Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)(41)

As the trained poodles departed the stage, Julian shook off those cold, hungry memories and laid a hand to Lily’s back. He ushered her to their place on the velvet-padded bench. A juggler in classic harlequin garb took the stage for a few minutes. After his routine, the lights dimmed a touch.

As the curtain rose on the play proper, Lily leaned close. Her warm breath stirred against his ear. “Thank you.”

Just as quickly as she’d come, she slid away. But her arm lingered, grazing his. Suddenly, Julian was reliving a different part of his youth—those heady adolescent years when he’d lived for the slightest brush of female skin, a whiff of sweet perfume, or a furtive glimpse of stocking-clad ankle. That exhilaration of first contact was hard to recapture now. As a consequence of his exploits over recent years, he’d grown jaded, and precariously close to bored, when it came to women on the whole.

But Lily was different. A mere glance from her could be a thorn to his side or a balm to his soul, depending. She could voice but a syllable, and it was like silk sliding over his skin. And nothing thrilled him more than simply seeing her content. That whispered thanks against his ear made the whole night worthwhile. Honestly, it probably redeemed the better part of his year.

Absurdly choked with emotion, he slid his gaze toward her. She sat with her head tilted up, staring at the actors on stage. Her eyes were bright with reflected stage lamps, and the hood of her cloak had slipped back, revealing a mass of dark curls and her dusky, parted lips. She was lost in the performance, utterly absorbed.

For his part, Julian didn’t hear a word of the play.

“My goodness,” Lily said, “did you not hear a word of the play?” She took Julian’s arm as they moved to exit the theater. Departing guests crushed on all sides, forcing them closer together. “How could you fail to have an opinion?”

“What opinion can one have on a comedy? Either it amuses or it doesn’t.”

“But that’s not true. A comedy can have all manner of themes and meanings. Take the character of Tartuffe, for example, and his disguise of false—”

Lily’s remark was cut short when a theatergoer jostled her from behind. She stumbled, but Julian pulled her up and steadied her elbow with his free hand. When she’d regained her balance, he pivoted her to face him.

“Are you well?” he asked.

She wasn’t sure. The look in his eyes—blue and brimming with intense concern—made her weak in the knees all over again. Goodness. This must be the look he used to seduce women. That look said, If you are hurt, I am hurt. If something is broken, I will fix it. Tell me your great toe is sore, and I will walk to Shropshire to gather herbs for a poultice. Sir Walter Raleigh had made these eyes at the queen before throwing his cape over that mud puddle. Lily was sure of it.

At length, she nodded. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

He frowned and gestured in the vicinity of his brow. “Your hair is showing.”

With an exasperated tug, Lily drew the woolen hood up and over her curls. Really, if there were people of her acquaintance in attendance, they were not likely to be scanning the crush of humanity in the pit. And, even if there were, the chances of one of them marking Lily out in the crowd were slim indeed.

They exited through the same tunnel by which they’d entered. When they emerged, they found the night cold and dark. Moisture fizzled in the air—not quite rain, not quite fog. Now and then, a knife-edged gust of wind cut straight through the protection of Holling’s thick cloak.

“We’ll find a hack just up here,” he said.

Despite the stinging mist, Lily kept her face up and her eyes open wide. The stream of people exiting the pit flowed through an entirely different channel than the route she was accustomed to following. They turned onto a narrow street, lined with little shops. Street vendors waved to them from both sides—standing under burning oil lamps, hawking roasted nuts and steaming pies, snuff for the gentlemen, flowers for the ladies, ballads for lovers.

Her eye was drawn to a Romany woman dressed in vibrant silks and carrying a basket of cut flowers. Her smoky eyes promised intrigue and romance. As Lily passed, the old gypsy woman held out her palm and raised a brow.

Lily tugged Julian’s arm, pulling him to a halt. “Let’s have our fortunes told.”

He gave her a disbelieving look as people streamed around them.

“Come on,” she said. “Why not?”

“Because it’s late and cold and raining, and if we stand about chatting with shady street merchants, I predict with certainty you’ll catch a chill.”

She smiled patiently. “Fortunately, I do have a rather formidable cloak.”

Lily knew it was late, and the weather was harsh. Truth be told, she was shivering violently in this gray woolen cocoon. But she just couldn’t bear the thought of the evening being over. After this night, he’d only promised one more.

She shook herself, unwilling to dwell on that thought. It neighbored too close to desolation.

Working beneath her cloak, she tugged one hand from its glove and stretched it toward the fortune-teller. “Give her a coin, won’t you?”

Julian grabbed for Lily’s hand instead. He turned it palm-side-up in his gloved grip and said, “If it’s a fortune you want, I’ll read it.”

The sudden contact left her breathless. “Oh.”