Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)

“Come on,” she said. “Why not?”


“Because it’s late and cold and raining, and if we stand about chatting with shady street merchants, I predict with certainty you’ll catch a chill.”

She smiled patiently. “Fortunately, I do have a rather formidable cloak.”

Lily knew it was late, and the weather was harsh. Truth be told, she was shivering violently in this gray woolen cocoon. But she just couldn’t bear the thought of the evening being over. After this night, he’d only promised one more.

She shook herself, unwilling to dwell on that thought. It neighbored too close to desolation.

Working beneath her cloak, she tugged one hand from its glove and stretched it toward the fortune-teller. “Give her a coin, won’t you?”

Julian grabbed for Lily’s hand instead. He turned it palm-side-up in his gloved grip and said, “If it’s a fortune you want, I’ll read it.”

The sudden contact left her breathless. “Oh.”

A fingertip clad in warm, close-fitting kid leather slid over the lines of her palm. Suddenly, the night didn’t seem so chilled anymore.

“A long life,” he said, tracing a line from the crook of her thumb to the outer edge of her palm. “Good health and happiness.” He lifted her hand and pretended to peer at it. “Ten … No, eleven.”

“Years?”

“Children.”

“Eleven children?” A burst of laughter escaped her. “Goodness. By whom?”

“By your husband, of course. In your future, I see you taking a very dependable, respectable, faithful husband.” Droplets of moisture dotted the glass in his spectacles. She couldn’t make out the expression in his eyes.

“He sounds terribly dull.” She couldn’t help but tease. “Is he perchance a clerk?”

He dropped her hand, and the air between them was suddenly heavy with awkwardness.

“At least buy me a flower?” she said.

He fished a coin from his pocket and tossed it in the gypsy woman’s basket, withdrawing a single mist-glazed rose. “Here,” he said, presenting it to her wrapped in a ribbon of irony. “Because the hundreds of blooms in your drawing room are growing lonely.”

“I like this one best.” She took it in her ungloved hand, and together they continued on.

Lily glimpsed a row of hackney cabs waiting up ahead. Too close. She couldn’t bear to let him go just yet. She stopped abruptly.

Again, he turned to her, plainly confused. “Lily, is there something you want?”

Words failed her. What could she say? She hardly knew what she wanted, much less how to ask for it. Time. She just wanted time. Time spent with him, exploring this delicious, palpable attraction and the meaning of it all.

“Julian, when you were staring into my palm …”

He nodded, swallowing hard.

“Did you perchance see dinner in our future? I’m positively famished.”

“I’m certain Holling will have—”

“No, no. I don’t want to wait that long. I’m hungry now. Surely there are shops hereabouts that cater to theatergoers.”

“There are, I’m certain. None of them are fit for you to visit.”

“Me?” She smiled. “But you forget, I’m a common woman, sir. I dine in these establishments all the time.” To her left, a leaded glass window threw diamonds of yellow light onto the pavement. Lily peered through the open door. A greasy aroma wafted out, mingled with the sharp tang of spirits. “What about this place? Is it a cookshop? Or an alehouse?”

Julian frowned. “A bit of both, and then some other things besides. If it’s a label you’re looking for, ‘Den of Iniquity’ would likely cover it.”

“Excellent. I’m absolutely starved for some iniquity.” She dropped his arm and walked through the open door, knowing he would follow.

Chapter Eleven

Julian followed her, of course. What choice did he have?

Catching up to her in the entryway, he grasped her by the elbow and wheeled her around. She tottered on her heels. For a brief moment, he considered throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her straight out the door. Then he found himself enjoying that image, far too much.

“No,” he said simply. To her or to himself, he didn’t know.

“It doesn’t look so bad,” she said, darting a glance about the place. “Let’s stay.”

Julian surveyed the place. She was right; it didn’t look so bad. The room was crowded with a number of tables, stools, benches and the occasional straight-backed chair. About half of the tables were occupied with couples or chatty groups of men, many of whom clutched playbills in their hands.

“Very well,” he said, resigned. “Just dinner.”