Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)

With every day—every hour—that passed, their bond strengthened. They talked of nothing new. Most of their conversations were reminiscences of old events, or a reprisal of some topic they’d discussed years before. But they went over them again with new perspective and a sense of serendipitous wonder. Like thieves who’d dug up a treasure chest by night and were only now examining its contents in the light of day. Their fingers worked constantly as they spoke, sifting through the precious gems and heavy strands of gold.

They mostly kept to the house, some days never even venturing downstairs. Julian’s valet had delivered his full wardrobe to Harcliffe House, but the dozens of topcoats and felted hats remained untouched in the closet. He lounged about in a silk banyan and loose trousers, when he dressed at all. No shirt beneath, to Lily’s infinite delight. She loved sitting across the breakfast table from him, letting her gaze stray to his unshaven throat and studying the muscular definition of his bared chest.

So she was shocked indeed to wake late one morning after a deliciously sleepless night and find him already starched and stuffed into a somber gray suit.

She blinked at him, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, and he noted her confusion.

“It’s Sunday,” he said, pairing signs with his words. “Church.” He came to the bedside and offered a hand. “Out of bed with you, then. We’ll have to make haste.”

She accepted his help in rising from the bed. “I wasn’t aware that you attended church regularly.”

“I didn’t.” He emphasized the “I” with a jab to his chest. “We do.”

“Very well.”

So they did. They attended church, and they attended the royal funeral, and they did it all looking appropriately solemn and composed. She wasn’t certain Julian’s old friends even recognized him as the man sitting at her side. There was no cracking jokes. For heaven’s sake, he never so much as cracked a smile. No matter the wild cries he wrenched from her by night, by day he seemed determined to present an eminently civil face to the world. She didn’t want to complain, but neither did she want him feeling he must change his personality for her.

“Julian,” she said one evening at dinner, almost two weeks into their marriage, “you needn’t stay at home with me every night.”

He put down his fork. “Why would I want to be anywhere else?”

“I don’t know,” she said, blushing at the implied compliment and digging a furrow in her peas. “But if you did wish to visit your friends some evening, or go round to the club, I want you to know it’s perfectly fine with me.”

“Do you wish me to go out?”

“No, not at all. I mean … I wish for you to do as you please, that’s all. Simply because you’re married doesn’t mean you must give up all your fun. Other gentlemen don’t.”

He didn’t reply right away, but took his time finishing his roast duck and red wine. With thoughtful precision, he folded his linen napkin and set it aside.

“Do you know,” he said, “I think I will go by the club tonight.”

A few hours later, Lily sat up alone in her private sitting room with a roaring fire, a book, and a pot of coffee to keep her company. Well, all these and her regrets. Why had she ever suggested Julian spend an evening out? She missed him terribly.

Lifting her cup, she took a scalding sip of coffee and grimaced at the bitter aftertaste. She hated the brew, but she’d requested Holling to bring it especially for its stimulating properties. She wanted to be awake when Julian returned. Even if he stumbled in at half three, reeking of brandy.

Or cheap perfume.

She shook herself, feeling a twinge of dismay. That had been a jealous, spiteful thought unworthy of them both. After all his displays of tender devotion over the past weeks, did she really think one night at the gentlemen’s club would have him reverting to his old, rakish ways? Julian was her husband now, and he deserved her trust and good faith. But it was more pleasant to imagine him surrounded by bare-breasted opera dancers than skulking down dark, dangerous streets.

Lily tried to plant her nose firmly in her book, but her mind insisted on wandering, tracing through every gentleman’s haunt and shadowed alleyway in her mental map of London. She was still stuck on the first page of her novel—the first paragraph, really—when she looked up to check the mantel clock yet again. She saw that barely an hour had passed. And she saw that Julian had already returned.

He brought with him no odor of brandy or perfume. But he was festooned with several yards’ worth of vibrant ribbons and satins in every color of the rainbow, tied end to end and yoked about his shoulders.

So this was the infamous billiard-room garland.

If he noticed Lily reclining there on the sofa, feet curled under her dressing gown, he paid her no greeting. Instead, he went straight to the roaring fire and began feeding it the gaily colored garters, an arm’s length at a time. He paused every so often to take up the poker and prod an errant swatch of silk into the flames.