A Scot in the Dark

Chapter 15

DILUTED DUKE DESERTS WOEFUL WARD

He deserved a medal.

For saying no. For not turning to her, taking her, making love to her until his hands stopped shaking with need. For not ruining her, thoroughly, there in the darkness, on the floor of Derek Hawkins’s bare bedroom.

Do you want me?

He wanted her like the Highlands wanted mist.

But he would be damned if he was going to take what he wanted and destroy the possibility of her getting what she deserved. A life with a man who was worthy of her. He’d thought it before he’d discovered her plans to steal the painting back, but once he’d committed to helping her, to finding the portrait and destroying it before it could be brought to light, his conviction was redoubled.

He would find the thing.

And he would protect her, dammit.

I’m to protect you.

How had he gathered the strength to leave her, not to turn to her. He’d heard it in her breath—the truth—the fact that she would give in to him. That she wished to. That she wanted him again. That she wanted more.

More. He’d thought he’d known what wanting felt like. What longing meant. And then he’d met Lillian Hargrove, and he’d realized the truth—that everything for which he’d ever hungered was nothing compared to her. There was nothing he would not pay. Nothing he would not do for another taste of her.

And that he was unworthy of her.

And as she’d stood in that empty house, in that empty room, where she’d once been nude for another man, he’d been willing to pay. To do. And he’d resisted.

To protect her. To give her a chance at the life she desired.

Because now, she had a chance for more than a marriage of convenience. Now, if they could find the painting, if they could steal it, she might still be ruined in the eyes of London, but she could avoid ruination in the eyes of the world.

Clever girl.

He should have thought of it himself. Would have, if he wasn’t so blinded by her beauty. By her strength. By everything about her. But he’d been too busy protecting her. From London. From her future. From her past.

From himself.

Yes. He deserved a damn medal.

When they’d left, it had begun to rain in earnest, and he’d continued to do the best thing for her, stuffing her into a hack and climbing onto the block next to the driver, for her own safety.

Or for his.

He wasn’t certain what he would do if he ended up inside the carriage with her, next to her. Sharing her space. Breathing her air. Smelling her, somehow like heather and Highlands.

The rain stung his face as the carriage careened around corners, returning her to the safety of Grosvenor Square, where they would lie in their beds, separated by walls adorned with dogs, and he would pretend to sleep, aching to go to her. To strip her bare and worship her with his hands and lips and tongue—

The thought had him growling in the cold May rain, recalling her taste. Recalling the peaks and valleys of her body and imagining how her most secret places would feel against his tongue.

“Problem, m’lord?”

Of course there was a problem.

He wanted Lily with a raging intensity. And she was not his to want.

“Stop the carriage up here,” he said, digging deep in his pocket to pay the driver. “Where are we?”

“Hanover Square.”

“I shall walk from here.”

“Sir. It rains.”

As though he hadn’t noticed. “Take your passenger to Grosvenor Square.”

His fingers brushed a piece of ecru in his coat pocket, and he extracted it, along with his purse. Looked down at it in the light bouncing about from the hack lantern. Countess Rowley. Peg’s calling card. His unknown valet must have transferred it from his shredded coat to this one.

He paid the driver his exorbitant sum, received his obsequious accolades, and climbed down from the carriage as the door opened from the inside.

Don’t let me see you, he willed her. He didn’t know that he would be able to resist her again. And, at the same time, Let me see you.

“Alec?” His name on her lips a gift in the rain.

“Close the door,” he said, refusing to look. Not trusting himself to see.

A pause. Then, “It is raining. You should ride inside.”

Near her. Touching her. He could not help the huff of frustration that came at the words. He should not ride inside. He should not be near her. He had a single task. To protect her. And he was the most dangerous thing in her world right now.

“The hack will return you home.”

“What of you? Who shall return you home?” The soft question threatened to slay him. The idea of a home they shared. The impossibility of it.

“I shall walk.”

“Alec—” she began, stopping herself. “Please.”

At the word—the one she had whispered so much while in his arms, the one that promised so much and asked for so much more than he was able to give—his hands began to shake again, just as they had in Hawkins’s house. He clenched them, willing away his desire.

Would he ever not want her?

“Close the door, Lily.” She had no choice but to follow the order when he looked up to the driver. “Drive on.”

The carriage was instantly in motion.

He rubbed a hand over his face, loathing London. Wishing he were anywhere but here.

England will be your ruin.

Removing his hand, he looked down at the card. At the direction beneath the name. Hanover Square.

Come and see me, Peg had whispered when she’d slipped the card into his coat pocket.

Earlier, Lily had asked him if he believed in fate, and he’d answered truthfully. Fate did not put him here, in Hanover Square, with Peg’s calling card. A too-skilled valet and a too-frustrating ward had done it. And, as he watched the carriage disappear into the darkness, the sound of horses’ hooves and clattering wheels masked by the rain, it was not fate that sent him to the door of number 12 Hanover Square.

Come and see me.

It was his own shame.

He waited for no time before a maid arrived in the foyer to escort him into the depths of the house, up a back stairway and to a room that he identified before the door even opened.

Peg’s bedchamber.

And she, within, standing by the fireplace, blond hair glittering gold in the light—as gold as the silk nightgown she wore, low and clinging to the curves he had worshipped a lifetime ago, thinking they would be the first and last he would ever worship, thinking she would wish him to worship them forever.

“I knew you would come,” she whispered, low and secret, as though the maid weren’t there. And then the girl wasn’t there, disappeared into the hallway and closing the door behind her with a soft snick.

“I did not,” he said.

She smiled, that knowing smile from two decades earlier—the one that made promises she would never keep. “You underestimated my irresistibility. And you wore your kilt, you glorious thing.” She moved to the bed, lying back against the pillows, arranging herself in a way so casual that it could only have been practiced.

And it was. He had, after all, seen her in just such a position before. In a different place, in a different world, when he’d been young and green and desperate for her beauty. For her perfection.

And it had ended differently than tonight would.

Because then, he had been even more desperate for what she represented. For a future he would never have. For acceptance by her world. For England.

Now, he wanted none of those things. Now, all he wanted was Lily.

And he was here to remind himself that she was not for him. That every time he touched her, he soiled her with his past. And his shame.

“I am not here for you,” he said coolly.

A sleek blond brow arched. “Are you sure?”

“Thoroughly.”

She sighed and leaned back, unmoved by the pronouncement. “You waste my time then, darling. Why are you here?”

Why indeed? What did he want from this moment? When had Peg ever given him what he wanted?

She did not wait for him to arrive at his answer, instead saying, “If you are not here to play, then you should return home to your little scandal.”

He snapped his attention to her. “What does that mean?”

“Only that you made it quite clear at Eversley’s ball that you were willing to do anything for the girl. Even make a scene. And I know you learned your lesson about scene making years ago.” She paused, then said, “I confess, had I known that Alec Stuart—without family or funds—was to be a duke with a king’s fortune, I might have reconsidered your very sweet offer.”

They all would have. And he would have had a different life. One that had not included a long line of women who thought him worthy of play but not pride.

Peg smiled, cold and ugly. It occurred to him that she might imagine herself beautiful—that he had once imagined her so. Now, however, he knew what beauty could be. How it might come, with strength and pride and purpose and eyes the color of the Scottish sea.

She spoke again. “Would it help to hear that yours was my prettiest proposal? I still recall it. I shall do right by you. We shall spend the rest of our days happy.” She tutted. “Young and green and utterly unknowing of women and the world.”

For a heartbeat, he was fifteen again, an idiot boy. “I learned my lessons of women years ago.” There were those whom he deserved and those he did not. And of course, the one he wanted more than anything fell into the latter category.

Peg underscored the thought. “And we ladies learned our lessons about you, did we not?”

This was it. The reason he’d come. The reminder of his station. Of the life he could never have. And still, he resisted it. “You know nothing about me.”

One side of Peg’s mouth raised in a wry, knowing smile. “I know more than she does, I’d wager.” A pause. “Or has she already ridden the Scottish Brute?”

He narrowed his gaze before he could stop himself, unable to deny the shame and fury coursing through him. Unable to hide the truth from Peg.

Peg’s lips formed a perfect pout. “Oh, darling, still as sweet as ever. You care for the girl.”

“No,” he said.

Liar.

The tut again, followed by movement as she came off the bed, toward him, the gold silk slithering against her like skin. “You forget, Alec Stuart, I was the first woman you loved.”

“I never loved you,” he said, refusing to move as she came close, refusing to flinch as she reached up and put her cool hand to his face, erasing the lingering memory of Lily’s.

He supposed he deserved it.

“That’s not what you said then,” she said quietly. “Sweet-faced Scottish Alec, big as a house, like nothing I’d ever seen. Like nothing I’d ever felt.” She pressed herself to him and he resisted the urge to push her away, wanting the lesson. Wanting the reminder of who he’d been. Of what he’d been. She lowered her voice to a whisper, her hand reaching to the hem of his kilt, fingertips grazing his thigh, making him cringe. “Let the girl have it, darling. Let her feel it. You shan’t be her first, but neither will she be yours. Think on it. You are well-suited.”

He wanted to roar his fury at the way she said it, as though he were anything close to Lily. And then Peg added, “And when she’s had enough of you, come back to me. I would dearly love another go.”

“Never.”

She pressed close. “Not even if I remind you of my tremendous performance?”

“Odd that you describe it as such, as I find I lack interest in an encore.”

Peg’s hand flew, sharp and angry, the crack sounding an alarm in the quiet room. He did lift his hand to ease the sting of the blow, instead reveling in the sensation. In the message of it. In the reminder it delivered.

“Do not get above yourself, Alec Stuart. You may be the Diluted Duke now,” she said, “but there was a time when you existed because of my benevolence. You would not like it if the world knew the truth.”

“I don’t give a horse’s ass if this world knows the truth,” he said. “Remember, Lady Rowley—my secrets belong to you as well. Be sure to tell your friends. No lady likes her underthings aired.”

She scowled. “You are an underthing.”

He had her. “At some point, our past had to be a boon, no?”

There was a long silence, and then she said, “My secrets or not, you would not like it if your Lovely Lily knew the truth about you. I would watch my tongue if I were you.”

Peg was wrong. He would be grateful for Lily to know the truth. It would make wanting her easier, because it would make having her impossible.

Nevertheless, he should not have come. Outside the house, he had wondered why he was calling on Peg, why he allowed her calling card to summon him. Now, he knew the truth.

He wanted her. The reminder she served.

The proof that Lily’s perfection was not for him.

He left the house resolved to two things: first, Lily would have happiness in the hands of the best man they could find; and second, that man would never be him.

Despite having stared into the ribbon case inside Madame Hebert’s modiste shop on Bond Street for the last quarter of an hour, Lily could not have named a single color inside. She was too consumed with the admonition that had repeated itself again and again for the nearly three days since she had last seen Alec.

She should not have asked him if he wanted her.

She should not have betrayed the insidious thought that had taken root in her mind, the product of protective actions and provocative kisses and a thread of hope that she should have known better than to allow access to her thoughts. To her heart.

And still, like a simpering imbecile, she had asked him.

Do you want me?

Her cheeks flamed at the memory. How could she have possibly imagined it would result in anything but embarrassment? She had seen him struggle with the answer, as though he hadn’t wanted to hurt her. To tell her the truth.

Despite that, he’d told her. Because he was nobler than other men. Better and nobler. He’d said no. Better and nobler and not for her. Not even as she wanted him quite desperately.

And then, as if telling her the truth had not been enough, he’d disappeared.

She’d waited for his return three nights earlier, ultimately falling asleep in the receiving room at Dog House, not wishing to miss him. He had not returned. Nor had he returned the day after. Nor the day after that.

He’d even taken the dogs which she had to believe meant he had no intention of returning, no matter how much she wished for it.

And so, this morning, Lily had taken matters into her own hands, and called in reinforcements.

“Aren’t you happy that we decided to take on the mantle of chaperone?” She looked up from the ribbon case to find Lady Sesily Talbot on the opposite side, grinning widely. “We’re near to fairy godmothers with all of our hard work and dedication.”

In the corner, Seleste and Seline lingered over a collection of hairpins and accessories that some would call de rigueur and others would call de trop. They giggled at something in the pile, and Lily wondered what it must be like to have such little about which to worry. They were married—or nearly so—to men who were rumored to adore them. And so they lived without hesitation. Without loneliness. Always part of an us.

Lily felt a keen spear of jealousy as she watched them, imagining how her life might have been different, if only. If only her father hadn’t died. The duke followed suit and the others, like little toy soldiers, all in a row. Perhaps she would not have been alone on Michaelmas. Perhaps she never would have met Derek. Never sat for the painting.

Never met Alec.

She inhaled sharply at the thought, rejecting it instantly. She would not trade meeting Alec. Not even if she had driven him away. Not even if she never saw him again.

“Dear Lily,” Sesily said, breaking into her thoughts, more than welcome to do so. “Would you like to tell us why we are here?”

I have found it.

We attend Hawkins’s performance tomorrow. With Stanhope.

You require a gown. No dogs.

The missive had arrived along with directions to a modiste shop on Bond Street that morning, unsigned. It had not required signing. And still she wished for it, some kind of personal acknowledgment. What would he have chosen? Alec? His initials? His title?

Not the last, certainly.

Ugh. She was disgusting herself. He’d invited another man to join them. If that weren’t enough to prove her simpering was cabbageheaded, she did not know what was. She looked to Sesily, trying for brightness. “I require a gown.”

Sesily raised a brow. “And the bit where you look as though you are a lad missing his favorite pup?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Because we are friends, I shall be patient and wait for you to tell me.”

Friends. The unexpected word, one that Sesily used so quickly, as though friendship were natural and honest for her. As though it could be for Lily.

The ache in Lily’s chest grew more insistent.

“My ladies.” Madame Hebert, widely believed to be the best dressmaker in all of London—the scandal sheets claimed that she was rescued from Josephine’s court at the height of the wars—stepped through a nearby set of curtains. “It is a pleasure to see my favorite sisters again—” She looked to Lily. “Non! Not only sisters! Three and a new face.” She drew closer, setting a hand to Lily’s jaw, turning it left, then right. “You might be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever had in my shop.”

It was not a compliment, but instead stated as fact. Lily blinked. “Thank you?”

“This is Lillian Hargrove,” Sesily interjected. “Ward to the Duke of Warnick.”

One perfect black brow rose, the only indication that the modiste heard the words.

“Or simply Lily,” Lily replied.

The dressmaker nodded. “You are here for Warnick.”

If wishing made it so. She pushed the thought aside. “No.”

“For another,” Seleste interjected with glee. “Earl Stanhope.”

Except she wasn’t. Not really.

Madame Hebert did not look away from Lily. “I heard you wore a dog dress to the Eversley ball.”

“You did?”

The Frenchwoman narrowed her gaze. “It is true?”

“I was trying to prove a point,” Lily said, suddenly even more embarrassed than she was the night of the ball.

“To Stanhope?”

She straightened her shoulders. “To Warnick.”

There was a long moment while the dressmaker considered the words. And then, “Oui. I shall dress you.”

“Oh, excellent!” The trio of sisters clapped their hands excitedly. “She’s obviously going to need everything.”

“Not everything,” Lily corrected, “Only a dress for—”

Madame Hebert was already moving, pushing through the curtains as though Lily would simply follow. And she did, the Talbot sisters nearly carrying her along. “She does not dress just anyone,” Seline whispered. “She’s very particular.”

“You’d think if she were particular, she’d avoid the scandal,” Lily whispered back. “Do you think she knows about me?” They entered the workspace and fitting rooms of the dress shop, revealing several seamstresses sewing beneath windows along the far wall, along with a woman poised on a raised platform, back to the door, young woman at her feet, pinning the hem of a lush amethyst silk.

“I never avoid the scandal,” Hebert replied, as though she’d been a part of the conversation all along. “It’s scandals who are seen. And I like my clothing to be seen.” She turned to face Lily, indicating a platform nearby. “I would have avoided you before you were a scandal, Lovely Lily. When you were Lonely Lily.”

“I do adore Hebert.” Sesily sank onto a nearby chaise and repeated herself to the older woman. “She’s going to need everything.”

The dressmaker tilted her head, considering Lily for a long moment before she said, “Oui.”

“Non,” Lily said. “I only need a dress for the theater.”

“Valerie,” Hebert was already turning away, summoning a younger woman nearby. “Bring me the blues.” Turning back, she said, “I’ve a handful of dresses that shall work for you, and require minimal adjustments before tomorrow night. But as I told your duke, the rest of the trousseau will have to come in time.”

“He’s not my—” she began the denial before the Frenchwoman’s entire sentence settled. “Trousseau?”

“One of my very favorite words.” Seline sighed from her place next to her sisters on the settee nearby. “The best part of marriage.”

“Well, the second best part,” Seleste said dryly, sending her sisters into giggles.

“Lily will learn about that bit,” Seline replied. “And with Stanhope—what a treat.”

“He is terribly handsome,” Seleste agreed.

Sesily, however, remained quiet, watching Lily carefully, through eyes that seemed far too knowing.

“The Earl of Stanhope is not going to marry me,” Lily said, turning away to the modiste, who was busy sifting through Valerie’s armful of gowns, finally extracting a stunning cerulean gown. When she held it up for viewing, Lily nearly gasped at the rich color. “It is beautiful,” she said, unable to stop herself from reaching for it.

Madame Hebert nodded. “Oui. And you shall be beautiful in it.” She thrust it into Lily’s hands and pointed to a dressing room. Lily did as she was told and returned within minutes, the gown a shockingly near-perfect fit for her.

“Oh, my,” Seleste sighed.

“That is it,” from Seline.

Sesily smiled broadly. “He shan’t know what’s hit him.”

For a fleeting moment, the words summoned a vision of Alec, eyes narrowed to slits, hands reaching for her, just as he had in the carriage on the way home from the Eversley ball. What would she do to capture his attention again? To summon his touch? His kiss?

She’d wear this dress every day for the rest of time.

And then she remembered it was not for Alec. It was for another man. One she must catch. In three days’ time.

The dressmaker pointed to the unattended platform, her staff swarming like beetles, immediately fussing about her, barking orders in French, pinning with wicked speed, as though she had been born with a pincushion attached to one wrist. Lily did not speak French well enough to know what was being discussed, and so she did her best to remain still as they moved about, letting only her eyes move, from the Talbot sisters on the nearby settee to the others in the shop, seamstresses, a woman in the corner who appeared to be calculating the accounts, and the other customer who had apparently completed her fitting and was, in that moment, exiting a dressing room.

Lily’s gaze widened.

Countess Rowley’s gaze trailed the blue gown to the floor, taking in the cut, the fall of the fabric, the hemline, before rising again to meet Lily’s eyes, a knowing, unsettling glint in her own. And when she spoke, it was with all the calm of a queen. “He shall adore that.”

The room quieted in the wake of the pronouncement, the only movement the subtle straightening of the trio on the chaise.

Lily did not speak. Too afraid to do so.

The countess did not feel similarly. “He always liked blue.”

She would not rise to the bait.

“Thank you,” she said, deliberately returning the countess’s appraisal. “I rather like blue myself.”

One blond brow arched. “You know he came to see me three evenings ago.”

“Who does she—” Seleste began.

“Has she been with—” Seline chimed in.

Sesily raised a hand, stopping them from speaking even as she rose to her feet, as though she might save Lily from this moment.

As though anyone could save Lily from this moment.

Three evenings ago, she’d asked Alec if he wanted her. Three evenings ago, he’d said no.

“I don’t believe you,” she said.

It was a lie. She did believe it. Three evenings ago, he’d gone to this woman, this cool, unmoving, unmoved woman. The opposite of Lily. Thoroughly aristocratic and filled with London perfection. And his past.

And Lily had returned home, and waited for him.

And he had not come.

The countess saw the lie for what it was. She smiled and approached, looking every inch as though she was made for this place, this moment. Looking like the kind of woman any man would want. Beyond scandal.

Beyond shame.

Jealousy shot through Lily as the countess neared, a small, knowing smile on her lips. “He came to me, because he wanted the reminder that you are not for him.”

The words stung like a blow, hard and wicked.

Lily refused to show it.

She straightened, willing herself strong. “If he came to you, Peg, then I assure you, I am not for him.”

“Good girl,” she thought she heard one of the Talbot sisters say.

Surprise warred with anger on the countess’s face, there, then gone, disappeared by that cool mask. “Poor Lovely Lily. Don’t you see? Alec is not built for a lifetime, but instead best used for one night.”

Even without full understanding, the words whipped their punishment, and Lily did all she could do, turning to the modiste. “Are you through, Madame?”

“Not quite,” the Frenchwoman said from her place at the hem of the gown. “But the countess is.” Lady Rowley was not given an opportunity to respond before the dressmaker was snapping her fingers and a collection of young women arrived to move her into the front room.

Seline and Seleste released twin breaths from the settee as Sesily rushed forward. “That woman is a termagant.” She drew close. “You handled her beautifully. I was particularly impressed by the use of her given name.”

The name Alec used with her.

The name he’d used with her for God knew how long.

He had gone to her. And he’d left Lily.

“I . . .” She trailed off, unable to find words. She looked down at her hands to discover them shaking. She looked up to Sesily. “I don’t know what to do.”

Sesily met her gaze and took her hands, holding them tightly, keeping them still. “You remain strong. And you never, ever let her see you tremble.”

“Agreed,” Seleste joined them, along with Seline. “Nor him.”

Lily shook her head. “I don’t know to whom you refer.”

Sesily smiled at the proper words. “Of course not. But if you did . . .” She paused. “. . . know to whom we refer, that is . . . if you did . . . I assume you’d choose him over the other?”

Tears threatened, and Lily looked to the ceiling, willing them away. Willing herself away from here. As Madame Hebert stood from her place at Lily’s feet, crossing the room to a cabinet full of fabric, Lily reminded herself that Alec was not an option. He was never an option. And two nights past, he had made it more than clear.

She looked to her friend. “He does not want me.”

“Bollocks,” Sesily said.

Lily shook her head. “It is true. He left me alone in the house. I have not seen him in three days. Apparently he left me to seek comfort in the arms of . . .” She trailed off, and waved an arm in the direction of the front room of the shop. After a long moment, she added, soft and sad, “Yes. Yes of course, I choose him.”

It was the first time she’d admitted it aloud, and the words were terrifying and heartbreaking all at once. She wanted him. More than she’d ever wanted anything. “But he doesn’t want me.”

“Oh, Lily,” Sesily said, climbing up onto the platform and wrapping her in an embrace. Lily had always heard that friends’ embraces made one feel better, but this did not. This made her feel worse. It made her want to give herself up to the other woman, to cry and wail and leave all her sadness, all her hopelessness, at Sesily’s feet.

But somehow, in that wanting, she discovered the truth.

That it also made her feel like she was not alone.

“We’ve another sister, did you know that?” Sesily said, and it took Lily a moment to catch up to the change in topic. “Seraphina.”

Lily nodded. “Duchess of Haven.” The fifth of the Soiled S’s, accused of trapping a duke into marriage, disappeared from London months earlier.

A shadow crossed Sesily’s face. “Sera couldn’t win her duke. Not in the end.”

Sometimes, love was impossible. Lily understood that.

Except it did not seem that she understood the Talbot sisters, who looked to her with new resolve. “But your duke. You shall get him. We shall help.”

It wasn’t possible of course, but it was a wonderful fantasy.

Lily removed herself from the embrace, dashing away tears to discover Seleste and Seline had joined them. That she was not alone. That she was not one, but four.

Five.

For behind the Talbot sisters stood the French modiste, London’s most revered dressmaker, holding a length of fabric and watching her with a keen, knowing eye. “If you choose him,” she extended her arms, revealing the fabric. “You find him. And you wear this.”

Lily’s eyes went wide as she took the offering, the movement punctuated by little excited gasps from her friends. Holding the fabric in her hands, she admitted it again, her single, undeniable truth. “I want him.”

“Then he is yours,” Sesily replied, her words dry and full of knowledge. “Truthfully, if that does not win him, the man cannot be won.”