Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)

Lily smiled at his earnestness. These officers were a perfect audience for Julian’s charm. Like so many men of their generation, they clearly idolized him.

As the first sat, the ginger one rose. “At sea, we’re always telling jokes and amusing stories. All the best ones trace back to you.”

“All the bawdiest, you mean.” With a riffle of his short dark hair, the youngest ignored the one-at-a-time proviso and fairly exploded from his seat. “Do Prinny! Or Byron, if you will.”

Lily knew Julian had dined for years on the popularity of his imitations. Supposedly, he had the uncanny ability to reproduce a voice faithfully after hearing it just once. Leo’s friends never tired of the amusement, but it was a talent wholly lost on her.

Reaching for the platter of broiled trout before him, Julian demurred with a shake of his head. “Not now.”

But the young lieutenant would not be deterred. He leapt to his feet again. “Please, sir. I saw you a year ago, when my uncle took me by Boodles before I shipped out. And I’ve been telling my mates about it ever since—”

“Sit down.” Julian leveled the fillet knife at him. “And stay seated. All of you. You’re insulting the lady.”

The youth’s face blazed crimson as he sank to his chair. Lily felt her own cheeks heat. Well. That was the last they’d hear from any of the lieutenants at this table. They would not disobey their commander by speaking without standing, and neither would they dare to cross Julian.

She passed a dish of potatoes in his direction, taking the opportunity to murmur, “What are you doing?”

“I”—he accepted the dish with an angry motion—“am truly standing up for you.”

She bit back a response.

For several minutes, they all busied themselves with eating rather than conversing. But even with Amelia’s excellent fare, the diversion could only last so long.

The commander touched her wrist. “Will you flee to the country soon, my lady? Or do you winter in Town?”

“I will remain here in London,” she told him. “I expect my cousin—the new marquess—to arrive from Egypt soon. And you? How long will your ship be in dock?”

“A few months at least.” He gave her a solicitous smile. “Perhaps we will cross paths again.”

“Perhaps.” She turned to Julian for agreement, only to find his gaze trained fiercely on the commander’s hand where it still touched Lily’s wrist.

Yes, it was rather a liberty on the commander’s part. But really, nothing to demand that level of outrage. Julian glared at the man’s hand as though he were planning to take it joint from joint, cleaving muscle from sinew with a butcher’s efficiency—and perhaps a butcher’s implements, as well.

Lily gently withdrew her hand and reached for her glass, taking a long, leisurely sip of wine as a means of changing the subject. As she drank, she felt a palpable tension radiating from Julian’s quarter. She wanted to weep for despair. Why was he so angry all the time? Would they never be able to simply be friends again?

After the dishes and plates had been cleared, Amelia asked, “Since we are so uneven in our numbers this evening, shall we all adjourn directly to the drawing room? The gentlemen may enjoy their port in mixed company without fear of offending any delicate feminine sensibilities. Don’t you agree, Lily?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Excellent. What a lively group we’ll have for parlor games.”

They all rose, the chastened lieutenants apparently buoyed by the prospect of quality port. And though the duke looked faintly horrified by the prospect of parlor games, Lily held out hope that the group’s general humor would improve.

Unfortunately, as they departed the dining room, the commander was hasty in offering his arm. Lily had no polite way to refuse. She cast a beseeching look at Julian.

“Go on,” he said, eschewing her company for the duke’s. “Morland and I need to chat. Privately.”

The duke nodded his agreement, no doubt eager to escape the parlor games. He and Julian fell behind, then ducked into a side room.

Lily sighed. She hoped that by “chat,” Julian meant … an actual discussion. Not an exchange of insults and blows. But no matter how much she wished for the former, she knew the latter was a distinct possibility.

One minute in Morland’s study, and Julian already wanted to hit the man.

“Well, Bellamy.” The duke unstopped a decanter of brandy, timing the loud pop for dramatic emphasis. “It’s been awhile.”

Julian endeavored to remain calm. He concentrated on the amber flow of brandy as it swirled and tumbled into his glass. “Not nearly long enough for me.”

“I would be inclined to agree”—the duke filled his own glass—“if you didn’t owe me a great many explanations.”

Julian clenched his jaw. He owed this man nothing. “I assume you refer to the search for Leo’s murderers?”