Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)

Once again, she succumbed to the temptation and reached for her chatelaine, searching through the keys for the slender finger of brass that opened the locked drawer. She felt guilty every time she fitted the key in the lock—first for spying on something so private, and second because of the heartbreak contained within.

She withdrew the stack of aging correspondence. By now, she was in a fair way of knowing these letters by heart. There was one missive that haunted her in particular—the last in the bundle. She smoothed it with uncertain fingers, and her eyes went to a familiar paragraph.

I’ve been thinking of your eyes a great deal of late, and wondering if you can understand how extraordinary they are. I doubt any looking glass could faithfully reflect their depth. But then, perhaps you can see their true mirror in your sister. I can’t say how much her eyes resemble yours, and I don’t suppose I shall ever have the chance to judge. Such close inspection would require an introduction, and that will never come to pass.

Would she like me, do you think? I know she and I would find at least one thing in common. But I’m teasing now, and that’s not fair.

I’m sorry for the things I said last time.

How I despise even writing those words, “last time.” But it was the last time, wasn’t it? This emptiness inside me tells me so. Curse that sterling sense of honor, so deeply embedded in your soul. Excise it somehow, will you? Then you can come to me.

But then—if you came to me without it, perhaps I would not love you as I do.

And I do. I do. Do not forget.

Every time. This letter brought tears to her eyes, every blessed time.

Her brother had been in love, with someone unsuitable or unattainable, and he’d hidden that love from everyone. Even from her. Somewhere, the author of these letters was grieving, mourning Leo all alone—because her brother hadn’t seen fit to make the introduction. Would he have made the same decisions, if he had known how few his days would be?

What would he advise Lily to do now?

She laughed to herself. Did it even matter what she decided? She might make all the tables and lists she pleased, but if Julian was determined to leave, he would leave. She could throw herself at him shamelessly, make herself utterly vulnerable to public scorn, only to be rewarded with ruination and solitude.

Here was one more item for the ledger. However, Lily wasn’t certain in which column it belonged.

I am afraid of ending up alone.

She’d been insisting for months now that she didn’t want to marry. But the reality of the alternative—decades of spinsterhood—was beginning to firm in her mind, like drying mortar. She could all too easily see herself years in the future, passing day after day in a gray drawing room with a gray-haired companion and a dozen gray cats. Even adding a rainbow-hued parrot, the picture was unbearably grim.

With a brisk shake of her head, she tore the sheet from her ledger and crumpled it into the grate. Really, she could ruminate all she liked. Nothing could be certain until she saw Julian again.

Tomorrow. She would see him tomorrow. The word had little wings, and it beat a joyous rhythm in her chest.

Or, wait—perhaps that was just Tartuffe, fussing on his perch. The bird did make an excellent door knocker. Much more effective than the mirrors had ever been. Lily turned to find Swift standing in the entryway.

The butler bowed. “If you please, my lady. A delivery.”

From behind him, a footman entered bearing a large, rectangular box. Atop the box was a sealed envelope. Lily dismissed the servants with her thanks and reached for the note. She knew it had to be from Julian. She hadn’t seen him since that morning in the coffeehouse, but he’d been sending little missives every day. That first afternoon, he’d sent a note asking after her health. She’d replied with assurances and asked for the same in kind. He sent them the following morning, along with an inquiry as to the color of her gown for the assembly. She wrote him she had not decided yet but would keep him informed when she did. And on and on, the notes went to and fro, addressing everything but matters of true consequence. He might as well have signed them all, “Your besotted correspondent, Julian.”

Then yesterday, Amelia and the Duke of Morland had come to call, professing a wish to help her practice dancing. Lily had no doubt that they came at Julian’s prodding. She would have been hard pressed to say which had been more awkward—dancing with the taciturn, imposing duke, or dancing with the pregnant Amelia taking the gentleman’s part. But despite the discomfort, Lily had practiced, and industriously so. There was pride at stake.