Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)(4)

“And you fainted.”

“Fainted? No.”

“You swooned.”

“No,” he said stoutly, jamming his hand under his arm. “Absolutely not. I didn’t swoon, Lily. Men do not swoon.”

“You slumped to the pavement unconscious, for the costermonger to find. Sounds like a fainting spell to me. What else could it have been?”

“I don’t know. Something different. Apoplexy. Malaria.” Anything more masculine than swooning.

Her eyes rolled toward the ceiling. “You don’t have apoplexy or malaria. Aside from your wound and a few bruises, the doctor could find nothing wrong with you. Not physically, at any rate. You’re simply exhausted. When was the last time you slept through the night?”

“Can’t recall, honestly.”

“Hm. And when’s the last time you had a proper meal?”

“Ah, now that I remember. I had a very fine steak at the Stoat’s Head.”

“Yesterday?”

He hedged, pushing a hand through his hair. “Not precisely.”

One dark eyebrow arched in disbelief. “You fainted, Julian.”

“And what if I did? What would you have me do, start carrying a vinaigrette?” He chuckled to himself. That would be a good joke. Within a week, every young buck in London would be carrying the same. Like Beau Brummel before him, Julian was the trendsetter of his day. His clothing, hair, even mannerisms were meticulously copied by the impressionable young gentlemen of the ton. Just as he’d planned from the start.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I want you to start taking care of yourself, that’s all. Sleep. Eat. Avoid scenes of violence and mayhem. Is it really so difficult?”

“Yes. It’s impossible.”

She winced, absorbing the force of his reply. He regretted his vehemence, but not the sentiment.

She said quietly, “I want you safe. I care about you. What’s so impossible about that?”

Everything.

He yanked the coverlet about himself, scanning the room for his clothes. He had to get out of this bed, this house … before this conversation went places it shouldn’t. He planted one foot on the floor and transferred his weight to it.

Dizziness swamped him. The room made a violent twirl, and he found himself pitched straight back to the mattress.

“Malaria,” he muttered. His arms felt wooden at his sides.

“It’s not malaria. Nor even a fainting spell this time. The doctor left a sleeping powder, and I put some in your barley water.”

She pushed him back on the bed, arranging the coverlet about him. Her hands … they were everywhere. As she leaned forward to arrange the pillows beneath his head, he got an intoxicating lungful of her sweet warmth. The swell of her breast brushed against his wounded arm. Soft. God, so soft. His heart gave a wild kick. Now this was perilous.

He said, “I thought you wanted me to avoid danger.”

“I do. That’s why you’re going to sleep. When you wake up, you’re going to eat. And then we’re going to talk.”

Her words seemed wrapped in cotton. It took him a moment to unravel their meaning. “Just how much sleeping powder did you give me?”

“Two doses, and an extra pinch for good measure. You’re a large man, Julian Bellamy.”

“Ah, Lily. You noticed.” The flirtatious retort slipped out by accident. Damn. He was so sleepy, drunken with it. He couldn’t censor his replies.

“You’re also an ass.”

“You know me so well.”

“Do I?” She laid a hand to his cheek. “Sometimes I wonder. Sometimes I think I don’t know you at all.”

“Don’t say that.”

Her dark eyes searched his. So beautiful, those eyes. He wanted to keep staring into them for hours—forever—but some devil’s imp had tied lead weights to his eyelashes. He couldn’t hold them up much longer.

“Go to sleep.” Her soft form receded.

“No, wait. Don’t go. I’m sorry.”

A spike of clarity pierced his drugged haze. He struggled up on one elbow. With his other hand, he reached for her, curling his hand around the back of her slender neck. He wove his fingers into the thick silk of her hair, holding her tight. Leaving her nowhere to look but at him. He needed to say this. Nothing in the world was more important than saying these words, right now. And he needed to know she understood.

He twisted his grip in her hair, and she gave a little gasp. He waited until her gaze fell to his lips. There. Now he knew she was listening.

“I’m so sorry, Lily. So damn sorry, and I wish to God … It’s my fault, you know. Leo’s murder. My fault. But I’m going to make it right. Not right. Can’t be put right. But better. I swear to you, I’ll …”

Damn it, he was rambling like a bedlamite. From the furrowed set of her brow, he could tell he’d lost her some ways back.

“Please,” she said. “Don’t distress yourself so.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice breaking into a hoarse whisper. He began again, forcing his lips to shape the words clearly, even if no sound came out. “You must know I’d do anything for you. For you. You and I … I wish …”

She shushed him, tapping her thumb against his jaw. “Rest, Julian.”