Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)(5)

Julian. The name echoed through his skull until he scarcely recognized it as his own. Perhaps because it wasn’t.

“You should sleep,” she said.

His chin concurred, nodding in agreement. He should sleep. He should.

No. His eyes snapped open. He couldn’t let her go, not yet. And if he couldn’t reach her with words, he’d have to try something else. With his last bit of consciousness, he pushed up on one arm, pulled her close with the other—

And kissed her. God damn his soul, he kissed Lady Lily Chatwick for all he was worth. Which, unfortunately, wasn’t much at the moment.

Beneath his palm, her neck went rigid with shock. Her lips were warm, but firm. Resistant. Sealed.

Still he held her fast, pressing his mouth to hers with artless desperation. All his seductive techniques—clever caresses, murmured endearments, nimble flicks of the tongue—they’d deserted him utterly. After all these years, so many fantasies of this moment … Bloody hell. This was not going well, not at all.

He tilted his head, hoping a different angle might help.

A panicked sound creaked from her throat.

Julian cursed himself. Really, he wanted to pull back and insist, I’m a much better kisser than this.

But what was the use? He’d never have another chance to prove it.

Then, suddenly, something happened. Or nothing happened.

Because in that moment, neither of them moved. Neither of them breathed. They just … existed together. The tension melted away. And the kiss was still artless, still desperate—but only because it was real. The most honest, truthful moment they’d ever shared.

The sheer power of it was a lightning strike, jolting them apart.

He stared at her, unable to speak as the room contracted to a dark, narrow tunnel. He at one end, and she at the other. Sleep tugged at him with its clumsy grasp, stealing the edges from his vision and the strength from his limbs. His grip slipped from her neck. Strands of her hair slid through his fingers like water. Cool and abundant and vital.

Impossible to hold.

He fell back to the bed, and knew no more.

Chapter Two

There had been a time, not so very long ago, when Julian had counted few regrets in his life. The night of Leo’s murder, those “few” regrets multiplied to “many.”

And he faced today with the unhappy knowledge that at some point overnight, “many” had been revised to “innumerable.”

From the tangled nest of bed linens, he peered at the mantel clock. His head throbbed with pain as he struggled to focus. Noon already. He’d lost half the day.

Bugger half the day, his pounding brain insisted. You’ve lost your wits. You kissed Lily, you unmitigated ass. And you didn’t even do it well.

God. He couldn’t conceive of how to remedy the circumstance now. If it could be remedied at all. He had to get out of here.

Taking care with his wounded arm, he rose from the bed and staggered to the washstand. Unwilling to wait for a proper bath to be drawn, he made good use of the pitcher of water and cake of soap. After he’d sponged his face and torso clean, he dried his body with a small towel and cast about for something to wear. To the side, a set of clean garments was laid out. Crisp shirt and cravat, dun trousers, dark blue coat.

Julian didn’t recognize the clothes as his own. Which meant they were likely Leo’s.

Suppressing a morbid shudder, he rang for a servant. “I want my own clothing,” he said to the footman who promptly appeared.

“But sir, they’re soiled. The laundress hasn’t yet—”

“I don’t care. Just bring them.”

The liveried youth bowed. “Yes, sir.”

While he waited, Julian turned his attention to a tray of covered dishes on the side table. He lifted a silver dome to find an array of food: cold meats, cheeses, pickle, bread and butter, a dish of grapes and apricots. His stomach churned. Much as he hated to admit it, Lily had been right in this respect. He needed to make more effort to take sustenance, even when he didn’t feel like eating. Brandy and fury could only fuel a man for so long.

He forced himself to choke down some cold ham, a small hunk of bread, and a wedge of hard cheese. By the time he’d washed the food down with a cup of tea, the footman had reappeared with his clothing.

The shirt and cravat had been washed out and hastily ironed. The left sleeve still showed a jagged rent, of course, and some faded bloodstains spotted the fabric. But the unstarched linen felt warm and fresh against his skin. The silk front of his waistcoat was largely unblemished.

His topcoat, however … the thing was beyond saving, but someone had made a valiant attempt. The garment had been carefully hung and brushed, and, he judged with a sniff, steamed with a light perfume. The tear on the sleeve was not so obvious to the observer, but inside, the lining was streaked with dried blood.

Julian’s nose wrinkled as he slid his arms into the sleeves. He would have to burn the thing as soon as he returned home. Underneath that misting of eau de cologne, the wool retained the faint odor of filth.

Much the same, his detractors would doubtless say, as Julian Bellamy himself.

Tugging violently on his cuffs, he cursed his stupidity. Of all the places to collapse—on the street in front of Harcliffe House? He was no stranger to the gutter, but he’d sworn he would never return. And for Lily to see him like that …