Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)

“I hope no one minds if we dine en famille,” Amelia said. “It seems we are all close friends or family, in one way or another.”


From every corner of the table, the guests nodded their approval. But no one spoke. Lily worried that the commander’s “stand and declaim” order would quell all meaningful conversation.

As the footmen shook out the napkins and laid them in each guest’s lap, she screwed up her courage and turned to her dinner partner. “May I ask where your family resides, Commander?”

“In Somersetshire, my lady. My father is a baronet. I’m the third son. The ne’er-do-well, I’m afraid, sent off to the Navy at the tender age of seventeen.”

“You must have distinguished yourself very quickly, to have reached such an elevated rank.”

Michael said, “The commander is being modest. He proved his mettle during the action in Chesapeake Bay three years past. He was there for the burning of the city of Washington.”

“Is that so?”

But no answer was forthcoming. Amelia rose from her chair, and all the gentleman shot to their feet as well. This prompted a giddy ripple of laughter at the lieutenants’ end of the table, but as Lily watched, the amusement vacated their faces to make way for awe.

A darting glance toward the doorway confirmed her suspicion.

Julian had arrived. And arrived in style. He was always well-dressed, but tonight he’d outdone himself. Every detail of his appearance—each button, cuff, or twist of his cravat—had been arranged with such precision, the military uniforms in the room looked like paupers’ rags by comparison.

He bowed deeply to their hosts. “I apologize for my tardiness. I was”—he cast Lily a brief, cryptic look—“detained.”

The duke inclined his head with thinly veiled irritation. Amelia made hasty introductions, and everyone settled back to the table.

Lily indicated the empty seat next to her. “You’re just in time.”

So strange. Julian’s arrival ought to have heralded a deep surge of relief in her soul. If he was here, that meant he was not out chasing danger. And if he was here, it meant she had an ally to facilitate communication. She’d been waiting for him all night.

But when he approached, took her hand, and bowed over it—his intense blue eyes never leaving hers—it wasn’t relief she felt, but a prickling awareness that seemed some distant cousin to fear. The ground beneath her narrowed, coiled round and round on itself until she balanced on a taut, thin cable stretched between this moment and the next. Dizzying.

As Julian took his place at the table and the footman poured his wine, Lily found her attention drawn to parts of him she wasn’t in the habit of noticing. The neat, blunt edges of his fingernails. The freshly clipped fringe of hair just behind his ear. The red, razor-thin score on the underside of his jaw—the result of overzealous shaving, perhaps. The faint sandalwood aroma of shaving soap hovered about him, elusive and masculine, and with every breath her lungs expanded greedily, determined to catch more of it.

Had his earlobes always been that square-ish shape? Why had she never noticed it before?

Why was she noticing now?

Julian suddenly turned his head, and his gaze crashed straight into hers. She startled, embarrassed to have been caught staring. His eyebrow quirked in question. She didn’t have an answer.

“Commander,” she blurted out, swallowing hard as she turned. “You were telling us about the burning of Washington.”

“Yes,” the commander replied, his chest puffing a bit. “We occupied the American capitol for all of six-and-twenty hours before we were forced to retreat. But I was part of the group who burned the White House. When we entered, we found supper waiting on the table. Hospitable of them, wasn’t it?”

“Truly?” Amelia asked.

“Oh, yes. We walked in, and there was a meal laid for forty. So before we set fire to the house, we sat down and ate Madison’s supper.” He smiled. “But I must say, Your Grace, that meal was nothing to touch the feast you’ve laid before us tonight.” He gestured toward the array of roasts and delicately sauced vegetables.

Amelia blushed her thanks.

At the head of the table, the duke gave his wife a look of admiration and pride. He raised his glass. “A drink to her health. Her Grace, the Duchess of Morland.”

In unison, the lieutenants bolted to their feet with a chorus of “Hear, hear!” before sitting and gulping wine.

Julian’s brow creased with annoyance. “Such enthusiasm. Is that a naval tradition?”

Lily took it upon herself to explain. “The commander has requested his lieutenants stand when they speak, so that I may better follow the conversation. Isn’t that considerate of him?” With her eyes, she pleaded for his agreement.

She didn’t receive it.

“‘Considerate’ isn’t the word.”

The lieutenant in the middle rose from his chair. “If I may say it, Mr. Bellamy, it’s an honor to meet you, sir.”