Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)(2)

He suddenly convulsed, as if coughing.

She ceased her tussle with his cravat and pulled back to stare at him, not wanting to miss any word he might speak.

His eyes went in and out of focus as his gaze meandered over her form. “Hullo, Lily.”

Relief washed through her. “Julian. Are you well?”

He blinked several times, in rapid succession. Then again, slowly. Finally he said, “Violet always was your color.”

He slumped back, eyes closed.

Was he drunk? She leaned forward, sniffing cautiously at his exposed throat. No liquor. No gutter smells here, either. Just hints of starch and soap, mingled with the metallic, pungent odor of …

Oh, God.

She grabbed his arm, shook it hard. “Julian. Julian, wake up.”

When he failed to respond, she withdrew her trembling hand and looked down at it. Just as she’d feared. Her fingers came away wet with blood.

Julian Bellamy had died sometime during the night.

That could be the only explanation. He’d perished, and there’d been some sort of divine mistake. Because this morning, he’d woken up in heaven. The sheer purity of it blanked his senses.

All was light. Fragrant. Lush. Clean.

The qualities of Paradise, as his boyhood self would have imagined it. The antithesis of everything he’d known from birth to the age of nine years: squalor, dirt, darkness, hunger.

Come to mention it, he still felt a faint pang of hunger.

Odd.

His bare arms glided between layers of crisp linen and quilted silk as he stretched, idly wondering if the dead felt hunger. And if so, what mead-and-manna banquet awaited him here?

“At last. There you are.” A feminine voice. Husky and warm, like honey. A familiar voice.

His pulse stuttered.

His pulse? Bloody hell. To the devil with hunger. Dead men definitely did not have pulses.

Julian shot up on one elbow and forced his bleary gaze to sharpen. “Lily? Surely that’s not you.”

The elegant oval of her face came into focus. Dark eyes, anchored by a straight, slim nose. The rosy curve of her mouth. “Of course it’s me.”

Holy God. He was not in heaven; he was damned. He was in a bed—presumably a bed somewhere in Harcliffe House. And Lady Lily Chatwick sat on the edge of the bed, entirely too close. Within arm’s length. And he knew this couldn’t be a dream, because he never dreamed of Lily. He’d tried to dream of her, on a few occasions when he was feeling especially maudlin. It had never worked. Even in sleep, he couldn’t fool himself. Every part of him, conscious and unconscious, knew he didn’t deserve this woman.

Damn. He scrambled to remember the events of the night previous. What the devil had he done? What had he caused her to do?

“Lily.” His tongue felt thick, felted. He swallowed with difficulty. “Tell me this isn’t your room.”

Her lips quirked in a half-smile. “This isn’t my room.”

He released the breath he’d been holding. Now that he flashed a quick glance about him, he could see that the bedchamber was decorated in masculine shades. Rich greens, dark blues.

A worse thought struck him. He sat up further. “Lily. Tell me this isn’t his room.”

Her smile faded, and sadness melted the laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. “No. This isn’t Leo’s room.”

With a muttered curse of thanksgiving, he fell back against the pillows. It was one thing to disgrace his dead friend’s memory. Another thing entirely to do it in his dead friend’s own bed.

“It’s just a spare bedchamber. How is your arm?” she asked.

In answer, the limb gave a fierce throb. The wave of pain pushed memories to the fore. The dusty storehouse. The panicked crowd. The escaped bull, smashing him against the rail.

With his right hand, he touched the bandage tightly wound about his biceps.

“The doctor’s come and gone,” she said. “He seemed to think you’ll survive.”

“Blast.” He threw his wrist over his eyes. “How on earth did I get here?”

She clucked her tongue. “So dramatic. I should think this is a common occurrence for you, waking up naked in a strange bed.”

Naked? Had she truly just said …?

Julian lifted the sheet and glanced downward. Thank God. Though he was undressed to the waist, the pewter buttons of his trouser fall winked up at him. And they were lying flat and obedient in a tame row. At the moment. If she kept hovering over him, they wouldn’t stay that way for long.

“Minx.” When she only laughed harder at her own joke, he lowered the sheet and chided her, “You are an unforgivable tease.”

“And you are an unmitigated ass.”

When he shifted onto his side, she laid a hand to his bare shoulder. Her touch was a brand against his skin.

“Lily …”

“No, I mean it. You know I don’t normally use such words.”

She never used such words at all. Oh, she often thought them, he knew. But she never said them. And the scoundrel in Julian was perversely delighted that he’d provoked her into speaking her mind. Lily had a lot of thoughts worth sharing, and all too often she kept them to herself.

She handed him a glass of barley water, and he accepted it gratefully.

“You are making an ass of yourself, Julian, and I don’t mean just this morning.” Her eyes narrowed to angry slits. “But while we’re on the subject, let’s start with this morning.”