A Scot in the Dark Page 9

  She blinked, considering the little room as though she’d never thought to look at it before. Shook her head. “Don’t know, rightly,” she said, finally. “ ’Twas ever thus.”

  Alec nodded at the unsatisfying answer, thanked the girl, and headed for his solicitor’s offices.

  Chapter 6

  DUKE GOES TO THE DOGS!

  If he wished to marry her off, he’d have to find her, first.

  The Dukedom of Warnick boasted eight London residences. There were four town houses scattered throughout Westminster and Mayfair, a house east of the city on the banks of the River Thames, a lodging house off Fleet Street that she’d been told was “for income” (though it didn’t seem that the dukedom lacked such a thing), a sprawling home with extensive gardens in Kensington, and a little house east of Temple Bar that was supposedly quite drafty.

  Lily had always preferred number 45 Berkeley Square the best, likely out of comfort, as the house had belonged to the Duke of Warnick she’d known best—the one who had died five years earlier, beginning the spate of ill luck that had subsequently taken the lives of sixteen other Dukes of Warnick, leaving the dukedom several residences richer, thanks to those interim dukes who had died without heirs, wives or family. Bernard Settlesworth, taxed with managing the London bits of the dukedom, had purchased the properties in the months and years following the deaths. As a result, Alec Stuart, Number Eighteen, now claimed them as his own, despite very likely not knowing that they existed.

  Which was his problem.

  Lily, on the other hand, did know they existed. And she was not afraid to use them.

  Not that Lily had ever actually seen the other houses. She’d never had much interest in them. Certainly, she’d had interest from the outside, but as they’d been subsumed into the dukedom, their staffs reduced to skeletons, Lily had always imagined that the devil one knew was the devil with which one stayed—and at least number 45 Berkeley Square had killed a duke who’d held the title for longer than a quarter of an hour.

  Nevertheless, Lily was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and the fact that there were seven other places to lay her head beyond Berkeley Square was a fine gift indeed.

  So it was that the previous evening, she’d arrived at number 38 Grosvenor Square and been warmly greeted by Mr. and Mrs. Thrushwill, the gardener and his happy housekeeper wife. The two had shared their ploughman’s supper with her and opened a room—one they proudly kept clean and aired for just such an occasion.

  Lily had tucked herself into bed, filled with thoughts of how she intended to avoid the Duke of Warnick’s mad scheme to put her on the marriage mart.

  Step one, avoid the Duke of Warnick.

  Certainly, 38 Grosvenor Square would be an excellent start, as he’d have to go searching for her. This house would buy her time. Two days. Possibly more.

  And in the darkness, surrounded by crisp, clean linen, she’d felt relief for the first time in two weeks, five days. For the first time, she felt as though she were captain of her own ship.

  That feeling lasted all too briefly, soon replaced with the thoughts that had consumed her since the opening of the Royal Exhibition. Thoughts of Derek. And of her own stupidity.

  If only she’d seen the truth about him. That he’d never honored her. That he’d never intended to. That every promise he’d ever made, every pretty word he’d ever spoken, had been a lie.

  Lily lay there in the dark, quiet house, turning those lies over and over in her mind, remembering the way they’d made her ache, filled with desire and something far more dangerous. Hope.

  How many times had she dreamed of being seen? Of being loved? Of being honored?

  And how well had she destroyed every possibility for that?

  She’d seen the truth in Alec’s gaze over his breakfast in Berkeley Square. The sympathy there. No. Not sympathy.

  Pity.

  It was out of pity that he had come. Out of pity that he stayed, with his ridiculous promises of a massive dowry and a husband—though how she was to get it in eight days . . . it was a fool’s errand.

  But the other option . . .

  The painting will follow you.

  Her shame would follow her.

  Your error in judgment.

  She hated the words, the tacit agreement that she had, in fact, shamed herself. That she would never be able to move beyond it. She didn’t want to believe it, even if it rang true. After all, even if she did marry, Society would never accept her. And they certainly wouldn’t accept a man willing to have her. No matter the funds.

  Once again, a man fortified her scandal. The fact that her once-absent guardian did it with too-noble intentions mattered not a bit.

  If only he would see that.

  It was not the only thing he would never see, she vowed in the darkness. He would never see the tears that dampened her pillow long into the night as the darkness cloaked her in regret.

  She didn’t think of the house at all until she woke, eyes on stalks, exhausted from her fitful night, to discover that the housekeeper had risen much earlier and removed myriad coverings to reveal a domicile filled with dogs.

  There were more dogs than she could imagine—paintings and statues and tapestries of hounds, gilded dogs threaded into the silk wall coverings, ornate sheepdogs carved into the wooden baseboards, dogs sitting watch on either side of the front door to the town house, and elaborate spaniels wrought into the wall sconces.

  Lily slowed her descent on the stairs, taking in the madness of the decor, coming to the bottom step and letting her fingers trace the intricate curves of the mahogany bulldog’s head at the start of the banister. This figure was perhaps the most unsettling of all—mouth open, teeth sharp, even a little tongue threatening to loll.

  Eyes wide, she turned in a slow circle, considering the sheer quantities of hounds and decided that it was very possible that she had made a mistake in choosing number 38 Grosvenor Square to hide from the duke.

  And then she heard his voice, coming from the back of the house, and she was certain of it. As she had resolved to hide from Alec Stuart for as long as possible, however, Lily headed for the exit.

  Another of the ducal holdings would have to do.

  “We only heard last night that you were opening the house, Your Grace,” the housekeeper said in a high pitch. “We’ve done as much as we can to prepare, but we will need to add staff.” She paused, then quickly added, “Or, if you plan to take residence here, we can summon staff from Berkeley Square.”

  Lily had seconds to make her escape.

  “Oh! Miss Hargrove! Good morning!” called Mrs. Thrushwill.

  She froze halfway to the door.

  “Going somewhere, lass?”

  She blushed, turning, captured by Alec’s brown gaze and those perfect lips, one side raised in arrogant amusement. Pasting a bright smile on her face, she said, “I was going to take a walk in the square.” She turned to the housekeeper. “Good morning, Mrs. Thrushwill.”

  The older woman returned the smile. “I trust the room was comfortable?”

  “Quite,” Lily said.

  Mrs. Thrushwill looked to the duke. “We shall air another room for you promptly, Your Grace.”

  What? No. “He’s not staying.”

  “Oh,” the housekeeper replied, obviously crestfallen. “I thought—”

  “I am staying, in fact,” said the duke. “Thank you.”

  “Oh,” the housekeeper said once more. “Of course. Of course.” And then she dropped a curtsy and hurried off, no doubt to tell all the world about the kind, gracious, handsome duke.

  Not handsome.

  Giants were not handsome. Certainly not giants who were attempting to ruin Lily’s life.

  “Your eye is turning colors,” she said. “Purple. And yellow.”

  “A walk?” he prompted.

  In for a penny, in for a pound. “I quite enjoy nature.”

  “Nature.”

  She nodded. “Quite.”

&nb
sp; “Grosvenor Square is not nature.”

  “It is green, is it not? There are trees.”

  “It’s surrounded on all sides by fence and buildings.”

  “If you think about it, all of nature is surrounded by buildings,” she pointed out. “Perhaps you are simply incorrectly identifying the boundaries.”

  He was unable to concoct an exasperated answer as, in that exact moment, he seemed to realize that the house was decorated in canine glory. “What in . . .” He trailed off, his gaze falling to a particularly garish portrait of a greyhound on one wall. In it, the dog lay in impressive repose, long, spindly legs tangled together, long, sleek head on a red satin pillow, “Is that a crown?”

  Lily approached the portrait to investigate the headwear and considered the title, embossed into the gilded frame beneath. “The Jewel in the Crown,” she read aloud. “Do you think the dog is named Jewel?”

  “I think the dog is being mistreated abominably.”

  She turned back to him. “Perhaps Angus and Hardy would like crowns.”

  He looked scandalized by the very idea. “This house is hideous.”

  “I quite like it,” she said. “It feels like a home.” There was something valuable in that, dogs or no.

  “I thought you did not like dogs.”

  “I thought you did like them, Your Grace.”

  He ignored the taunt. “We are not taking up residence here.”

  “You are correct. We are doing no such thing. I have ceded Berkeley Square to you. With pleasure. I find I prefer houses with working doors.”

  “You fled.”

  “It was not fleeing.”

  “Not very skilled fleeing, as here we are,” he said. “Settlesworth sends his regards, by the way.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “Settlesworth is a traitor.”

  “Settlesworth is attempting to save his position, and was happy to be able to provide me with information of import.”

  “Now my location is of import?”

  She thought she heard him sigh before he said, “Of course it is.”

  “Ah, right,” she snapped, not wanting to believe he meant well. “Because it is best you know the location of your problems.”

  “You cannot escape me,” he said. “So, why not work with me? We could get the situation rectified and I can return to Scotland. I know we’d both like that.”

  “As lovely as that bit sounds, your scenario results in my marrying a man I do not know.”

  “I told you, you may choose any man you like. I’ve no intention of standing in your way.”

  “I choose myself,” she said. “I’d rather rely upon myself than you. Or any other. I find myself more reliable.”

  He sighed again, and she heard it filled with frustration and something more. Something she loathed. “Don’t you dare,” she said, turning on him in fury. “Don’t you dare pity me. I don’t want it.”

  He had the grace to look surprised. “It’s not pity I feel.”

  “What then?”

  One side of his mouth turned up in a smile she would have called sad if she’d believed for a moment he cared. “Regret.”

  For heeding his summons, no doubt. For landing himself with her. “We all do things we regret, Duke.” She knew that better than anyone.

  There was a long moment of silence before he changed the subject. “Which one owned this odious place?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “Number Thirteen.”

  “Ah. The one killed by a sheep, allegedly.”

  “Precisely.”

  “What happened to him, really?”

  She blinked. “That is what happened to him. He was killed by a sheep.”

  His brow furrowed. “You are joking.”

  “I am not. He fell off a cliff.”

  “Number Thirteen?”

  “The sheep. The duke was out for his daily constitutional. Below.” She clapped her hands together. “Quite smashed.”

  His lips twitched. “No.”

  She raised one hand. “I swear it is true.”

  He looked around the garish room. “You’d think the dogs would have warned him.”

  She laughed, unable to contain it. “As the hounds survived, it is possible the animal kingdom was working together on the matter.”

  He laughed, then, deep and rumbling and more comforting than she would like to admit. More tempting.

  At the thought, she collected herself. “We should not laugh at his misfortune.”

  He did the same, coming closer. “We all have misfortune. If we cannot laugh at it, what is there?”

  She cut him a look. “Once again, you remind me of your own terrible sufferings, having to be rich and powerful beyond measure, and all because seventeen other poor, put-upon men were hit by falling sheep.”

  He continued to advance. “I thought it was only one falling sheep?”

  “A sheep with a ducal vendetta. You should be careful in the wilderness.”

  “The wilderness of Grosvenor Square, you mean?”

  “It does not hurt to be vigilant.”

  He laughed again. “And Lady Thirteen? What of her?”

  “Number Thirteen was a widower. Childless. No family to inherit.”

  “No family but the dogs, you mean?”

  “I’m told the dogs did not care for the décor.”

  He chuckled, and she warmed at the response, reveling in the low growl of humor that she might not have heard if he weren’t so close. When did he get so close? And why did he smell so wonderfully crisp and clean? Couldn’t he smell like other men? All perfume and stench?

  If she weren’t careful, she might begin to like him.

  He might begin to like her.

  “Why run from me, Lillian?” he asked softly, deep enough for the words to roll through her. “Why run here?”

  Because there was nowhere else.

  Well. She couldn’t tell him that.

  Before she could find an appropriate answer, however, he added, “Why are you alone?”

  She stilled at the question, going cold, then hot. Alone. What a horrible word. What a horrible, honest, devastatingly apt word. She stepped back, coming up against the wall and the painting. A crowned dog on a silk pillow.

  A dog better loved than she’d ever been.

  He shook his head and backed away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked that. It’s just that—” he stopped. Changed tack. “What I meant was, why haven’t you had a season?”

  “I haven’t wanted one,” she lied.

  “Every woman wants a season,” he said.

  She tried again. “I’m not an aristocrat.”

  “You are ward to one of the richest dukedoms in England,” he said. “You could not find a sponsor?”

  “Sadly, Your Grace, money is not enough to secure a girl a sponsor.”

  He raised a brow. “A girl? Or a girl like you?”

  Relief flooded through her at the question, returning them to solid, adversarial ground. She narrowed her gaze. “What’s that to mean?”

  “A girl who sits for a nude.”

  Anger flared. Anger, and a hurt she’d tucked away and sworn never to consider again. “Any girl,” she said, tartly. “You need connections for a season.”

  “You’re connected. I’m a goddamn duke.”

  “You forgot me,” she said finally. “I had no sponsor because none would have me. A shadow of a duke is not enough to win over the attention of London, it seems. Shocking as it is.”

  “I am here now.”

  She raised a brow. “Yes, well, surprisingly, your dukedom has lost some of its . . . cachet.”

  “Why in hell is that?”

  She made a show of tracking the swath of tartan from his shoulder, over his torso, and down to the place where it hung in pleats just above his knees. “I cannot imagine.”

  He scowled at her. “You’re having a season now. This year.”

  She laughed around the flare of panic that came at the words. “I don’t want one.�
� She had already been too much on show. The gossip pages already knew enough of her. And that was before Derek became involved.

  “I’m afraid I don’t care. It’s the way we get you married.”

  “There is no we, Duke. There is no getting me married. I told you. I wish my freedom.”

  “If you want freedom from me, lass, it comes in the form of marriage. Nothing else.”

  “Couldn’t you imagine me marrying myself? Give me the dowry for taking responsibility for myself?”

  He smirked. “Marriage to a man.”

  “You ask me to trade one master for another.”

  He raised a brow. “I’m offering you your pick of men. Any man in London.”

  “And I’m to get down on my knees and thank you.”

  “Gratitude for such an exorbitant dowry would not be out of line,” he pointed out.

  She offered a long-suffering sigh. “And if I don’t agree to a marriage?”

  He opened his mouth as though he had something very serious to say, before thinking twice of it and closing it once more. He took a deep breath and exhaled, all frustration, before meeting her gaze. “You want your funds? You get yourself married.”

  “And my husband gets my money.” And a ruined wife.

  He watched her for a long, serious moment before he repeated himself. “Where would you go, lass?”

  She lifted one shoulder. “Anywhere but here.”

  “What does the future look like?”

  It had looked like love and marriage and children. It had looked like quiet idyll and the happiness that came with contentment. With security. With the keen knowledge that one’s life was well tended.

  She’d only ever wanted a family.

  A man of my caliber does not marry a woman of yours.

  She closed her eyes at the words, spoken by a man who had once lauded her beauty, whispered it in awe, claimed her his muse.

  She shook her head, eradicating the thought, returning herself to the moment at hand. To Alec’s question. “The future looks like anywhere but London,” she said, hearing the irritation in her voice.