Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)(6)

He rubbed his temples. Time to make his escape.

“If you please, sir.” Swift, the butler, appeared in the doorway. “Lady Lily requests that you join her downstairs, once you are feeling quite”—the silver-haired man gave him an assaying look—“restored.” He bowed and left.

Restored. Julian mused on the word. Was he feeling quite restored? With a full belly and a bandaged arm, perhaps he approached that definition. But feeling restored was a different matter from feeling redeemed. The latter sensation would continue to elude him, he feared.

Couldn’t he just sneak out of the house? Send her a note of apology later, perhaps with a flower arrangement of outrageous size?

He sighed heavily. No, he couldn’t.

He took the stairs slowly, then ducked his head into each open room in turn, searching for Lily. She wasn’t in the salon. Nor the morning room, nor the parlor. The music room seemed an unlikely spot, but he crossed the corridor and tried it anyway.

No Lily.

Leo’s library was next. He breezed by it, not expecting to find her there. When he glimpsed a flash of muslin inside, he pulled up short, stumbling against the doorjamb and banging his injured arm.

“Blast. Bugger. Bloody hell.”

The string of oaths—even so violently uttered—was spoken without consequence, swallowed whole by the stillness of the room.

Lily sat at the desk, quill in hand, her dark head bent over an open ledger. From the doorway, Julian observed her closely. The plume of her quill continued its slow, stately promenade across the page. He could just make out the gentle scratch of her script over the fierce drumming of his heart.

He leaned against the doorframe—on his good shoulder this time. “I’ve mucked it right well this time, haven’t I? Tell me, Lily. How do I make this right?”

The pen stilled. Her slender, elegant hand slowly replaced the quill in the inkwell. She raised her head a few degrees, giving him her exquisite profile. Midday sunlight streamed in from the window behind her, gilding the soft features of her face and dusting her eyelashes with bronze. She had the loveliest ears he’d ever seen, each one a delicate porcelain spiral, like the handle of a teacup. So perfect.

So fragile.

“Do you know,” he said, “there are men who would like very much to see me dead. Powerful men. Obscenely wealthy men. Men who can afford to be patient and engage the services of large, ruthless brutes. I’ve managed to evade them all. But you … God’s truth, I think you’ll be the very death of me.”

She frowned at the ledger, then flipped it closed. Sliding the book aside with a graceful turn of her wrist, she withdrew a neat stack of letters from a drawer.

While she unfolded the topmost missive, Julian reached for the mirror. As was the case in every room of the Chatwicks’ graciously appointed Mayfair town house, a small mirror dangled from the doorjamb, affixed there by means of a length of ribbon and a tack. He twisted it, angling the reflective surface to face the window. Catching a ray of sunlight, he flicked his wrist back and forth until the flutter of bright flashes drew her attention.

Blinking with surprise, Lily lifted her face to the doorway. As she took in his appearance, her lips curved in a welcoming smile. “Oh, Julian. Forgive me, I didn’t notice you there.”

“Good afternoon.” He made a gallant bow, crossed the room to her, and took her outstretched hand in his, giving it a light squeeze, nothing more. When he released her fingers, her expression was puzzled, perhaps even hurt. But today he didn’t trust himself with a kiss.

She gave the cuff of his sleeve a smart twist. “You needn’t use the mirrors. They’re for servants, not friends or family. You’re both.”

“I didn’t want to startle you.”

Julian wondered if it would ever cease to startle him, the boundless generosity of the Chatwicks. Ever since he’d formed an acquaintance with Lily’s twin brother, Leo, the late Marquess of Harcliffe, Julian had been welcomed into this house. First as a friend, then as honorary family. They knew nothing of him. Not his ancestry, not his origins. Not even his true name. But never once had they treated him like one who ought to use the mirrors rather than tap a noblewoman’s shoulder to draw her attention.

Leo and Lily Chatwick were, without question, a singular example of goodness among the social elite. Now Leo was dead, and it was Julian’s fault. And Lily was left alone, and that was his fault, too.

“You look lovely,” he told her, as if a feeble compliment could make everything right.

“Thank you. You look dreadful.” Her dark brown eyes scanned his appearance. “Just look at that coat. Once it fit you to perfection, and now it hangs loose on your frame.”

“I’m making it the new fashion. Next Season, they’ll all be wearing ill-fitting coats with ripped sleeves. The tailors will despise me.”

Lily gave him a chastening look. “We need to talk.”

Here it was. The moment he’d been dreading. “Very well.” He took a straight-backed armchair and placed it just a few feet from hers, positioning it to facilitate lipreading. “Let’s talk.”

“No, not here.” She replaced the bundle of letters in the drawer, then shut and locked it with a small key. Reaching for her gloves, she said, “Let’s go out to the square. It’s a lovely afternoon.”

Julian hesitated. “Really, I’m not fit for public view. And I ought to be—”