Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)

“Yes.”


That extra eighteen inches of altitude was suddenly a dizzying height. She sank to the stairs, landing on her bottom with a jarring thud. Now she understood why he looked so pale.

“I’m no marquess, but I have the means to support you. I swear to be faithful, all my days. You may rely upon it.” He leaned forward and took her hand. His fingers were so chilled.

“What about Leo’s murderers?”

“They’re still out there, somewhere. I wish to God they weren’t. But if I have to choose between finding the killers and holding on to you, there is no contest. I choose you. I choose us.”

The words sent hope spiraling through her. “You’re done with it then? The searching?”

“Yes.”

“Truly? You’ll leave off all the late-night walks, the blood sport, the suspicion?”

“Yes.” He gripped her fingers tight. “I see the skepticism in your eyes, and I know I’ve earned it. But believe me, Lily. Leaving you last night was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I doubt I have it in me to ever do it again.”

His assurances should have been enough, but he just looked so miserable about the whole thing. “Tell me this isn’t because you think I’m ruined now, and no one else will ever have me. I can’t bear to think you’re here just because you feel obligated.”

“You don’t want me to feel obligated? Well, I’m sorry, Lily. I am here because I feel obligated.” He brought her hand to his chest, pressing her palm flat against his rapidly thumping pulse. “I’m obligated by my heart. It’s decided you’re essential to my existence, you see. And it’s threatening to go out on labor strike if I don’t make you mine this very day. So yes. I am here on bended knee, acting from a deep, undeniable sense of obligation. I am, quite simply, yours.” He swallowed hard. “If you’ll have me.”

If? If she would have him? Her own heart pounded in her throat, making rather stern demands of its own. Did the man honestly think she could turn him away?

Yes, she realized suddenly. Yes, he did. This was why he was so pale. He was terrified. Even after all the love she’d confessed last night, he thought there was a goodly chance she’d refuse him this morning—or that if she did accept him, she might change her mind in the time it took to secure a license and curate.

Oh, Julian. She saw it all in his eyes—the vulnerability, the hurt, the years of perceived rejection and scorn. After a lifelong quest to take success, steal pleasure, and wrangle admiration from the world, it didn’t occur to him he might actually deserve those things, freely given. Now the task of correcting this misapprehension fell to her.

She could not imagine a happier or more rewarding life’s work.

“Yes,” she said, keeping her words simple and few, so that they might be absolutely clear. “Yes, I will marry you.”

When he made no discernible reaction, Lily put her free hand to his face. “Julian, breathe.”

He did, with sudden and apparent relief. Color rushed back to his cheeks.

She touched her thumb to the corner of his mouth, attempting to tease it into a smile. “We are going to be so happy.”

He looked unconvinced. “We’ll be together.”

“Yes. Precisely.”

Chapter Seventeen

There was astonishingly little to a wedding.

Julian was surprised. He’d never attended any actual wedding ceremonies. Oh, he’d been invited to dozens, but he preferred to save his appearance for the celebration afterward. Somehow, he’d imagined a sacrament with such eternal implications would be accordingly lengthy and dry.

But even with the curate speaking slowly and every so often handing his liturgy to Lily so that she might read and respond, it took less than a quarter-hour to bind Lily Chatwick and Julian Bellamy in the eyes of God and man, for the remainder of this life and—with some outrageous luck—beyond.

The ceremony took place in the morning room. After vows were exchanged, he produced a pair of simple gold bands. They were unadorned, but weighty in both substance and significance. He thought nothing in his life would thrill him more than sliding that ring on her slim, elegant finger—until a half-minute later, when she slid the matching band on his. The first was the triumph of claiming his bride. The second was the poignant, bone-deep relief of being claimed.

It had been so long since he’d belonged to anyone.

They all signed the register: Lily, Holling, Swift, the curate. Julian went last. He hesitated, wishing the name he prepared to sign was actually his own.

But it was too late for attacks of conscience now.

He scrawled the signature. There, it was done.