Three Nights with a Scoundrel

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.”



Disappointment twanged in her chest, but Lily didn’t know how to argue. Hadn’t this been her aim when arranging this party? To push Julian back into the social life he’d once loved—the clubs, the theater, the company of friends? She should count this a tremendous success.



Except there were still so many questions churning in her mind, so many emotions coursing through her blood. Julian wanted something more than friendship, he’d said. What more did he want, precisely? Her body? Her affection?



What more did she want from him?



“Will you call on me tomorrow?” she asked.



After a brief pause, he nodded. “If you wish.”



“I do. I do wish it.” For that, and for something more.



When Julian arrived at Harcliffe House the following morning, he again found Lily seated at the desk in Leo’s library. Her neck was curved white and graceful as a swan’s as she bent over an open ledger. Something about the contrast between that elegant sweep of her neck and the precise point of her elbow as she dipped her quill … A tide of longing pushed through him, laying waste to everything in its path.



Bypassing the signal mirror this time, he entered the room and approached her from the side. She was so absorbed in her work, she didn’t notice him until he stood nearly beside her, just at her right shoulder. Even then, she did not look up. She simply went still, holding her quill at attention. Only the slight change in her breathing let him know she’d realized he was there.



She was waiting. Waiting to see if he would touch her.



So he did. He laid a hand on her shoulder where her thin fichu met her gown.



“Good morning,” she said distractedly, taking a moment to finish her notation before replacing her quill in the inkwell. With a breathy sigh, she tipped her head to the left, stretching the slender column of her neck. Then back to the right. “I’ve been sitting here too long. I’ve gone all stiff.”



How could he resist an invitation like that? Julian pushed aside the frail, gauzy fichu and squeezed her shoulder gently, running his thumb along the tense ridge of muscle and sinew at the base of her neck. She had indeed been working too hard. Her muscles were drawn taut, resistant to his touch. As he kneaded her shoulder, the tension melted beneath his fingertips.



She moaned low in her throat.



Lust rocked him in his boots.



“Yes,” she sighed. “Just there.”



Suffice it to say, now Lily wasn’t the only one contending with uncomfortable stiffness. He slid his hand forward, over the ridge of her collarbone. Excitement surged to his fingertips. Mere inches below, the snowy expanse of her décolletage tempted.



Here was a perilous slope.



He did what any man approaching a precipice would do. He inched forward and peered over the edge.



What a breathtaking view. The gentle mounds of her breasts cradled a steep, luscious valley. She looked so soft. Julian had seen and touched and held to his cheek the finest textiles the world had to offer—velvets, silks, luxurious furs from every corner of every continent. And yet he knew instinctively, none of them could approach the sleek perfection of Lily Chatwick’s bosom. There would simply be no apt comparisons. Just as the terms “oak,” “granite,” and “tempered steel” failed to describe the current state of his arousal.



“You can’t have her,” he told himself aloud. “Not like that.” Before he could second-guess himself, he jerked his hand from her body.



She circled her head, stretching. “Mm, thank you.” Then she looked to him, eyebrows rising in expectation. “Well …?”



“Well.” Eager to conceal his own expectant, rising parts, Julian pulled up a chair and seated himself across the desk from her. “Good morning. I brought you something.” He carefully lifted his offering onto the desk. He’d been holding it in one hand all this while, and the parcel’s contents had grown noticeably agitated.



She was having none of it. “Julian. Do you honestly mean to pretend last night didn’t happen?”



He froze. He’d been asking himself that very thing. If he wished, he could deny everything. With a bit of bluster and diversion, he could lead her to believe she’d misunderstood his words and actions. He could convince her that no, he actually hadn’t lost his wits and impulsively confessed to harboring years of lust for her. With luck, he could have her believing that whatever he’d planned on doing instants before they were interrupted, it most certainly had not been kissing her for the second time in one day.



But today, looking into her lovely face, he found he simply couldn’t stomach more lies.



“No,” he said. “I don’t mean to pretend anything.”



Why shouldn’t she understand that since the day they’d met, he’d been seized by a powerful attraction to her? Lily was no fool. She would understand, as he did, that nothing could ever come of it. So many factors prevented him from acting on his desire—her mourning, the inequity of their rank, the recent resurrection of his innate sense of decency. Not to mention the fact that within a fortnight, Julian Bellamy would permanently disappear from London society. One way or another.



Let her know. Let her know what she did to him.



“So.” She drummed her fingers on the desk. “You desire me.”



“Yes.”



“Always have.”



“From the first.”



Her drumming fingers stilled. “And last night, when you flew into a rage with that Commander …”



“Merriwin. Commander Merriwin.”



“Yes, him. It wasn’t because you thought I was weak, or in need of protection.”



“No. It was jealousy. An instinctive male reaction, and one I should have suppressed.” He leaned forward. “I do believe in you, Lily. I know you could handle that man, or ten just like him. The weakness was mine.”



“Well.” Leather creaked as she sat back in her chair. “This is all so very enlightening.”



“It is?”



“Yes, of course. It explains so much.” Her cheeks went pink. “I mean, it’s undeniably flattering. Or at least, reassuring. I was beginning to feel like the only woman in London who didn’t catch your eye.”



His heart sank. Nothing—in all his life, absolutely nothing—could have made Julian regret his history of debauchery more than this: for him to finally confess his desire for Lily, and for her to conclude that his admiration simply made her one of a crowd. So utterly wrong that she should believe that, and yet … so convenient.