A Scot in the Dark

Chapter 1

LOVELY LILY TURNED MISS MUSE!

April 1834

Royal Academy Exhibition

Somerset House, London

Miss Lillian Hargrove was the most beautiful woman in England.

It was an empirical fact, requiring absolutely no confirmation from experts on the subject. One had only to set eyes upon her, noting her porcelain skin, precisely symmetrical features, high cheekbones, full lips, curving ears, and a pretty, straight nose that evoked the very best of classical sculpture, and one simply knew.

Add to it her red hair, somehow not at all brash but a rich, golden hue that evoked the most heavenly of sunsets, and her grey eyes like a summer storm, and there was no question at all.

Lillian Hargrove was perfect.

So perfect, that the fact she had come from nothing—that she lacked title, social standing, and dowry, that she had been plucked from Lord knew where by London’s finest artist, to whom she was not married—was somehow rendered irrelevant when she entered a room. After all, nothing blinded gentlemen (titled or otherwise) quite like beauty, a fact that was enough to set any matchmaking mama with an invitation to Almack’s on edge.

Which was why the female half of the aristocracy took exceeding pleasure in the events of the twenty-fourth of April, 1834, the opening day of the Royal Academy Exhibition of Contemporary Art, and the day Lillian Hargrove—current favored beauty of the scandal sheets—was made a proper scandal.

And ruined. Thoroughly.

Later, when that same subsection of the ton whispered fervently about the events of the day, white gloves hiding fingertips stained black with ink from the gossip rags they swore they never read, the conversation would always end with a horrified, gleeful “The poor thing never saw it coming.”

And she hadn’t.

Indeed, Lily had thought it would be the best day of her life.

It was the day she had been waiting for her entire life—all twenty-three years, forty-eight weeks. It was the day Derek Hawkins was to propose.

Not that she had known Derek for her entire life. She hadn’t. She’d known him for six months, three weeks, and five days—since he’d approached her on the afternoon of Michaelmas as she lingered in the Hyde Park sun on one of the last warm days of the year, and told her, in no uncertain terms, that he was going to marry her.

“You are a revelation,” he’d said in his cool, crisp voice, surprising her from her book.

Another might have considered his unexpected arrival the reason for her breathlessness, but Lily had known better. He had taken her breath away because he had found her, ignored in her place in the margins. Despite her beauty, she was alone and unnoticed by the world, thrice-orphaned—first by her land steward father; then by a string of ducal guardians, each meeting a quick end; and, finally, in full, by the neglect of the current duke.

In her loneliness, she’d become very adept at being unseen, so, when Derek Hawkins noticed her—when he saw her with the full, blinding force of his gaze—she’d fallen quite in love. Quite instantly.

Lily had done her best to seem unaffected by his words. After all, she had not read every London ladies’ magazine published in the last five years for nothing. Looking up at him, she tried her best, softest smile and said, “We have not met, sir.”

He’d crouched next to her at that, removing the book from her lap—charming her with his blinding white teeth and even more blinding impertinence. “A beauty such as you should not have time for books.”

She blinked, drawn to his cool blue eyes, trained upon her as though they were the only two people in all London. In all the world. “But I like books.”

He’d shaken his head. “Not as much as you shall like me.”

She’d laughed at the boast. “You seem very certain of yourself.”

“I am very certain of you,” he’d said, lifting her hand from her lap and pressing a warm kiss to her gloved knuckles. “I am Derek Hawkins. And you are the muse for which I have been searching. I intend to keep you. For all eternity.”

She’d caught her breath at the vow. At the way it evoked other, more formal ones.

Certainly, meeting Derek Hawkins was a shock. She’d been reading about him for years—he was a legend, an artist and star of the stage, renowned throughout London and beyond as one of the most skilled theatrical minds of a generation. News of his talent and good looks preceded him—and while Lily could not in the moment confirm the former, the latter appeared quite accurate.

But it was not his celebrity that won Lily over. She had more than fluff between her ears, after all. She did not dream of a famous suitor.

She dreamed of a suitor who would ensure she was never alone again.

After all, Lily had been alone for her entire life.

In the days and weeks that followed, Derek had courted her, playing the part of the perfect gentleman, escorting her to autumn festivals and winter events, even hiring an older female servant to chaperone them on public outings.

And then, on a cold, snowy afternoon in January, he’d sent a carriage for her, and she’d been ferreted to his studio—the inner sanctum of his artist’s world.

Alone.

There, in the sun-soaked room, surrounded by dozens of canvases, he’d honored her with his words and promises, worshipped her beauty and her perfection and vowed to keep her with him. Forever.

The words—so pretty and tempting and precisely what she’d always dreamed of hearing from a man so handsome and skilled and valued beyond measure—had filled her with more happiness and hope than she’d ever imagined possible.

For two months and five days, she’d returned to the studio again and again, sitting with more than a little pride in the room, warm with winter sunlight and Derek’s gaze. She’d given him everything he asked. Because that was what one did when one was in love.

And they were in love—a fact that was proven by this moment, as they stood in the great hall of the Royal Exhibition, surrounded by the brightest and most renowned of London’s populace. Lily was a half step behind Derek’s right shoulder (where he preferred her), wearing a pale yellow frock (slightly lower than Lily would have liked, but which he’d selected himself), her hair up in a tight, unyielding twist (precisely the way he liked).

As they’d ridden to the exhibition, the rain forcing them inside his carriage, where it tapped its rhythm on the roof and shut out the world beyond, he’d taken her hand in his and whispered, “Today is the day that changes everything. For all time. After today, all will be different. My name will be whispered throughout the world. And yours, as well.”

She’d blinked up at him, heart bursting, knowing that he could mean only one thing. Marriage. She’d smiled and whispered back, “Together.”

The carriage had slowed in that moment, and they’d arrived at the exhibition, but she’d heard his agreement in the thunder of the rainstorm beyond.

Together.

And now they were here, and she was feeling prouder than she’d ever been in her life, for this man who would soon be her husband, and for herself as well. After all, it was not every day that the orphaned daughter of a land steward was so privileged to stand before all of London with the man she loved.

The room was massive, the walls reaching twenty feet high and every inch of them covered in artwork. Every inch, that was, but one central spot behind a dais on the far end of the space, this one covered instead with a curtain of sorts, as though what was there was due a magnificent reveal.

Derek turned back to give her a wink. “That one’s for us.”

Lily smiled. Us. What a lovely, lovely word.

How long had she wished to be part of an us?

“Mr. Hawkins,” the secretary of the academy met them at the midpoint of the room with a firm handshake and a fervent whisper in Derek’s ear. “Thank goodness you’ve arrived. We are ready for the announcement immediately, if you are, sir.”

Derek nodded, his lips curving into a wide smile that marked his triumph. “I am always ready for announcements such as this.”

Lily looked about the room, taking in the crush of people, all waiting for the exhibition to begin. She recognized a handful of London’s brightest, and was immediately unnerved by the idea that she was surrounded by titles and funds. She stiffened, suddenly wishing that Derek had proposed yesterday, so she might be allowed to reach for him—to steady herself in the force of London’s combined gaze.

“He’s brought that Hargrove girl with him.” Lily resisted the urge to turn at the sound of her name, whispered, but too loud not to be heard. She assumed that had been the speaker’s plan all along.

“Of course he has,” came the scathing reply. “He delights in dotage. And look at the way she stares after him. Like a pup after a bone.”

The first speaker tutted her distaste. “As if it weren’t enough that she looks the way she does.”

Lily willed herself not to listen and fixed her eyes on the back of Derek’s head, where his black hair curled in perfect whorls.

They did not matter.

Only Derek mattered.

Only their future. Together.

Us.

“Everyone knows anyone who looks the way she does is a complete scandal. I cannot believe he’d bring her here. Today of all days. There are dukes in attendance.”

“I heard the Queen might appear.”

“If that is true, it’s even more disgusting that he would bring her.”

“His own consort!” The words came on a chortle, as though they were clever.

They weren’t.

Lily resisted the suggestion that she might be something other than Derek’s betrothed. As though she were a scandal. And even though she wasn’t—even though there was nothing scandalous about love—her cheeks flamed and the room grew warmer.

She turned to Derek, willing him to hear the women. To turn and tell them that not only were they speaking out of turn, but that they were speaking out of turn about his future wife.

But he didn’t hear. He was already moving away from her, bounding up the stairs to the place where the curtain hung, hiding his masterpiece. He hadn’t let her see it, of course. Hadn’t wanted to tempt fate. But she knew his skill, and knew that whatever he had selected for the exhibition would take London by storm.

He’d told her as much only minutes earlier.

And when it did take London by storm, the women behind her would eat their words.

Derek had reached the center of the dais, made a show of peeking behind the curtain before turning toward the assembled crowd as Sir Martin Archer Shee, the president of the Royal Academy, welcomed London to the exhibition. The speech was impressive, delivered in the distinguished man’s booming Irish brogue, noting the venerable history of the academy and its exhibitions.

Indeed, the art on the walls was very good indeed. It was not the quality of Derek’s, of course, but it was fine art. There were several very nice landscapes.

And then it was time.

“Each year, the academy prides itself on a special piece—a first exhibition from one of Britain’s most skilled contemporary artists. In the past, we’ve revealed unparalleled works from Thomas Gainsborough and Joseph Turner and John Constable, each to more acclaim than the last. This year, we are most proud to showcase renowned artist of stage and canvas, Derek Hawkins.”

Derek’s chest puffed with pride. “It is my masterwork.”

Sir Martin turned toward the unexpected interjection. “Would you like to speak to it now?”

Derek stepped forward. “I shall say more once it is revealed, but for now I shall offer only this. It is the greatest nude of our time.” He paused. “The greatest nude of all time.”

A hush went over the room. Not that Lily could hear it over the loud rushing in her ears.

Nude.

To her knowledge, Derek had only ever painted one nude.

It bests Rubens, he’d said as she’d lain in repose on the cobalt settee in his studio, surrounded by satin pillows and lush fabrics. It is more glorious than Titian.

The words were not a memory, however. He was speaking them again, now, casting his arrogant gaze across the crowd. “It makes Ingres look like he should return to school.” He turned to the president of the academy. “The Royal Academy, of course.”

The boast—an insult to one of the greatest artists of the day—unlocked the assembly, and the collective whispers rose in a cacophony, adding sound to the wild heat that consumed Lily.

“Outrageous,” someone said nearby.

He’d sworn it was for his eyes alone.

“I’ve never heard such conceit.”

He’d promised her no one would ever see it.

The women behind her spoke again, snide and unpleasant. “Of course. That’s why he brought her.”

It couldn’t be she.

It couldn’t be.

“No doubt,” came the agreement. “She’s low enough to be the model.”

“Model is too kind. It implies value. She is too cheap for such a word. Only allowed inside the door because of the goodwill of—”

She turned to stare at them, halting the words in the speaker’s throat, the truth of the moment bringing unwanted tears to her eyes. They didn’t care. The two women stared right at her. As though she were a roach in the gutter.

“Her guardian clearly understands that beauty has no bearing on worth.”

Lily turned away, the cruel words setting her in motion. At first, simply to escape the horrid women, and then, to escape her own fear.

And then, to stop Derek from baring her to the world.

She pushed her way through the crowd, which was already crushing closer and closer to the stage and the painting, still hidden. Thankfully. Sir Martin had resumed speaking, but Lily did not hear the words, too focused on getting to the dais.

On getting to the painting.

She climbed the stairs, driven by something far more powerful than embarrassment.

Shame.

Shame for what she had done. For trusting him. For believing him.

For believing she’d ever be more than herself. Alone.

For believing in the promise of us.

And then she was on the stage, and he was turning toward her, the room going silent once more, in utter shock at her presence. At her intrusion. The president of the academy turned wide eyes on her.

Derek moved with perfect ease, however, waving one arm toward her. “Ah! My muse arrives.”

It was time for Lily’s eyes to go wide. He’d ruined her. As though she’d removed her clothes in front of all of London. And still, he smiled at her, as though he didn’t see it. “My lovely Lily! The conduit of my genius. Smile, darling.”

She would never have imagined that the words would have made her so very furious. She didn’t stop moving. And she did not smile. “You swore no one would see it.”

The room gasped. As though the walls themselves could draw breath.

He blinked. “I did no such thing.”

Liar.

“You said it was for you alone.”

He smiled, as though it would explain everything. “Darling. My genius is too vast for me not to share it. It is for the world. For all time.”

She looked to the crowd, to the hundreds of eyes assembled, the force of their combined gaze setting her back on her feet. Making her knees weak. Making her heart pound.

Making her furious.

She turned back to him. “You said you loved me.”

He tilted his head. “Did I?”

She was out of space. Of time. Her body no longer hers. The moment no longer hers. She shook her head. “You did. You said it. We said it. We were to be married.”

He laughed. Laughed. The sound echoed in the gasps and whispers of the crowd beyond, but Lily didn’t care. His laugh was enough to slay on its own. “Dear girl,” he mocked. “A man of my caliber does not marry a woman of yours.”

He said it in front of all London.

Before these people, whom she’d always dreamed of becoming. Before this world, in which she’d always dreamed of living. Before this man, whom she’d always dreamed of loving.

But who had never loved her.

Who, instead, had shamed her.

She turned to the curtain, her purpose singular. To destroy his masterwork the way he’d destroyed her. Without care that those assembled would see the painting.

She tore at the curtain, the thick red velour coming from its moorings with virtually no pressure—or perhaps with the strength of her fury—revealing . . .

Bare wall.

There was nothing there.

She turned back to the room, surprised laughter and scandalized gasps and whispers as loud as cannon fire rioting through her.

The painting wasn’t there.

Relief came, hot and overpowering. She whirled to face the man she’d loved. The man who had betrayed her. “Where is it?”

Teeth flashed, blinding white. “It is in a safe space,” he replied, his voice booming, placing them both on show as he turned back to the room. “Look at her, London! Witness her passion! Her emotion! Her beauty! And return here, in one month’s time, on the final day of the exhibition, to witness all that into something more beautiful. More passionate. I shall set grown men to weeping with my work. As though they have seen the face of God.”

A collective gasp of delight thundered through the room. They thought it a play. Her a performer.

They did not realize her life was ruined. Her heart crushed beneath his perfectly shined boot.

They did not realize she was cleaved in two before them.

Or perhaps they did.

And perhaps it was the realization that gave them such glee.