As she and Lord Weston made their inchworm-like progress toward the head of the line, Lily strained her neck for glimpses of Julian. It became more and more difficult, as he seemed to have drawn a crowd. This must happen at every party—she had seen it happen at Leo’s own gatherings. All of the gentlemen, and the bolder of the ladies, would throng around Julian just to hear what amusing thing he’d say next, and to see whether he could be coaxed into doing one of his popular imitations.

She wasn’t sure how she felt about watching it now. Seeing him at the center of attention did give her a sense of satisfaction. Much the same, she would imagine, as it made him proud to see her admired. But she knew there was so much more to Julian than cheap party tricks. She wished he would allow people to know that side of him—the real, genuine man inside. If he knew the regard he engendered was sincere, he might have a better sense of his own worth.

Lord Weston moved toward her, and Lily circled him with a dutiful smile. As they parted, another couple moved down the row, and they made another sidestep closer to Julian’s end of the room. Again, she found her gaze wandering to him.

On closer inspection, Lily didn’t like the scene at all. Julian was still surrounded by guests, but the look on their faces did not signal laughter or amusement. No, they looked shocked and affronted. A few of them appeared to be flat enraged. There must have been an argument, because Lily saw heads turning in Julian’s direction. Despite the ire of those around him, his mien remained smug and insouciant. As if he was enjoying the fact that he’d made a scene.

Almost as if he’d tried to make a scene.

Drat it all. Lily and Lord Weston had reached the top of the queue, and here came their turn to run the gauntlet. She advanced to the center of the floor, took Weston’s hands, and allowed him to sweep her down the aisle, all the way to the other end of the floor. And there she was stuck. An eternity passed before the pattern shifted and allowed her a chance to glance toward Julian’s corner again.

By the time it did, the knot of gentlemen had dispersed.

Julian was nowhere to be seen.

Curse etiquette. She walked away from the dance, pushing her way toward the area where she’d seen him last. Clustered around, small groups of guests talked and grumbled amongst themselves. At least, she assumed they were grumbling, given the stormy sets of their brows and the heightened color of their complexions. She caught words here and there—distressing phrases like “insufferable upstart” and “never again” and “cut direct.” Even their hosts, Lord and Lady Ainsley, stood beside one another, red-faced and pointedly avoiding one another’s gaze.

Lily spied Amelia’s oldest brother in the crowd. “Laurent,” she said, urging him aside. “Have you seen Mr. Bellamy?”

He made a chagrined face. “I believe he’s left. Or was made to leave.”

“Why would he do that?” she wondered aloud, more to herself than to Laurent.

“To avoid a duel, perhaps?” Laurent shook his head. “The fool just rattled through the list of men in this room he’s cuckolded.”

“But …” Lily felt as though she’d taken a punch to the stomach. “But it’s not as though his dalliances are a great secret.”

“Everyone knows about them, but they’re never discussed. It’s one thing to entertain ladies in private and quite another to boast of it in company, you know. He’s unleashed a veritable plague of marital disharmony. And if he values his own health, Bellamy won’t dare to show his face anytime soon. Even if he were invited, which is doubtful. Can you believe the man even said—”

Lily turned away, muttering her thanks to Laurent for the information. It really mattered little what, precisely, Julian had said—she understood why he’d said it.

That night will be your second London debut. And my own grand farewell.

Laurent’s reaction was exactly what Julian had desired. He meant to leave fashionable London society and cut ties, irrevocably.

Including ties with her.

Chapter Fifteen

Well, Julian thought to himself, that ought to have done it.

Pausing just long enough to remove his gloves and retrieve the pistol he’d stashed behind a loose stone, Julian jammed the weapon in his trouser waistband and set off down the street. He kept his steps light, forced himself to maintain a steady, deliberate pace. He didn’t want to be too hard to catch. Being caught was rather the point, after all.

He’d been preparing for this night all week. Astonishing—and rather lowering—to realize how little he’d needed to arrange at his home. His offices had presented a greater challenge. He’d led his employees to understand he’d be taking a journey to inspect the mills. That bought him a few weeks’ time. If he didn’t manage to return, in a few weeks’ time or ever … well, he’d left instructions with his solicitor. Someone would eventually find them.

As for Lily …

He couldn’t think about Lily now. And so long as he lived with the specter of murder hovering over him, he would never be able to think about her. After that waltz and her words—those miraculous words; so incomprehensible, he could have mistaken them for phrases in a foreign language, or the utterances of a mystic speaking in tongues—he’d been tempted to reconsider the whole plan. But it was too late. Events had been set in motion. He had to resolve this, for good or ill, if he had any hope of a future at all, much less a future that included Lily.

He would do it, Julian vowed. If Lily offered him love, he would give his all. He would solve this mystery. He would somehow fix everything, find the answers, redeem his every stupid mistake. He’d crawl through an ocean of broken glass just to hold her again, and hear her speak those words against his ear.

His ear caught a less pleasing sound just now. He’d nearly reached the end of the block, and a burst of noise arrested him where he stood. Footsteps clattered on the pavement, accelerating with purpose as they neared.

That hadn’t taken long.

He steeled himself, putting one hand to the pistol at his hip. The thing wasn’t even loaded. He needed answers, not a murder charge. He had no intention of shooting his would-be assassin. Yet.

“Julian! Julian, wait.”

No. By everything holy, no.

His heart crashed to his boots as he wheeled around to find not an assailant, but Lily rushing to his side.

“Lily, what the devil are you doing?”

“I’m coming with you,” she said, breathless. “If you’re determined to commit social suicide, I can’t stop you. But I’m coming with you. You’re not leaving me behind.”

Jesus. What did he do now? Julian grasped her by both shoulders and moved her to one side, looking past her to see if anyone had watched her leave.

“Have we been spotted?” she asked, intuiting his purpose. “I hope so.” She threw herself at him, flinging her arms around his neck. The pistol clattered to the pavement. “Compromise me. Leave no doubt. Let them see us together, and no one will think to object.”

He pushed her away to ask, “Lily, have you gone mad?”

“Mad for you.” With that, she planted a kiss on his mouth, ripe and bold and sensual. Julian’s head spun, and his knees went weak. She wanted him. Lily wanted him. More than that, she wanted to be his.

“A kiss won’t be enough.” She disentangled her arms from his neck. “We need more.”

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 nipples 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.”