Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)(57)

She wished he would stop talking about leaving forever.

“Are you certain it’s envy?” she asked. Julian was right that they were being closely watched. But to Lily’s eye, the expressions of the onlookers read as fascination, rather than jealousy.

“Oh, yes. It’s envy. Admiration for you, tinged with loathing for me.” An ironic half-smile pulled at his lips. “I think they know, Lily. I think they finally see me for who I am. For years, I’ve been able to bluff my way into good company, but now that they see me paired with you … The truth must be obvious. They all see an illegitimate guttersnipe, daring to waltz with a lady.”

“I don’t think that’s what they see.”

They were silent for a moment.

“Have you enjoyed tonight?” he finally asked.

“I suppose I have. I’ve done as you asked, Julian. I’ve danced with every gentleman on your list, conversed with several more besides.”

“Excellent. Has any man distinguished himself in your regard?”

“Yes. One has.”

His jaw tightened. “Can I ask his name?”

“I’m not sure of his given name, to be honest.”

“Really? Describe him, then. I know everyone in the room.”

Lily smiled to herself. Were they really playing this game? “Very well,” she said. “He’s tall. Strong. Dressed to perfection, in a black topcoat and”—she shot a glance downward—“black trousers as well.” She dragged her gaze back up to his face. “He has hair dark as midnight, and a deceptively light wit. Brilliant blue eyes that make my heart skip beats. A smile that warms me in secret places. He’s my dearest friend in the world. And he’s a lovely dancer.”

As they swept into a brisk turn, she took the opportunity to ease closer in his arms and speak directly into his ear. She could only hope she struck the right volume—loud enough to be understood, not so loud as to be overheard. An uncertain tenor, for this most risky of declarations.

“Of course it’s you,” she whispered. “There’s only you. And if you’re determined to see me wed, you’ll have to do the duty yourself, Julian. Because I won’t have any other man. No one else makes me feel the way you do. No one ever will.”

Beneath her hand, his shoulder muscles bunched and tensed. A defensive reaction, but one that only spurred her on. She gazed over his shoulder at the colorful whirl of dancers. “You’re right. Everyone in this room is staring at us. They’re watching us with unguarded envy, and it’s all because they see the truth. We’re so obviously in love.”

He tripped over his own foot, landing firmly on hers. Lily suppressed a sharp cry of pain. At least she needn’t wonder whether or not he’d heard her words. They managed to cover the misstep with a quick turn, but it was a close thing.

He tried to pull back, presumably to speak with her. But she held him tight. “Not now. Please, let’s just enjoy the dance.”

He struggled for a moment more, leading with an erratic rhythm. But before long, he gave in. Their steps fell into a sympathetic cadence. The tension in his shoulders released, and his gloved hand warmed where it gripped hers. And although they were already dancing indecently close, he spread his fingers over her back and drew her closer still.

His thumb caressed her just between the shoulder blades, stroking a current of pleasure down her spine. It was the gentlest of touches, but it was deliberate and true. An admission. I love you, too. He could have stopped the music, called everyone’s attention, and declared mad, passionate, everlasting adoration for her—in rhyming couplets—and this would still be better. Now, she felt triumph. His was the only resistance she sought to conquer.

Lily allowed her head to tilt, just slightly, until her temple came to rest against his jaw. She felt his sigh stir her hair, and it roused her deep inside.

When this dance ended, there would be a reckoning. Julian might refuse to admit to his feelings, or refuse to acknowledge hers. Even these sweetest of emotions might not overcome the bitterness and guilt entrenched in his soul.

But while they danced like this, holding each other with such tenderness, he could not deny their bond. So long as this waltz lasted, they were in love—for everyone to see.

It ended far too soon.

They came to a stop. Lily was aware that all around them, people were moving. Couples were separating and re-forming for the next set. For the first time all evening, she pretended deaf ignorance. She couldn’t bring herself to let him go.

With one last surreptitious caress, Julian released her. She was afraid to even look at him, because she knew his eyes alone would spell their fate. Would they be filled with love? Hope? Regret? Sadness?

Finally, she braved a glance.

All of the above.

“Lily,” he began. Then he stopped, looking uncertain how to continue. He tilted his head, as though an idea might shake loose, and began again. “Lily …” His gaze cut to the side. “Lord Weston is approaching. He has the country dance.”

Lily wanted to growl. To the devil with Lord Weston and the country dance. She mentally rifled through the stocking drawer of acceptable feminine excuses—fatigue, dizziness, the need for refreshment … Why hadn’t she thought to turn an ankle during the waltz?

But before she could seize on a way to demur, Julian passed her hand to Lord Weston, bowed, and disappeared. Lily found herself making a numb circuit of the room—a circular promenade in prelude to the dance. As they walked, she searched the borders of the room for Julian. Her heart leapt every time she glimpsed a shock of dark, ruffled hair, but they all belonged to imitators, not the man she sought.