A Scot in the Dark Page 13

  He went stiff as a board at the words, and Lily had the sudden sense that she’d said something terribly wrong.

  Not that she should care.

  And then he spoke, low and dark, the angry words fairly forced from him. “You forget yourself,” he said. “As my ward, your things are my things.”

  Her gaze flew to his. “You beast.”

  His lips pressed into a long straight line. “And you, the most beautiful woman in London,” he said, as though being beautiful was the most ugly thing she could be. “We make a fine match, Lovely Lily.”

  The nickname unstuck her. She pulled away from him and fled the room.

  Chapter 9

  GUARDIAN? OR GUARD-DOG?

  No one in his life had ever frustrated Alec as much as Miss Lillian Hargrove.

  He watched her walk away in her ridiculous dress, the bronze and gold and silver fabric flouncing around her with every step, hound and hare bobbing high above her head, and he burned with anger and embarrassment and frustration and a keen desire to leave her there in Eversley House, and return to Scotland.

  A desire almost as strong as the one that urged him to chase after her.

  He cursed under his breath. He’d hurt her. He shouldn’t have told her that he’d seen the dress.

  He should have told her he only wanted the best for her. That he only wanted to protect her. That he would protect her, dammit. That it was all he’d wanted to do since the moment the damn letter had arrived in Scotland, summoning him to her side. He wasn’t a monster, after all. He recognized duty, and he would serve it.

  And the more he was with her, the more he wished to serve it.

  Perhaps he would have said all that if they hadn’t been here, in a packed ballroom, the focus of the aristocracy’s attention. If he hadn’t been keenly aware of his too-tight clothing, of his own too-big size, of his inability to be genteel or refined in any way.

  If he hadn’t been blindsided by the arrival of Margaret mere moments earlier. Lady Margaret, now Countess Rowley. More beautiful now than she’d been twenty years earlier, when she’d been Peg, the older sister to his schoolmate, and he’d wanted her beyond reason.

  When he’d had her, and believed she’d be his forever.

  Marry me.

  Alec cursed in the dim light, her long-ago laughter punctuating the memory of her approach tonight, as though she owned him even now, even as she was married to a fancy British earl—just as she’d always desired. The way she’d come too close and reminded him of how close they’d once been.

  Of the way she’d left, his heart in her hand, crushed.

  Women dream of men like you, darling.

  But for a night. Not a lifetime.

  King hadn’t warned him that she’d be there. Alec supposed he should have expected it. The ball was one of the first of the season, and the first hosted by the future Duke and Duchess of Lyne since the birth of their first child. Even if King weren’t brother-in-law to the infamous Talbot sisters, all of London would have been in curious attendance.

  But he still could have mentioned Peg would be there.

  Alec pushed away the cacophonous memories of a broken heart and a broken spirit, leaving only the memory of Lillian’s righteous fury.

  He should have been able to manage that fury. To temper it.

  And perhaps he would have done, if not for the shock and sting of seeing Peg. Of remembering her. And then Lily had called him a brute and a beast, and he’d remembered the same words on another set of beautiful lips. Another time. Another woman. Another encounter that ended with him left alone, imperfect.

  And then, Lily, hurt, lashing out. Your reputation precedes you.

  Shit.

  It wasn’t an excuse for his behavior. He should have protected Lily—ironically, protecting her was the only thing he seemed unable to do, despite it being the singular requirement of guardianship.

  Perhaps he’d be more successful at it if she weren’t so beautiful. If those grey eyes didn’t seem to see everything, if she weren’t so willing to tell him when he was out of line. When he was behaving abominably. If she weren’t so strong and independent and willing to fight for herself.

  If she weren’t so damn perfect, perhaps he could be a better man when he was with her.

  She’d called him a beast, and he was. Somehow, she made him one. Or, perhaps, she simply saw the truth, and left him there, at the center of the ballroom, feeling like one.

  The orchestra stopped and the couples around him—doing their best to both stare at and ignore him—began to dissipate as the musicians prepared for the next set. The movement away from the dance unstuck him, and he turned away, committed to a single goal—finding a decent drink.

  Crossing the ballroom, Alec ducked through a doorway into a dimly lit corridor that he vaguely remembered led to a series of salons. If he had to guess, he’d imagine there was scotch stored somewhere nearby.

  Once he’d found it, he would seek out Lillian, who was no doubt hiding in the ladies’ salon, wishing she’d donned an appropriate garment and hopefully regretting the fact that she’d left him in the middle of a ballroom as couples continued to dance around him.

  Likely not regretting that at all, as it was his fault that she’d run.

  He’d deserved the embarrassment.

  And she deserved his apology.

  She’d get it. In the form of one of the men on his list. He’d seek one out and deliver him to her—for a waltz and a refreshment. They could take a turn about the room or whatever ridiculous courtship England required.

  He wouldn’t turn her about the room if he were courting her.

  He’d take her into the darkness on the terrace beyond the ballroom—down into the gardens where the light from the ball was gone and the stars above were all they could see, and he’d kiss her until she wanted nothing but to marry him. Until she couldn’t remember any words but Yes.

  Then he’d lay her down on the cool earth, strip her bare, and feast on her with nothing but the sky as witness.

  After which, he’d take her to Scotland and marry her. Immediately.

  And she would regret it. Forever.

  He ran a hand over his face at the thought, the idea of his hands on her—of them soiling her perfection—making him wish he was anywhere but here.

  Christ.

  He had to get her married. If it killed him, he would do the right thing and get her married.

  But first, he needed a drink.

  He opened the first door he came to, entering a dark room, leaving the door open to allow some semblance of the already diffused light in. He squinted into the darkness, making out a sideboard at the far end of what he imagined was some kind of study, a decanter beckoning him into the night.

  He headed for it, grateful for the quiet, momentary distance from the ball, the aristocracy, and London in general. Both the Marquess and the Marchioness of Eversley had spent their childhood mere miles from the Scottish border, so Alec was confident that whatever the amber liquid in the decanter was, it was whisky as it should be.

  He poured two fingers and drank, wrapped in the familiar rich flavor. Satisfaction flooded through him. King was a good friend, stocking the house with Alec’s whisky—distilled and bottled on Stuart land. Alec would have to tell Lillian about Scotland’s superior whisky at some point—yet another thing her England could not claim.

  He leaned back against the sideboard and exhaled, enjoying the shadows that hid him from view. It was so rare that he felt invisible in London, and the moment was warm and welcome and as close to perfect as England could be.

  And then she entered the room, and he was reminded of how imperfect England was. Of how it had destroyed him, and threatened to destroy her.

  Of how much safer and happier she would be in Scotland, far from this place with its judging eyes and its inane rules. For a moment, he imagined Lily in the wilds of his country. He wanted to see her on the banks of the Oban. On the cliffs high above the Firth of Forth.
In fields of heather that spread like purple fire as far as the eye could see.

  Scotland would suit her.

  The thought came with a longing that ripped him from fantasy and returned him to the moment.

  He should have said something immediately. Should have announced himself. And he might have, if she hadn’t immediately moved to the window at the opposite end of the room. Whether it was moonlight or the residual glow of the ballroom in the back gardens, she was cast in a light that made her ethereal and so beautiful that his breath caught in his chest.

  She raised her hand to the glass window, three long, delicate fingers trailing down the pane, and she let out a long, lush breath, one that filled the room with emotion—frustration. Sadness, and something much more powerful. Longing.

  Alec’s breath returned with force at the last, at the familiarity of it.

  Because, in that moment, he longed, too.

  The thought shook him. He was her guardian. She was his ward.

  She was a grown woman. Ward on a technicality.

  It did not matter. She remained his ward. She remained under his protection. And he might have been terrible at protecting her until this moment—he might have failed at protecting her reputation and her emotions—but he could damn well protect her from himself.

  And, besides, he did not care for beautiful women. They were pretty promises that too quickly became lies.

  The thought returned him to the present, and he made to move, to talk to her and apologize and start anew. To convince her that he would play his role perfectly, and that they would find her the life she wished. A proper man. A loving family. A future that was filled with home and hearth and happiness, as she deserved. Whatever she wished.

  But before he could speak up from his place in the darkness, the door to the room closed with a soft snick, startling them both, directing their attention to the shadowy figure just inside the room. “Hello, Lily.”

  Hawkins.

  Alec had an instant desire to destroy the man for risking being found alone with Lillian. For once more tempting the fates of scandal with a dark room and an unmarried woman.

  It did not escape him that he’d been alone with her moments earlier, but it was different. There was no time to parse the double standard of the situation, however, as Hawkins was moving toward Lily with a speed Alec did not like. He straightened in the darkness, ready to approach and tear the man limb from limb, but she spoke before he could move.

  “Derek.” Alec hated Hawkins then, as his given name swirled through the darkness, soft and lovely on her lips. “Why are you here?”

  “It’s London in season. Of course I am here,” Hawkins said. “I am everywhere.” He waved a hand. “Like ether.”

  Alec rolled his eyes.

  “Sesily said you’re here with a rich widow. For the money.”

  Good girl. Disdain was precisely what she should be feeling.

  “Sesily Talbot is nothing. Cheap as the rest of her family.”

  What an unmitigated ass the man was.

  “I just met her family. They seem quite expensive. And wonderfully honest. Unlike others.”

  “All that glitters is not gold, sweet Lily.”

  “It seems to me that Sesily is made of stronger stuff than gold. She’s judged harshly by the ton in large part due to her brief courtship with you, and yet she remains tall in the face of their scorn. I wish I was as strong as she.” The accusation came next. “She refused to be ruined by you.”

  “I did not ruin you,” he said.

  “Of course you did. Without care.” The accusation was not angry, or hurt. It came on a thread of honesty that Alec at once admired and loathed. She should be hurt. And angry.

  At him.

  “Poor Lovely Lily . . .” Hawkins said, reaching for her, running a finger down her cheek, down the skin that Alec thought must be impossibly soft. “You . . . you were the mirror that reflected my genius.”

  Lily closed her eyes at the man’s touch. Or perhaps his words. Either way, Alec hated the longing on her face, mixed with pain. He decided then and there to destroy Derek Hawkins. For touching her. For hurting her.

  He would leave him broken here, in this dark room. He’d have to apologize to the Marchioness of Eversley, he imagined, and purchase a replacement carpet, but surely she would understand that the world was better off without this loathsome eel in it.

  Before Alec could do anything, however, Lily spoke. “You promised me you wouldn’t tell anyone about the painting. You told me it was for you and you alone.”

  “And it was at the start, darling.”

  “Don’t call me that.” Lily’s words came sharp and steel.

  “Whyever not?” Hawkins said with a laugh. “Oh, Lily. Don’t be so pedestrian. You were my muse. I am sorry that you misjudged the role. You were the conduit for my art. The vessel through which the world will see the truth of my timeless influence. The portrait is my Madonna and Child. My Creation of Man. For centuries to come, people will see it and they will whisper my name with breathless awe.” He paused for effect, then practiced the whisper in question. “Derek Hawkins.”

  What utter rubbish. If Alec didn’t loathe the man already, he certainly would now.

  “And what of my name?” Lillian asked.

  “Don’t you see? It doesn’t matter what happens to you. This is for art. For all time. You are a sacrifice to beauty. To truth. To eternity. What would you have me do, Lily? Hide it away?”

  “Yes!”

  “What purpose would that serve?”

  “It would make you decent!” she cried. “Noble! The man I—”

  Alec stiffened, hearing the rest of the sentence as clearly as if she’d said it.

  The man I love.

  “This is the noblest act I could commit, darling.”

  There was a long silence, during which Alec could virtually feel Lily’s disappointment. And when she finally spoke, saying small and soft, “I thought you loved me,” Alec thought his heart might explode in his chest.

  “Perhaps I did in my own way, sweetheart. But marrying you—impossible. I’m the greatest artist of our time. Of all time. And you are beautiful . . . but . . . as I said . . . your beauty exists as a vessel for my talent. The whole world will soon see how much.”

  He set his hand to her cheek. “Darling, I never pushed you away. I was happy to have you. I would have you still. That is why I followed you here.”

  The bastard.

  Alec stiffened as Lily snapped her gaze to Hawkins’s. “Still?”

  The artist leaned close, and Alec held back a roar of fury at the nearness, until the pompous prick whispered, “Still. Now.” There was no mistaking the sexual promise in the words. “You would like that, would you not?”

  That was it. Alec went for him.

  Except Lily got there first.

  It felt exceedingly good to punch a man in the nose.

  She knew she shouldn’t do it. She knew it wouldn’t solve her problem. Knew, too, that it would do nothing but anger Derek and likely make him more committed to her ruination.

  It would only increase her shame—her shame for her feelings, for her behavior, for the consequences of it.

  But there was only so much a woman could be expected to take. And once he’d resurrected the shame—along with all the pain and sadness and doubt that he’d settled upon her—she hadn’t been able to help herself.

  “Ow!” Derek’s reached up to check the state of his handsome, exceedingly straight nose. “You hit me!”

  “You deserved it,” she said, shaking out her hand, doing her best to ignore the sting of it. It was the first time she’d ever punched a thing, and it hurt, frankly. More than she would have imagined.

  “You little bitch! You will regret that!”

  “Not as much as you will regret using such language with her,” came a low Scottish burr from the darkness.

  Lily let out a surprised squeak as she spun to find Alec crossing the room, six and a
half feet of massive, muscular fury with a single goal—to finish the job that Lily had started.

  His fist was significantly larger than hers, and packed an impressive wallop. She should not have enjoyed the sound of bone meeting flesh but, she confessed, it was rather thrilling.

  As was the way Hawkins dropped to the floor like a sack of grain.

  And the way Alec followed him down to lift him up with the strength of one massive arm and hit him a second time. And a third.

  It was when he pulled back for the fourth blow that his coat split in two, right down the back seam. In the sound of the rending, Lily found her voice. “Stop!”

  Alec froze, as though she held him on a string. He looked back over his shoulder. “Do ye want him?”

  She shook her head, confused by both the question and his brogue, thickened with fury. “What?”

  “Do ye. Want him,” he repeated. “To husband.”

  “What?” This time it was Derek who sputtered the reply.

  Alec returned his attention to his victim. “I did not give you permission to speak.” He looked back to Lily. “If you want him, he is yours.”

  She believed him. There was no question in her mind that if she announced that she wanted to be Mrs. Derek Hawkins, Alec would make it so. They would be married before sunup. She’d get the man she’d mooned over for months. The one she’d cried herself to sleep for more times than she could count.

  Alec would give him to her.

  A week ago, perhaps she’d have wanted it.

  But now . . .

  “No,” she whispered.

  “With conviction, lass.”

  “No,” she said, more firmly. “You are terribly committed to getting me married, Your Grace, if you think to marry me to him.”

  “I won’t marry her!” Derek declared. “You cannot make me!”

  Alec glared at him. “Once again, I am nae interested in hearing you speak.”

  Lily met Derek’s gaze. “For the record, as he is the Duke of Warnick, I think he absolutely could make you marry me, Mr. Hawkins,” she enunciated his lack of title, knowing it made him mad with jealousy, before returning her attention to Alec. “But what His Grace cannot do is make me marry you. Or anyone, for that matter.”