Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)

Her hands went to her bodice. “There’s a fraying seam,” she said, running her fingers over her bosom in tantalizing fashion. “Ah—just here.” She worked her finger into a little gap and pulled, ripping the bodice and exposing one corseted breast to the night. “There. Now you’ve ravished me, you beast.” Smiling, she turned to look over her shoulder. “Are they coming yet?”


God. To her, this was all a game. “You have no idea what you’re doing. You’re in danger, every moment we stand here.”

“What, because of that scene you caused inside?”

Yes, because of that scene he’d caused inside. And because of the scenes he’d been inspiring all week long, in different venues. He’d made pointed remarks at the clubs, hinting at all his past sins. He’d taken jokes too far, beyond every boundary of well-meant humor. He’d even arranged for newspaper articles in which he claimed to be writing a salacious memoir. All his secrets would be revealed, he’d said, lamenting that he had but one thrilling experience missing from his life’s tale—a daybreak duel in St. James Park.

And though he doubted his would-be killer to be one of his paramours’ husbands, tonight he’d taken the extra step of enraging them as well. He’d done everything he could think of to provoke his enemy to action, and then he’d provided the perfect opportunity for him to strike. All London knew he would be attending this assembly tonight, and when he left it, he would be walking home alone. He’d all but painted a target on his waistcoat.

And now Lily had attached herself to his chest.

His eyes scanned the street. Everywhere he looked, darkness menaced. Shadows took creeping, malevolent shapes. His ears made a threat of every rustle and snap.

Cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck. He had to get her out of here.

Like a chariot sent from heaven above, a hackney cab turned the corner and started down their block. Julian hailed it and, without conversation, hefted Lily inside before the thing had even fully come to a stop. For an instant, he considered giving her address to the driver and sending her home alone—but then she might demand to be let out God-knows-where and return to this very spot again. In the past few days, Lily seemed to have added a few extra vertebrae to her already formidable spine.

Clearly, the only way to make sure this new, audacious version of Lily arrived home safe was to take her there himself. So regardless of who might be following him—following them—Julian barked the address at the driver and climbed into the cab.

The cab’s interior was dark and cold as a tomb. He’d barely settled himself on the seat when Lily landed in his lap. The coach lurched into motion, throwing them together. He reflexively grabbed her bared arms to steady her. His fingers slid over skin dotted with gooseflesh. It was cold, and she’d left her wrap behind. He slid his palms up and down her arms, trying to warm her. He needed to warm her, and desperately. Because now that he’d noted the little bumps on her arms, he could not help but notice the twin darts of her hardened ni**les pressing against his chest. As the carriage rumbled over the cobbled streets, too many enticing parts of her jounced and rubbed against frantic parts of him.

“Julian,” she said huskily, “you were right the other morning. You know me so well. I’m not made for illicit affaires, all that sneaking around to avoid discovery.” In the dark, her hands crept up his shoulders, then his face. Her fingers teased through his hair. “Why should we hide at all? Let all London see us together. I don’t care what anyone says or thinks. I love you, and I want the world to know.”

He wanted to weep. For joy, for frustration. She was so brave, his beautiful Lily, and the situation was so damned unfair. It wasn’t her fault that she made these heartrending declarations at a moment when their lives were probably in danger and he couldn’t possibly reciprocate. That fault was his, for choosing to live the way he had and making the decisions he’d made. He didn’t deserve her, didn’t deserve her love. He most certainly didn’t merit these warm brushes of her lips against his skin. But damned if he could bring himself to stop them.

“We’re in love, Julian. Isn’t it wonderful?”

“No,” he murmured as she kissed him again. “It’s not wonderful. It’s a disaster.”

Her lips grazed his jaw, then his throat. “I can feel you speaking, and I know you’re probably making some valiant protest. But you know I can’t hear those words. Your body is making an altogether different argument, and I’m listening to it.” Her fingers crept inside his waistcoat, splaying over the thin lawn of his shirt. “Take your heart, for example.”

Yes, take it. Take it and keep it, always.

“It’s pounding so fiercely. Just battering my hand. What a wonder it is. I worry that your ribs may not contain all that vigor and emotion. And your breath …” She raised her fingers to his mouth, tracing his lips with a slow, gentle touch. He fought the urge to nip at her fingers, suck their silk-gloved tips into his mouth. “Your breath is coming so fast.” She put a hand to his voice box. “Was that a groan?”