Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)(55)

Tomorrow. She would see him tomorrow. The word had little wings, and it beat a joyous rhythm in her chest.

Or, wait—perhaps that was just Tartuffe, fussing on his perch. The bird did make an excellent door knocker. Much more effective than the mirrors had ever been. Lily turned to find Swift standing in the entryway.

The butler bowed. “If you please, my lady. A delivery.”

From behind him, a footman entered bearing a large, rectangular box. Atop the box was a sealed envelope. Lily dismissed the servants with her thanks and reached for the note. She knew it had to be from Julian. She hadn’t seen him since that morning in the coffeehouse, but he’d been sending little missives every day. That first afternoon, he’d sent a note asking after her health. She’d replied with assurances and asked for the same in kind. He sent them the following morning, along with an inquiry as to the color of her gown for the assembly. She wrote him she had not decided yet but would keep him informed when she did. And on and on, the notes went to and fro, addressing everything but matters of true consequence. He might as well have signed them all, “Your besotted correspondent, Julian.”

Then yesterday, Amelia and the Duke of Morland had come to call, professing a wish to help her practice dancing. Lily had no doubt that they came at Julian’s prodding. She would have been hard pressed to say which had been more awkward—dancing with the taciturn, imposing duke, or dancing with the pregnant Amelia taking the gentleman’s part. But despite the discomfort, Lily had practiced, and industriously so. There was pride at stake.

And now, it would seem Julian had progressed from sending her notes and visitors to sending her gifts. For a man so determined not to woo her, his behavior was curious indeed.

She opened the envelope first and found a neatly ordered list, divided in two columns. In general appearance, it was uncomfortably similar to the paper she’d just tossed into the fire. Her heart skipped a beat. Upon perusing it, however, she learned it was not a list of Arguments For or Against anything—but rather a list of dances in the first column, and on the other side, a list of names. A quick scan revealed them to belong to quite wealthy, mostly titled, and entirely eligible gentlemen. With a few notable exceptions. Near the end, Morland’s name was listed next to a waltz, and Amelia’s older brother Laurent, the Earl of Beauvale, was down for the opening quadrille.

One name was noticeably missing from the list. Julian’s.

Frowning, she opened and read aloud the note he had enclosed. Silly, perhaps, reading aloud for no one’s ears—not even her own. But she liked the feel of his words on her tongue.

“‘Dear Lily, as promised, I have learned the list of dances for Lord and Lady Ainsley’s assembly. I have also taken the liberty of engaging your partners in advance.’” She muttered to herself, “Yes, a liberty indeed. How very generous of you, Julian.” She returned to the letter. “‘As for the contents of the package, I trust you will know for whom they are intended. For fear of offending propriety, I dare not send the gift direct.’”

Now this was a true mystery. What could he mean? Lily untied the twine binding the package and removed the top of the box. In it, she found a cloud of white tissue and a small note card that read,

With apologies. No ermine was in stock.

She lifted from the box a heavy winter cloak. The black wool was of the finest quality, soft as kittens to the touch. The entire garment was lined in velvet, and the collar was edged with sable. It was a cloak fit for—not a queen, perhaps, but a well-heeled member of her court—and its proportions were far and away too large for Lily’s frame.

Smiling to herself, she flung the cloak over her arms and went in search of her housekeeper. “Holling,” she sang out down the corridor. “I believe you have an admirer.”

Chapter Fourteen

Julian prepared for the ball in the same way a pugilist prepared for a prizefight. He rested well, ate well, marshaled his powers of concentration. He readied his jabs and his evasive maneuvers. Tonight was the night he learned the truth—the truth of his enemy, the truth of Leo’s death. Anticipation resonated in his bones. By God, he was ready to deal some blows.

But first, there would be dancing. Merriment before the fall. By the time he arrived at Lord and Lady Ainsley’s assembly (late, of course; it would not do to be punctual), he’d amassed a long mental list of activities designed to help him avoid standing about, gawping at Lily.

The problem was, he had a difficult time finding any gamblers eager for a brisk game of dice, or gentlemen desiring a good, lengthy chat on the aesthetic merits of Covent Garden’s newest Parisian actress. Because, it seemed, every other man at the assembly was perfectly happy to stand about, gawping at Lily.

Within five minutes of entering the assembly rooms, Julian admitted defeat and joined them.

She looked astoundingly well tonight. To Julian, she looked well every night, but on this particular occasion, she’d attained a new pinnacle of elegance. Her gown of shimmering bronze moiré wasn’t the most au courant, nor the most expensive in the room. The simple upsweep of her dark, thick locks wasn’t a new or innovative coiffure. And she did have a few true contenders for the honor of loveliest lady in attendance. But those ladies could go stew in their own beauty. All eyes were on Lily, and her name was on every tongue. In the gentlemen, she inspired open admiration. In the ladies, she inspired rumor and envy. As he passed one knot of besotted young bucks, Julian felt sure he heard her inspiring some shockingly bad poetry.