Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)(27)

She took his hand. Or rather, his wrist, since his hand was a solid lump of knuckles and thumb.

He glared past her, at the commander. “You’re a bastard. Don’t think she doesn’t know it.”

“Julian,” she whispered, frantic. “Take me for a turn in the garden. Now.”

This time, she did not wait for his agreement. Mining a reserve of strength she hadn’t known she possessed, Lily yanked him by the wrist until he did an about-face. She thrust her arm through his, linking him securely at her side. He stiffened for a moment, as though his mind and muscles were at odds over how to respond. But when she stepped forward, he did too. Thank heaven. Together, they left the drawing room and the card tables and the commander behind.

But they never made it anywhere near the garden.

Lily tugged him into the first available space—a room just across the corridor—and, with a quick glance about for servants, carefully shut the door behind them. This must be Amelia’s day room. The room was thick with overstuffed furniture designed for comfort, not fashion, and needlework baskets and homely curios occupied the tables. The windows were hung with plush velvet draperies. It was the perfect place for a private conversation.

Just the same, she strove to keep her voice low as she turned to Julian. “What was all that, then?”

His face shuttered. “Nothing.”

“For pity’s sake, you can tell me. I gather the commander made some jesting remark, one he knew I couldn’t hear. It must have been quite ill-mannered, to turn you that particular shade of red.”

Julian just shook his head, refusing to answer. He took a few paces, swinging the tension from his arms as he walked.

Lily crossed her arms over her chest. Because the room was cold, and because she needed a hug—and it seemed Julian would not offer one. “Will you make me guess? Let me see … We were playing whist, and I left them shorthanded. Ah. It must have been something about having to play with a dummy hand, hm?” She smiled to herself. “Yes, that would make sense. ‘Trading one dumb player for another.’ Was it something like that?”

When Julian made no motion to deny it, Lily supposed her guess to be near the mark. A nervous chuckle escaped her control.

“How can you laugh?” he demanded.

She threw up a hand. “How can I not? I mean, it’s a terrible pun. I’m only deaf, not dumb at all. But there’s no denying I’ve played abominably all evening.”

He blinked at her, incredulous.

She felt her own face heat. Her tongue stumbled against her teeth as she tried to explain. “It’s easier to laugh. One must have a sense of humor about such things, or life becomes unbearable. And if you’re going to be my escort in society, you’ll need to gird yourself against these little slights, too. People don’t understand. Some assume my mind went with my hearing. Others shout themselves red, as if increased volume will help. Still others are just so flummoxed by the whole idea, they ignore me entirely. The commander may be a self-important boor, I’ll grant you. But you can’t fly into a rage every time one of those fresh-faced lieutenants makes an honest attempt at conversation.”

“They were insulting you.”

“That’s mine to decide, not yours. I’m so tired of you thinking for me. First I can’t live alone. Then I can’t hold a simple dinner conversation without a knifepoint intervention. Now I can’t even know my own mind? I thought you were my friend, Julian, but a true friend wouldn’t keep reminding me of my limitations. He’d believe in me, and help me believe I can do anything I choose.”

His expression softened. “Lily, of course I believe in you, but—”

“But what? There’s no room for ‘but’ in that sentence. You can’t say you believe in me, ‘but.’ Either you believe in someone, full stop—or you don’t.”

Sighing heavily, she took a few paces about the room, trying to master her emotions and revive some faith in herself. If there was one thing worse than being the object of others’ pity, it was succumbing to self-pity. After nine years, the deafness itself rarely caused her a moment’s lamentation. Only the thoughtlessness of others sometimes dragged her spirits low.

“You have no idea, Julian. These little slights this evening—they’re nothing.” Pausing by a side table, she gave the porcelain beagle squatting there a pensive tap on the head. “Once,” she said, smoothing her fingertip down one floppy ear, “the year after my illness, I received a letter from my mother’s Aunt Beatrice. In it, she expressed her very deep distress about my affliction, as she called it. She felt it her Christian duty to point out that my deafness was a judgment from God. My punishment for being too beautiful and too proud. She prayed I would be more mindful of my spiritual health, now that my physical well-being had been compromised.”

Lily hadn’t thought about that letter in years, not consciously. But obviously the paper-thin score on her heart had never quite healed, festering all this time. Had people thought her too proud in her debut season? She hadn’t been, not excessively. Only shy. But some had obviously mistaken her natural reserve for vanity, and in a fashion, Lily must have felt shamed by Aunt Beatrice’s rebuke—for she’d never spoken of that letter to anyone, not even Leo. Why she was telling Julian about it now, she had no idea.