Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)(66)

If? If she would have him? Her own heart pounded in her throat, making rather stern demands of its own. Did the man honestly think she could turn him away?

Yes, she realized suddenly. Yes, he did. This was why he was so pale. He was terrified. Even after all the love she’d confessed last night, he thought there was a goodly chance she’d refuse him this morning—or that if she did accept him, she might change her mind in the time it took to secure a license and curate.

Oh, Julian. She saw it all in his eyes—the vulnerability, the hurt, the years of perceived rejection and scorn. After a lifelong quest to take success, steal pleasure, and wrangle admiration from the world, it didn’t occur to him he might actually deserve those things, freely given. Now the task of correcting this misapprehension fell to her.

She could not imagine a happier or more rewarding life’s work.

“Yes,” she said, keeping her words simple and few, so that they might be absolutely clear. “Yes, I will marry you.”

When he made no discernible reaction, Lily put her free hand to his face. “Julian, breathe.”

He did, with sudden and apparent relief. Color rushed back to his cheeks.

She touched her thumb to the corner of his mouth, attempting to tease it into a smile. “We are going to be so happy.”

He looked unconvinced. “We’ll be together.”

“Yes. Precisely.”

Chapter Seventeen

There was astonishingly little to a wedding.

Julian was surprised. He’d never attended any actual wedding ceremonies. Oh, he’d been invited to dozens, but he preferred to save his appearance for the celebration afterward. Somehow, he’d imagined a sacrament with such eternal implications would be accordingly lengthy and dry.

But even with the curate speaking slowly and every so often handing his liturgy to Lily so that she might read and respond, it took less than a quarter-hour to bind Lily Chatwick and Julian Bellamy in the eyes of God and man, for the remainder of this life and—with some outrageous luck—beyond.

The ceremony took place in the morning room. After vows were exchanged, he produced a pair of simple gold bands. They were unadorned, but weighty in both substance and significance. He thought nothing in his life would thrill him more than sliding that ring on her slim, elegant finger—until a half-minute later, when she slid the matching band on his. The first was the triumph of claiming his bride. The second was the poignant, bone-deep relief of being claimed.

It had been so long since he’d belonged to anyone.

They all signed the register: Lily, Holling, Swift, the curate. Julian went last. He hesitated, wishing the name he prepared to sign was actually his own.

But it was too late for attacks of conscience now.

He scrawled the signature. There, it was done.

He looked to his bride—his wife; good Lord, she belonged to him now—and she gave him a wide, gracious smile. She’d seemed genuinely shocked by his proposal this morning. On close inspection of her appearance, however, he wondered if she hadn’t expected it all along and dressed expressly for the occasion.

She looked timeless in her beauty, as a bride should be. Fifty years from now someone could say the name “Lily,” and Julian knew his sieve of an octogenarian memory would still retain this image, from this day. No matter what changes time wrought on her aspect, he would always think of her thus. Looking not only lovely, but so very much herself. Straight-spined and resolute, but soft and feminine in that cherry-pink dress and pearls. Dark, gently curving tendrils of hair framed her milk-white cheeks and burnt-sugar eyes. So tempting and sweet.

Positively edible.

“Well,” she asked, clasping her hands behind her back and bobbing on her toes, “what now?”

What now? Oh, he would show her what now.

With his thanks and a generous donation for the parish, Julian dismissed the curate.

To Swift and Holling, he directed, “Give the staff a feast and good wine, then the remainder of the day off. Place a tray for us at the top of the staircase. After that, no one, and I mean no one, is to venture abovestairs unless we ring. No lady’s maid, no footman, no chambermaid, no boy carrying coal for the grate. Not today, not tomorrow. I don’t care if it’s been three days and you’ve given us up for dead, do you understand? We are not to be disturbed.”

“But sir, the—” Holling began.

He cut her off. “Not to be disturbed.”

The housekeeper curtsied. “As you please, Mr. Bellamy.”

Once the servants had cleared out, Julian crossed the room until he stood about an arm’s length from Lily. He didn’t trust himself any closer just yet. “I very much wish to kiss my bride.”

Her rosy lips curved in a smile. “Your bride very much wishes to be kissed.”

“But there’s a problem, you see. If I kiss you here, there’s a fair chance we’ll never make it upstairs.”

“Well.” Dark lashes fluttered as she surveyed the room with mock seriousness. “There is always the divan.”

“Some other time.” He moved toward her, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Do take pity on poor Holling’s nerves, and try not to shriek.”

With that, he scooped her straight off her feet and into his arms. And she did shriek, but only a little. She clung to his neck with surprise—and perhaps a touch of playful desperation. The bite of her fingernails against his nape sent desire rippling down his spine. She weighed next to nothing, and rationally, he knew lifting her was no great feat of strength. But hefting her compact frame in his arms, fitting her tight against his chest … making a Julian-shaped bundle of Lily’s precious angles and curves … he felt protective. Powerful. And just a bit savage. His male pride swelled. Other parts of him swelled, too.