Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)(83)

“I’m afraid they stayed at Morland House.”

Amelia rested one hand atop her pregnant belly and rubbed her lower back with the other. “Then I should go home, too.” She looked to Meredith. “Care to join me in the carriage? You and Lord Ashworth are welcome to stay for dinner.”

Out of habit, she extended the invitation to Julian and Lily as well, and they politely declined.

Once they’d left, Lily and Julian were the only remaining customers in the gallery.

“I bought a desk,” Lily said.

“Did you?” But he didn’t ask about it. He simply offered her his arm and walked her straight back to the gallery owner, whose buttoned pink waistcoat scalloped like the edge of a seashell as he bent to arrange some books.

When he noticed Julian, the man stood and bowed. “Good afternoon, sir. How may I be of service?”

“My wife would like to see the nudes.” Her impossible husband grinned down at her, daring her to contradict.

Scoundrel. Lily introduced the sharp point of her elbow to his ribs.

Although she was certain her cheeks were twin banners of crimson, she faced the owner and hoisted them high. She wasn’t about to demur. She wanted to be able to crow about this to Amelia and Meredith tomorrow.

And atop that, she did want to see the nudes.

The gallery owner tugged on his waistcoat. “As you wish, sir.”

With all the élan of a carnival barker, he swept aside the heavy velvet drape. Feeling a tingle of excitement, Lily nestled closer to her husband.

Together, they entered the forbidden room.

The “secret” gallery was rather a disappointment, as forbidden things all too often turned out to be. Julian was well-acquainted with the phenomenon.

But it did serve as a welcome diversion.

He carefully watched Lily’s expression as they entered the narrow room. She seemed to have no care for anything but the pictures on the walls, which put him somewhat at ease, after their conversation about tomorrow’s ride. He hated lying to her. Despised it with a dark, unwavering passion. After today, never again.

Tomorrow morning, he, Morland, and Ashworth would ride some ways out of Town, down to Woolwich, where Stone and Macleod were due to be released. The brutes would never even be freed of their chains. Once the men were hauled back to Newgate, Julian and Morland would bring Faraday to identify them. Charges would be pressed. The courts would carry the matter from there.

It would all be over tomorrow.

Calming at the thought, Julian began to take some notice of the art. On either side, the walls were lined with framed paintings. High clerestory windows lit the space, sending down trapezoids of watery light to frame the works at odd angles, making them look askew. There were a few of the expected boudoir portraits, naked women lolling about on unmade beds, their ni**les blazing unrealistic shades of cherry and plum. But the quality works outnumbered these.

The owner followed them down the row, rattling off information about each work. Artist, provenance, and such. The way he nattered on so industriously, Julian deduced the man had no idea of Lily’s deafness. Lily paid him no attention, of course, but shopkeepers were accustomed to being ignored.

She wandered thoughtfully from one picture to the next, then paused before a nude study of a man. Her foot slid back, as she retreated a pace to better take it in. Julian briefly considered teasing her, but decided against it. He loved the seriousness with which she approached the art. No missish giggles or blushing.

“The model was a laborer,” he said, when she turned to him.

“How do you know?”

“Look at the tan on his forearms and face, the roughness of his hands.”

“I suppose it must be difficult to find gentlemen of leisure willing to pose for such studies.” As though it were a connected thought, she added, “I was thinking of commissioning your portrait.”

He laughed, startled.

And now she blushed. “Not like that, of course. Fully clothed. But we should have a large one, for the house. And I would like a miniature for my dressing table.”

Ah. Sweet thought, that.

They moved on to a lovely painting of a mother bathing her young child. Julian wondered at its placement in this “gentleman’s” gallery, as there was nothing at all erotic or prurient about the composition. It was a domestic, maternal scene. The two stood before a roaring fire, the child with his feet in a basin and the woman crouched beside. The woman’s plaited hair dangled as she bent to sponge her naked cherub. She herself was dressed in a thin shift, the linen wet and clinging to her rounded br**sts and hips. The artist had done a remarkably fine job of rendering the damp, translucent fabric stretched over pink skin.

“Who is the artist?” Lily asked, turning to the gallery owner.

“A Mr. Conrad Marley,” the man answered.

Lily frowned as she turned back to the painting.

Julian touched her arm, raised his eyebrows in question.

She hesitated, throwing an apprehensive glance toward the owner. Then she signed, “Spell it for me.”

Julian smiled. He reached for his wife’s hand and brought it to his lips, ignoring the curious stare of the gallery owner. The man would never understand the small victory he’d just witnessed.

He and Lily had been practicing signing in private for weeks, but this was the first time she’d used signs with him in the company of someone else. Julian understood why she hadn’t until now, and he never would have pressed. To begin with, excluding anyone from a conversation offended her natural sense of etiquette. She would no sooner sign with him in friendly company than she would converse with him in Hindustani, for the sole reason that it alienated their companions from the discussion. But in front of servants and hackney drivers and shopkeepers, he knew she had an entirely different reason for hesitating. By signing, she openly declared herself to be deaf. She made herself vulnerable to the curiosity and even cruelty of strangers.