Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)(84)

Julian knew better than most the courage that required. He’d grown up watching his mother make this calculation in so many interactions—at what point would she break down and sign to Julian, asking him to explain? When did her need to understand trump the perpetual cause of caution?

Thankfully, Lily would never know the sort of treatment his mother had endured. She was wealthy and highborn, and no shopkeeper with sense would slam a door in her face. No street urchins would throw bits of refuse at her back. Still, she faced subtler forms of prejudice and disdain. And always, that backhanded “concern” from the imbecilic, self-righteous Aunt Beatrices of the world, who to preserve the fragile peace of their feeble minds would insist the defect resided not only in Lily’s ears, but in her very soul. If you cannot be like the rest of us, their subtle shaming implied, at least do not call attention to your differences.

Just now, Lily might as well have signed, “Bollocks to that.” With her question, she’d asserted her right to receive information on her own, understandable terms. Even if it made those around her suspicious or uncomfortable.

Julian wanted to catch her in a tremendous hug. Instead, he carefully spelled the artist’s name and waited for her reply.

“Mister?” she spelled back.

He confirmed with a nod.

She looked at the painting again, then signed, “No. A woman painted this. I can tell.”

“How?”

She pointed to the babe’s plump arm. “Perfect. Men always paint babies too fat or too thin.”

He considered. He’d never spent much time thinking about the relative corpulence of infants, in life or art—which, he supposed, was rather Lily’s point. “Perhaps you’re right.” Though gently-bred ladies were encouraged to draw and paint, a female artist would have to assume a man’s name if she wished to be taken seriously. Or to earn any decent money for her work.

Lily stared at the painting for a minute longer, tilting her head. Julian stared at Lily, because lovely as the picture was, his wife was lovelier. Besides, he was obviously going to buy the thing, and he’d have plenty of time to gaze upon it later. The only question was whether to purchase it now or come back in secret, to make it a surprise. Perhaps a Christmas gift.

But before he could decide, Lily surprised him.

“I think I’m pregnant,” she signed.

And with that, his world stopped. Went still as a painting.

It was as though some invisible, divine hand had forced him, and this moment, into a small, square frame. He didn’t feel hemmed-in or constrained. No, never that. Just … put into perspective. Within the borders of this picture, this precious vignette, resided everything of true meaning: the two of them, and the promise of a child. The world outside it was just noise, nothing but meaningless distraction.

At a loss for words, he laid a hand to the small of her back.

She didn’t turn to him, but her cheek dimpled with a shy smile. “I can’t be certain yet.”

Julian was certain. He knew. Within a year’s time, the world would include another plump, squirming, rosy-cheeked creature, and that infant would be part him and part her, forever intermingled and impossible to separate. Looking at the domestic Madonna in the painting before him, Julian felt he understood why God had introduced His greatest miracle to the world in the form of a helpless infant. He couldn’t conceive of a more humbling, awesome thing than a child.

Not just a child. Their child.

This was his chance to start fresh and do everything right. For so long he’d chased revenge. Now true redemption was in reach. He wasn’t a bastard child any longer. He was a grown man, a husband, soon to be a father. His family would have every advantage Julian had never known. His wife would never be driven to sacrifice her own comfort or nourishment for the sake of their child. His son would be tutored in Latin and Greek, would never even learn the signs for “hungry” or “cold” or “frightened” or “penny.”

“We’ll take this one,” he told the gallery owner.

Once the purchase had been settled, they left the shop together and began strolling aimlessly down the crowded street. Lily suggested they walk the short distance to their new residence before returning to Harcliffe House.

“I’d like to see how the blue toile is working in the parlor.”

Julian was thinking of the house, too. But he wanted a look at the nursery. He needed to check it for drafts. Had there been enough bars on the window? “Just wait until it’s all done,” he told her. “It’s too dusty right now.”

“And what is a touch of dust?” Lily shook her head. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you. Now you’ll be insufferably protective.”

Of course he would be protective. And if she thought he was insufferably so today, she ought to wait for tomorrow. Once Leo’s killers were brought to justice, safeguarding Lily would become his paramount purpose in life. Ridiculous as he knew it to be, part of him wanted to wrap her in cotton wool and confine her to bed for the next eight months.

With one arm draped around her shoulders, he steered her through the river of humanity, banked by shop fronts on the one side and carriages on the other. He was unbearably anxious she might be jostled by a passerby or jabbed in the eye with a parasol spoke.

Wham.

Julian was broadsided. An anonymous shoulder and elbow conspired to give him a firm, swift shove that sent him careening off-balance. Despite his best efforts, he stumbled against Lily, slamming her into a shop’s display window. She cried out in surprise, and no doubt some measure of pain.