Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)(74)

God, it was all so clear to him now. So bloody obvious.

He would write to Levi Harris, reopen the investigation. Tell him to search every court record, every jail and prison log in England, and quickly. They may have been already released, or they may have gone to the gallows—who could say?

The prospect of answers dangled before him, shining and seductive.

But he’d promised Lily he’d stop looking. He’d done more than promise. He’d made vows.

“Justice is in God’s hands now,” she said, petting the line of dark hair down the center of his chest, “as it should be. We shall find retribution in sheer happiness. Don’t ever lose sleep over those men again.”

He gently dislodged her from his chest and sat up.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Those bells,” he said, frowning at the low, mournful peals. “So strange. It’s been minutes now, and they haven’t stopped.”

With those bells, married life was off to a rather unusual start.

Lily had steeled herself for a certain measure of scandal, once their marriage became common knowledge. Had either one of them married, it would have been a source of great excitement and gossip within the ton. For Lily and Julian to have married each other—and in such hasty, unexpected fashion—well, this would be a story responsible for many a tongue wagging over many a cup of cooled tea.

But on that morning, when the bells roused her husband from sleep and failed to cease tolling even after some time, Julian ventured downstairs to investigate and returned with shocking news.

Princess Charlotte had died in the night, some hours after giving birth to a stillborn babe.

With that, all England plunged into deep, formal mourning. The papers were filled with news of funeral arrangements and the relayed condolences of the world’s royalty. Parties were canceled, theaters closed. London emptied of laughter. No one paid any attention to the nuptials of a gently bred lady and an infamous rake.

It was all so very ironic. The world was too busy mourning to care about them, and behind the drawn shades of Harcliffe House, Lily and Julian were celebrating life.

Naturally, Lily shared the country’s shock and grief at Princess Charlotte’s untimely passing. After learning of the tragedy, she spent a stunned morning in her husband’s strong embrace. And as a vaguely connected relation of the royal family, she would of course attend the funeral. But she’d spent the past five months in mourning for Leo, and she seemed to have exhausted her reserve of melancholy. This was her honeymoon, and happiness would not be held at bay.

With every day—every hour—that passed, their bond strengthened. They talked of nothing new. Most of their conversations were reminiscences of old events, or a reprisal of some topic they’d discussed years before. But they went over them again with new perspective and a sense of serendipitous wonder. Like thieves who’d dug up a treasure chest by night and were only now examining its contents in the light of day. Their fingers worked constantly as they spoke, sifting through the precious gems and heavy strands of gold.

They mostly kept to the house, some days never even venturing downstairs. Julian’s valet had delivered his full wardrobe to Harcliffe House, but the dozens of topcoats and felted hats remained untouched in the closet. He lounged about in a silk banyan and loose trousers, when he dressed at all. No shirt beneath, to Lily’s infinite delight. She loved sitting across the breakfast table from him, letting her gaze stray to his unshaven throat and studying the muscular definition of his bared chest.

So she was shocked indeed to wake late one morning after a deliciously sleepless night and find him already starched and stuffed into a somber gray suit.

She blinked at him, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, and he noted her confusion.

“It’s Sunday,” he said, pairing signs with his words. “Church.” He came to the bedside and offered a hand. “Out of bed with you, then. We’ll have to make haste.”

She accepted his help in rising from the bed. “I wasn’t aware that you attended church regularly.”

“I didn’t.” He emphasized the “I” with a jab to his chest. “We do.”

“Very well.”

So they did. They attended church, and they attended the royal funeral, and they did it all looking appropriately solemn and composed. She wasn’t certain Julian’s old friends even recognized him as the man sitting at her side. There was no cracking jokes. For heaven’s sake, he never so much as cracked a smile. No matter the wild cries he wrenched from her by night, by day he seemed determined to present an eminently civil face to the world. She didn’t want to complain, but neither did she want him feeling he must change his personality for her.

“Julian,” she said one evening at dinner, almost two weeks into their marriage, “you needn’t stay at home with me every night.”

He put down his fork. “Why would I want to be anywhere else?”

“I don’t know,” she said, blushing at the implied compliment and digging a furrow in her peas. “But if you did wish to visit your friends some evening, or go round to the club, I want you to know it’s perfectly fine with me.”

“Do you wish me to go out?”

“No, not at all. I mean … I wish for you to do as you please, that’s all. Simply because you’re married doesn’t mean you must give up all your fun. Other gentlemen don’t.”