Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)(51)

“Until she died?”

With a curt nod, he slanted his gaze away.

“How old were you then?”

“Fourteen.” Fourteen. Half a man, and a total fool. “And I wasn’t even there for her. I was in jail when she fell ill.”

“In jail?” Her eyes widened. “At fourteen? For what?”

He shook his head. There was so much Lily didn’t know. Could never know. “I ran afoul of the wrong aristocrat. The details aren’t important now. What mattered was, I wasn’t there for my mother. There was no money saved. She was given an unmarked pauper’s grave.” Determined to prevent an outburst of emotion, he pressed a fist to his mouth. “She gave me life in a dusty storehouse, and I let her die alone.”

Beneath the blanket, he began to shake. Not with cold or hunger, but with fury. He’d been living with this anger all his days, like some sort of phantom twin. The fury had life of its own: guts and memory and corporeal strength. It made demands.

Lily rose from her chair and crossed to him, sinking to her knees before the crate. With a light, tentative motion, she curled her fingers over his trembling fist. At that first jolt of contact, he sucked in a gasp. He couldn’t bring himself to spurn her touch. So generous and warm.

Gently, she pulled his hand away from his mouth, so his lips—and his words—would not be concealed. “Please don’t hide,” she said. “I need to understand.”

The blanket slipped from his shoulders, and the room’s bracing chill gave him a moment of cold composure.

“After she was gone,” he said, “I found work here and there. Spent some time as a table monkey, cutting patterns in the back of a tailor’s shop. It was there I first glimpsed Beau Brummel. He’s the son of a secretary, do you know? And he had the cream of English society all clamoring to lighten his tea. One day, I decided, that would be me. I would have everything the lords had. Everything that should have been mine, by rights. I would take it from them. Their money. Their status. Their women. I would reverse the scales, make them envy me.” He swallowed a hot, bitter lump of rage. “I hated them so much, Lily. I hated them all.”

She moved closer still. He could smell the light fragrance of her hair. It smelled expensive, and far too refined for this humble place.

“Don’t pity me,” he said. “I’m talking about your friends. Your family, your peers. I’ve devoted all the years of my adulthood to taking what I could. I’ve joined their clubs, fleeced them of their gold, tupped their wives, mocked them to their faces. Forced them to dress in hideous colors. All out of spite and a thirst for revenge.”

“And you kept all this from Leo, and from me.”

“Yes. For years.”

Her bottom lip folded under her teeth, and her gaze sharpened with concentration. She had an aim in mind, and he didn’t know what it was.

Her hand slowly stretched toward his face. Julian held his breath. With her fingertip, she dabbed a spot high on his cheekbone, just beneath the corner of his eye. His eyelids fluttered, partly out of instinct and partly out of sheer, sweet torment at the sensation of her touch.

Then she drew back her hand, stared at it. He stared, too, and discerned something glistening on her fingertip.

Oh, devil take it. He was weeping?

She pinched her thumb against her forefinger, rubbing the evidence into her skin. There, it was gone. Just one tear. One tear wasn’t weeping. After a night of such extraordinary events, and a morning of such heartfelt confession, limiting himself to a single tear was a formidable display of restraint. Manful, even. Wasn’t it?

And really, this garret was dusty as hell. It might have been a case of simple ocular irritation. Anyway, it was over now. He blinked, and no more tears fell. Excellent.

Tragic story told. Tears contained. Crisis averted.

Until Lily sniffed and began to blink furiously. Perhaps the dust bothered her, too.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her tone one of dismay. “I’m so sorry, but I’m going to cry.”

“No.” Panic seized him. “No, don’t. Please.” With a finger, he propped up her quivering chin. “Lily, I’m not worth your tears.”

The words squeaked from her throat. “I can’t help it.”

Oh Lord, here they came. Tears, in abundance. Streaking her cheeks, tracing down to her chin. Her shoulders lurched with violent sobs, and she leaned forward, slumping inexorably toward him until her brow rested against his chest.

He raised his hands in defense, or perhaps surrender. What should he do? He could bring himself to refuse her comfort, but he couldn’t refuse to comfort her.

So he did the only thing he could. Which was, to be honest, exactly what he’d been wanting to do for a very, very long time. Ever since the night Leo died.

He wrapped his arms around her, drawing her into the protection of his body.

And he held her tight.

Chapter Thirteen

Lily loved him. She loved Julian.

There was no denying it, and at the moment, no classifying it. She didn’t know whether it made them friends or lovers or something altogether different and new. She just knew that no matter what his origins, no matter what his sins, no matter how many lies he’d told, she cared for this man—loved him—and she could not remain a spectator while he spoke of being born in shame, raised in squalor, and losing his mother while he was still no more than a boy. Her heart could not remain unmoved, and her body would not be still.