Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)

“I will never know,” he said at length, “what my mother thought of me when she died. I’d argued with her earlier that week. Over everything and nothing, much as we’d argued many times before. Just as any young man argues with his mother when he chafes against the leading strings. I was sorry for it. It was one reason I hoped to surprise her with a gift. But then I vanished, by all appearances having made off with her savings. I tried to get word to her, by sending a message with a boy released from jail the week after I arrived. But who knows if he relayed it, or even if he did, whether she was able to understand.”


He inhaled deeply. When he continued, his manner was listless, resigned. “I have to live with it now. Knowing she may have gone to her grave believing I’d left her alone. That I didn’t care.”

There was no stopping the tears now. Not his, not hers.

“Perhaps …” He stopped to swipe angrily at his eyes. When he continued, his signs were rich with pathos, tugging at her heart. “Perhaps the money could have saved her. Perhaps she would have battled harder against her illness, if she’d known the truth. What if she succumbed because she felt I’d abandoned her?”

“No,” Lily said firmly, not even bothering to sign. “I cannot believe that.” Her beginner’s finger-spelling was too slow and clumsy for this. Besides, she needed to touch him.

She raised her hands to his face, wiping his tears with her thumbs. He wouldn’t look at her. “Your mother was so brave and strong. She sacrificed so much for you. A woman like that would never just … succumb. She would never lose faith in herself, or in you.”

“Lily.” His features twisted with emotion. “Lily, no matter what happens, you must never doubt that I love you.”

“I won’t.” She kissed his brow. “Oh, darling. I could never.”

“If something should happen to me—”

She clapped her hands over his, stopping him mid-sentence. His fear was palpable. She wasn’t sure she could vanquish it completely, and yet she had to try.

“If something should happen to you,” she began, “I would be inconsolable. Devastated. I would not want to go on.” Her fingers tightened reflexively over his. She hated even talking this way, but she knew it was what he needed to hear. “I would not want to go on, but I would. After my illness, I learned to live without hearing. When Leo died, it was as if my right arm had been cleaved from my body. And yet I adapted, found a way to make do.”

She leaned close and pressed her forehead to his. “If you were taken from me, I would feel as though I’d been cracked apart and a piece of my very soul removed. I would never be the same. But I would go on. For you, for our child. For myself. I am stronger than you know, Julian. Stronger than even I know. Life has proved this to me, time and again.”

She spoke the words with certainty, determined to convince him. And as an unexpected benefit, Lily managed to convince herself.

They sat there together, legs crossed on the bed. Both leaning forward, her brow pressed to his. From the side, they must have resembled a gothic arch. But the space between their bodies was hardly empty. It seethed with passion and anguish and love and heated breath. As they slowly leaned in, the space grew smaller, compressing all that emotion into a tense, volatile coil, ready to spring.

They were breathing so hard. Almost in unison. Lily was sure she’d never been so fully aware of another person, another body, another soul in her life. And as one half of twins, that was saying something.

Want, he signed.

Or was it need? They were almost the same gesture, he’d taught her. A flick of the wrist, drawing the hand down the chest and then slightly away. The difference between “want” and “need” was subtle, and mostly in the intensity of expression.

He repeated the sign. Her breath caught.

Need. This was definitely need. I need.

And she knew exactly what it was he needed, because she needed it too.

Buttons. The next minute was all about buttons. The carved horn buttons on his waistcoat, the silk-covered buttons chasing down the back of her dress. The closures of his fall. True nakedness was an unattainable goal—for he still wore his boots, which meant his pantaloons were going nowhere below the knees. They had no patience for the knotted tapes of her stays, and so her corset and chemise remained on, as well.

But they were bared enough. Enough to kiss. Enough to taste. Enough to press skin to skin and feel each other’s heat, each other’s need.

He rolled atop her, hiked her shift, spread her thighs—and thrust home with no further preliminary. She was tight and not quite ready for him, but she didn’t complain. She knew how badly he needed this, to join with her. To feel surrounded and safe. To get inside.

She wrapped her legs over his hips, and he stroked harder, deeper, as though he would lose himself in her embrace. Or dig a trench for them both in the mattress ticking, whichever came first. Moisture dripped from his brow, splashing her chest. Tears, sweat, or some mixture of both. His movements were desperate, tortured. Pained, and a bit painful, too.

She took it all, ignoring the sharp pinch of pain, wondering if he meant to test her resiliency by doing his devil’s best to break her apart.

Take this, he challenged with brutal digs of his hips. And this. And then more.