A Scot in the Dark

Chapter 22

LILY LAID BARE!

MISS MUSE OR MISUSED?

All of London had chosen to attend the final morning of the Royal Exhibition, and why would they not? The legend of Derek Hawkins’s masterwork had been broadcast throughout the city’s rags, shouted by newsboys and whispered in ballrooms.

It was not the artwork London came to see, however; it was the scandal.

Lovely Lily, revealed.

“It’s horrible, really, what he did,” Alec heard at his elbow as he pressed through the crowd. “No girl deserves that.” On the surface, the words were sympathetic, but they were injected with such salacious glee that he gritted his teeth.

“She should not have sat for it if she did not wish for it to be made public,” came an utterly disdainful reply, and he realized that attending the exhibition might have been a poor idea, for he wanted to murder every person who spoke ill of Lily.

It was easy to throw stones at scandal when one’s own tales were still secret.

He pushed himself through the throngs, into the exhibition hall.

“And there,” a woman nearby said loudly enough to be heard, but softly enough to pretend it wasn’t for his benefit. “The guardian.”

“A terrible one, it seems,” another said on a gleeful giggle. “And am I surprised? Look at the man. Clothed as a barbarian. There are ladies present. We can see his knees.”

“And what lovely knees they are,” the first replied, her words thick with innuendo.

It was not the most ladylike sentiment he’d ever heard expressed, considering these two were so angry at his mere presence, but Alec let the comment pass. He could not murder all the gossips in London, no matter how well he would like to. In less than an hour, he’d be high atop his curricle, going hell-for-leather up the Great North Road, headed home.

Not home.

He would never be home again. Not as long as Lily was elsewhere.

He cleared his throat at the thought. Yes, home. England had always been his ruin, and today was no different. Indeed, if the last ten days had done nothing else, they had shown him the truth of his father’s curse.

It did not matter that he left the woman he loved.

Everyone I have ever loved has left.

She’d said the words to him at the start of all this, when he’d convinced her to stay. To face London. To marry another. When he’d convinced her that he’d save her. And he’d vowed to find her a man whom she could love. A man who would not soil her with his past, and who would give her everything she’d ever dreamed.

Yes. Alec had left her. But, to a better life. One that would let her open that damn trunk and use all the things inside, if she wished it. One that would give her a perfect, gentlemanly hero and a beloved family and a happily-ever-after that he—

He stopped.

That he would give everything to be a part of.

When he’d arrived in London ten days earlier, she’d asked him for freedom. For choice. And last night, he gave it to her.

The hall was packed wall to wall like a tin of fish, everyone straining to see the dais at the front of the long, massive room, and Alec had never been more grateful for his size. He did not have to strain. He was tall enough to see Hawkins’s decimation play out from his place. And though he wished to push to the front and set his fist in the man’s face, he knew better—he would watch the reveal of Jewel and leave amid the shock and awe that would ensue.

And he would go back to Scotland. In peace.

And forget this place.

Liar.

He shifted on his feet at the thought and crossed his arms.

“Do you think he’s here to call Hawkins out?” a man said from nearby.

“For Hawkins’s sake, I hope not. Look at the man.”

“There’s a reason they call him the Scottish Brute.”

“Perhaps he will call him out.” The last was spoken on a breath of anticipation.

Alec set his jaw. Duels were for hotheaded children. He had other plans for Hawkins. As he stood there, waiting for the pompous scoundrel to arrive, Hawkins was receiving notice that his membership to The Fallen Angel had been rescinded—Duncan West most certainly had friends in powerful places.

Similarly, an announcement would soon be made that several exceedingly wealthy aristocrats—the Duke of Warnick included—were funding a new theatrical venture. It would go head to head with the Hawkins Theater, and make it very difficult for him to find patrons of his own.

But this morning would be the worst of all Hawkins’s punishments. It would strike him hard and fast, in his pompous, arrogant face. And so Alec was here to watch.

Because he might not be able to have Lily, but he could have this—her honor.

And then smug-faced Hawkins was taking the stage along with some other Englishman, and the crowd quieted, until the only sound was Alec’s beating heart.

“As you know,” the older man began, “the Royal Academy of Arts selects a single piece to be revealed on the final day of the annual exhibition—a piece that we believe is so indicative of the quality of British artistry that it moves directly from here to the entryway of the British Museum, and then tours the country. This year, the artist selected for this great honor is Derek Hawkins.”

No mention of the fact that Hawkins destroyed a reputation in the balance.

No mention of the fact that Hawkins was an ass, either.

Hawkins preened beneath the rapt attention of the crowd, and it occurred to Alec that there was never in history a man who deserved what was coming to him more.

And then Hawkins began to talk. Something about genius. About his gift to the world. About his exceeding talent. And then he said, “I only wish the model were here, so you might all compare the two and know that my talent has turned brass into gold beyond value.”

Paupering the man was not enough.

He deserved to die of something slow and painful.

“And so, adoring fans, I shall not keep you from it any longer!” He stepped back and, with a flourish, “I present, Beauty Bestowed!”

With the utterly arrogant title echoing through the exhibition hall, Alec actually found something to enjoy about that morning. Because when the curtain fell and Jewel was revealed, that smug smile would fall and Derek Hawkins would be ruined.

The curtain fell, and a dropped pin might have echoed thought the silent hall, thousands of people within so thoroughly captivated.

Not by Jewel.

By Lily.

She’d returned the painting. And it was a masterpiece.

She was draped across a settee in a dark room, light playing off her beautiful skin, the curves and peaks and valleys of her glorious body highlighted by skilled brushwork and color that seemed at once impossible and utterly perfect. But it was not her body that drew Alec’s attention. It was her face, the way she looked directly at the viewer, without timidness or shame. Without hesitation. As though the moment depicted involved two people alone—Lily and the viewer.

It was a painting that lacked regret. And it was hers, more than it would ever be Hawkins’s.

She’d returned the painting.

Of course she had. It was the act of a woman who would not be shamed. Who would not be made a scandal without her permission. And though it was stunning, the painting paled in comparison to the woman herself, magnificent and unparalleled.

He was struck deep with pride.

He would never let her go. Not after this. Not after seeing this act of supreme courage—one that would forever inspire him to match it. He wanted to spend his life by her side, attempting to be the man that this woman—this brave, strong, beautiful woman—deserved. He was too selfish to let another have her.

He wasn’t going home to Scotland. He was going home to her.

And once he was through telling her precisely what he thought of her skulking about in the London night, he was going to win her back.

Because, if the reveal of this portrait meant anything, it meant this: his Lily was exceedingly unhappy with him for leaving her.

Which made perfect sense, of course, as it had been an act of supreme stupidity.

He would make it up to her. He would convince her to choose him, as well, and he was going to marry her, and spend the rest of his life making it up to her. With pleasure.

It was only then, transfixed by the stunning painting and the keen knowledge that it paled in comparison to the woman he loved, that he remembered his vow to Lily. The promise he’d made never to look at the painting.

She was right, of course. It was not for him.

Just as she was not for the world.

The instant the realization came, Alec turned his back to the portrait.

He was already moving—headed to her. To find her. To marry her. To love her.

He did not have far to go, as she was there. Waiting for him.

Wearing his plaid.

She stood tall and proud like a goddess, uncaring that they stood a stone’s throw from her nude. But Lily did not look to the room. Not to the dais. Not anywhere but at him, and he wanted to roar his pleasure at her unwavering attention.

Twin desires shot through him—making him at once wish to lift her into his arms and carry her far from London’s prying eyes and also to grab her to him and kiss her until neither of them could think. And then get her to the nearest vicar.

He didn’t have a special license. Another reason to loathe England. Bollocks banns. He wasn’t waiting for them.

It seemed they were headed to Scotland after all.

He resisted the urge to carry her, immediately, to his curricle, however, because of the other emotion flashing in her beautiful grey eyes.

Lily was furious.

“I don’t want your money,” she said, arms akimbo, as though they were anywhere but there, in front of all London. As though half a dozen heads hadn’t turned their way the moment she’d spoken. “I don’t want my money, either.”

She was angry, but there was something else there. Something like fear.

He hated it—wanted to chase it away. He stepped toward her and she held up a hand, stopping him with nothing but a look, like a queen. “And I most definitely don’t want your dogs.”

He stepped closer at the lie—close enough that he could touch her. That he could catch her if she ran. “You’ve ruined my dogs with your table scraps and your scratches,” he said, softly. “They belong to you, now, my love.”

That’s when the tears came. “Don’t call me that.” He ached at the words, instantly reaching for her. She took a step backward. “No. Don’t you dare touch me. I’ve things to say.”

“Then I’m afraid you’re going to have to stop crying, because I don’t think I can watch it without touching you.”

She dashed an errant tear from her cheek. “I don’t want any of your silly gifts. And I don’t want you to send me off into the world to choose a different life. I choose this life.”

He nodded.

“Don’t you dare nod at me, as though you’ve known it the whole time.” Her voice rose, and he heard the strength there. “He didn’t destroy my dreams with that painting, Alec.”

He knew that now. He hadn’t understood before.

“That painting isn’t me. It’s oil and canvass. He can have it. They can have it,” she said, waving one long arm to the assembly. “They can send it all over the world, and it will never be me. But you . . .” She paused, the words suddenly softer. His breath caught, hearing the accusation in her words. “You did destroy my dreams.”

The words sent cold fear rioting through him.

He reached for her.

“No.” He stopped, and she said, “You left me. How many times did you tell me my shame was misplaced? That I deserved more? Better? A man worthy of me? You were right. I do deserve all those things. More than this.”

Fear became terror. Dear God. She was going to be rid of him.

The air had left the room. Alec struggled to breathe.

And then she said, “Do you know why I put it back? I put it back because it was wrong to deny it—this thing that is a part of me. That I refuse to be ashamed of. That you taught me not to be ashamed of. I am not ashamed of my passion. Of my choices. I am not ashamed of my past, Alec.”

She should not be.

He opened her mouth to tell her so, but she added, “And I am certainly not ashamed of you.”

Breath returned.

“You want me to choose? Let me choose.”

He nodded. Found his voice. “Do it. Choose.”

She came to him, then, close enough for him to see the silver in her beautiful grey eyes. “I choose all of it, dammit. The scandal. The Scotland. The dogs. The drafty castle. I want Burns instead of Shakespeare. But most of all, I choose you, Alec Stuart, lummox, idiot, coward, cabbageheaded duke.” She paused, then added, “Against my better judgment.”

She chose him.

The glorious madwoman chose him. Somehow.

He was the luckiest bastard in Christendom.

He reached for her then, unable to resist the urge to touch her. Cradling her face in his palms, he tilted her face up to meet his, unable to find words in the flood of joy that coursed through him. “Lily.”

Her hands came to rest on his. “You left me.”

The words, soft and wounded, threatened to slay him. “Love—”

She shook her head. “Alone. Again. Only this time it was worse. This time, I knew what it was not to be alone. I knew what it was to love.”

He did not know how to reply. And so he did the only thing he could think to do, not wanting to chase her away.

He released her and sank to his knees.

Her eyes went wide. “What are you—”

It was his turn to speak. “I thought I was saving you,” he said quietly, staring up at her, adoring every inch of her, wanting her with a desperation that clawed at him—that he wondered if he would ever slake. “When I came here, I thought I was to protect you. To play the part of guardian. Of savior.”

“I did not need a savior,” she said.

“No, mo chridhe. You didn’t. But I did. And it was you who did the saving. Lily . . . you have saved me.”

She reached for him. “Alec—”

He bowed his head, aching for her touch. “I am yours, my love, body and soul. When I am old, I do not wish to think of you. I wish to be with you. I wish to love you.”

“Stand up, my love,” she said, her hands in his hair, and when he looked up, her tears were in earnest. “Please, Alec. Stand.”

He did, coming to his full height, his hands returning to her face and tilting it up to him so he could see her reply, whispered so softly he could barely hear it. “You,” she said. “You.”

“Always,” he replied. “Forever.”

He kissed her then, long and deep, lifting her high in his arms until her arms were wrapped about his neck and he held her off the floor for the caress, which lasted at once for an eternity and a heartbeat. They separated only when they had both lost the ability to breathe, but Alec did not put her down, instead clutching her close and burying his face in the warm curve of her neck, breathing deep, willing his heart to slow.

She laughed and he lifted his head. “What is it?”

“We have an audience, it seems.”

He shook his head. “No. They’re too distracted by the painting.” He growled. “How did you do it?”

She grinned. “Guess.”

He groaned. “Sesily.”

“I needed a boost,” she said simply. “But—”

He cut her off. “The two of you, together. You are trouble. You realize I’m going to have to murder half of London, now, for having seen you nude?”

She tilted her head. “Perhaps not, though, considering no one is looking at the painting.”

He turned to the room, massive and packed to the gills, come to see the legendary masterpiece of Derek Hawkins. Not one observer was turned to the front of the room, however. They all—to a person—had their backs to the painting.

Facing far more interesting gossip.

He raised a brow. “They still look at you. I don’t care for it.”

“At least this way I am clothed.” She grinned. “Still a scandal, but clothed.”

“Nonsense.” He kissed her again, long and slow and deep, until the women around them gasped their shock. “Duchesses cannot be scandals.”

“Not even if we try very hard?”

“Well,” he replied, “if anyone can do it, my love, ’tis you.”

“I shall require a partner.”

“No doubt a grueling task, but one I see no way of avoiding,” he teased.

She pressed her lips to his, soft and lingering. And then she said, “When can we marry?”

“We can be in Scotland in four days if we leave now.”

She smiled, and he caught his breath. “Then I think it is time you take me home.”

Beauty Bestowed traveled throughout Britain and across the Continent, making it as far east as St. Petersburg and as far west as New York City, exhibited in the greatest homes and museums in the world, lauded as a singular masterpiece, rivaling the Mona Lisa.

But Beauty Bestowed was different from other portraits. It was not a painting of a nameless muse. It was the portrait of Lillian Stuart, née Hargrove, twenty-first Duchess of Warnick, and the Scandal of 1834.

And whenever it was exhibited, wherever, her story was told. Their story was told. The story of Lovely Lily, and the duke who so adored her that he tossed her over his shoulder and carried her off to Scotland on the last morning of the Royal Art Exhibition, under the watchful, envious eye of all London.

It is no wonder that none can remember the name of the artist.