’s ideal.”

He shook his head. “Something else, if you please, with fewer legs.”

“Very well.” Her eyes wandered past him, toward the connecting parlor. “What about ‘armchair’? Perfectly harmless, and only four legs.”

“That won’t do. What happens when you beg me—and no mistake, someday you
will
beg me—‘Julian, make love to me right here in the armchair’? The moment will be ruined.”

Her eyebrow arched to a reproachful angle. She knew she was being teased. But here was a tried-and-true test of temperament—when confronted with sharp wit, did a person retreat or parry? Julian could never be friends with people who fell into the former category.

And Lily’s response was the reason he adored her, beyond expression.

“Well, then,” she said, working loose his cravat. “If that’s the case, we rule out so many options. Armchair, sofa, carpet, bathtub, dressing table, dining table, wardrobe. No good, any of those.” She pulled the unknotted cravat free, and the slow glide of linen against his neck made his body pulse with need.

Her fingers went to the buttons of his waistcoat. “Nor can we use coach, carriage, hackney, landau, or anything of that nature. Oh, and nature! We must rule out grass, meadow, hillock, haystack, grotto, lake … Really, Julian, there are very few words left.” Her hands slipped inside his open waistcoat, and she skimmed her palms over the thin lawn of his shirt. She was teasing him, with words and touch, and he couldn’t have loved it more.

“Turn around,” he said hoarsely, adding a hand motion for clarity’s sake.

She obeyed, and he applied his fingers to the column of fabric-covered buttons chasing down her slender back.

“What about ‘mirror’?” she said, smiling into the floor-length looking glass across the room.

“Minx.” He caught her gaze in the reflection. “Absolutely not.”