Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)(54)

It was small consolation.

He’s illegitimate, and of low birth.

She felt horrid even penning that last, but it was an inescapable fact. No one in the ton was under any illusions that the man came from royalty. But they had never truly accepted Julian into their ranks—they’d merely tolerated his shadowy origins, because he was amusing to have around. If the particulars of Julian’s childhood and social ascendancy were ever made common knowledge, he would be cut by most good families. If she were linked with him, Lily would be cut as well. She would like to have said that didn’t matter to her—but it might, a little. Her parents and Leo had been so highly respected. She would hate to besmirch their good name.

Neither could Julian’s history of poverty be overlooked. Not because it lowered him in Lily’s estimation, but because he seemed so unlikely to ever forget it himself.

She looked at the list, and even with all those items, it felt far too short. She could have listed each instance of deceit, named each of his lovers … In the end, she added one more line:

Untold secrets yet to be revealed. Most likely unpleasant.

Now she turned her attention to the other column. Her quill hovered over the page. It wasn’t that she didn’t know how to begin. It was more that once she’d begun, she doubted she would be able to stop. She couldn’t possibly write down every occasion on which he’d made her smile or laugh or reconsider her opinions, feel comforted or confident. And then there were other sensations, ones too indecent to be penned.

I love him, she wrote. Because she did. With every day that passed, she grew more certain, more aware of what had been there all along. After a moment, she added, And I believe he may love me.

She stared at the word, love. Four rather unassuming letters, for such a vast, boundless thing. But did love balance the ledger? She wasn’t sure. Poetry would argue that love conquers all. And perhaps it did, at the outset. But in the long-term accounting, Lily knew it didn’t always tally that way.

Julian understood love. He wasn’t some lackwit rake, perpetually groping for acceptance in a woman’s bosom because as a child he’d been denied a mother’s affection. No, he knew very well what love was—what it could mean to a person—and with his looks, intelligence, and charm, he surely would have no difficulty finding women to love him. Nevertheless, he’d chosen not to seek that sort of attachment for himself, preferring to chase revenge instead.

Evidently, love hadn’t been enough for Leo, either.

Once again, she succumbed to the temptation and reached for her chatelaine, searching through the keys for the slender finger of brass that opened the locked drawer. She felt guilty every time she fitted the key in the lock—first for spying on something so private, and second because of the heartbreak contained within.

She withdrew the stack of aging correspondence. By now, she was in a fair way of knowing these letters by heart. There was one missive that haunted her in particular—the last in the bundle. She smoothed it with uncertain fingers, and her eyes went to a familiar paragraph.

I’ve been thinking of your eyes a great deal of late, and wondering if you can understand how extraordinary they are. I doubt any looking glass could faithfully reflect their depth. But then, perhaps you can see their true mirror in your sister. I can’t say how much her eyes resemble yours, and I don’t suppose I shall ever have the chance to judge. Such close inspection would require an introduction, and that will never come to pass.

Would she like me, do you think? I know she and I would find at least one thing in common. But I’m teasing now, and that’s not fair.

I’m sorry for the things I said last time.

How I despise even writing those words, “last time.” But it was the last time, wasn’t it? This emptiness inside me tells me so. Curse that sterling sense of honor, so deeply embedded in your soul. Excise it somehow, will you? Then you can come to me.

But then—if you came to me without it, perhaps I would not love you as I do.

And I do. I do. Do not forget.

Every time. This letter brought tears to her eyes, every blessed time.

Her brother had been in love, with someone unsuitable or unattainable, and he’d hidden that love from everyone. Even from her. Somewhere, the author of these letters was grieving, mourning Leo all alone—because her brother hadn’t seen fit to make the introduction. Would he have made the same decisions, if he had known how few his days would be?

What would he advise Lily to do now?

She laughed to herself. Did it even matter what she decided? She might make all the tables and lists she pleased, but if Julian was determined to leave, he would leave. She could throw herself at him shamelessly, make herself utterly vulnerable to public scorn, only to be rewarded with ruination and solitude.

Here was one more item for the ledger. However, Lily wasn’t certain in which column it belonged.

I am afraid of ending up alone.

She’d been insisting for months now that she didn’t want to marry. But the reality of the alternative—decades of spinsterhood—was beginning to firm in her mind, like drying mortar. She could all too easily see herself years in the future, passing day after day in a gray drawing room with a gray-haired companion and a dozen gray cats. Even adding a rainbow-hued parrot, the picture was unbearably grim.

With a brisk shake of her head, she tore the sheet from her ledger and crumpled it into the grate. Really, she could ruminate all she liked. Nothing could be certain until she saw Julian again.