A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel 2)

It looked like a life without shame.

The thought came unbidden and painful, packed with the truth, that she’d ruined her life. That she’d risked everything for what she had believed was love.

She hated him then. Hated the way he saw too much, this great, unexpected, unwilling duke. But she would not tell him the answer. As much as he thought she was his problem to manage, he was wrong. She was her own problem.

And she would manage herself. Without him.

“It looks like happiness.”

He didn’t believe her.

He shouldn’t believe her.

He huffed his frustration. “Happiness isn’t so easily found, Lily. It is not as simple as giving you funds and setting you free.”

There was such truth in the words that she couldn’t help herself. “How do you know that?”

“Because I do,” he said. And she waited for him to elaborate, desperate for him to continue. They stood there for long moments before he finally said, “I’ve had enough of this. Your season begins tonight.”

“My season.”

“Eversley is hosting a ball. You are invited.”

A ball. Her stomach twisted at the words. She could not think of anything she wished to do less. “No, thank you.”

“You are laboring under the misapprehension that you have a choice.”

The words raised her ire. “You know there are seven other residences in London where I could hide.”

“You are unconvinced that I would find you?”

“You wouldn’t find me in time for my season to begin tonight.”

He leaned in, and when he spoke, the words were low and graveled with Scots burr, sending a shiver of something unnamable down her spine. “I will find you, lass. Always.”

Her lips fell open at the words. At the promise in them.

At the idea that she might be worth seeking.

He straightened, and the moment was gone. “Find yourself a gown, Lillian. We leave at half-nine.”

“And if I don’t?” she asked, the words softer than she intended. She cleared her throat, tried for taunt. “What then, Your Grace?”

He considered her then, his brown eyes beautiful and glittering in spite of the shiner he sported. He watched her until she grew uncomfortable, shifting beneath his attention.

“Find yourself a gown,” he repeated. “You won’t like it if I have to find one for you.”

He left the room, leaving Lily alone in an explosion of canine decor, flooded with unsettling warmth at his words.

She resisted the sensation.

She would not be unsettled by him.

Instead, she would find herself a gown, and she would do the unsettling.

Chapter 7

“LOVELY” LILY STARTS SEASON WITH SPECIOUS STYLE

At half-nine that evening, Alec stood at the foot of the main staircase, trying to avoid the gaze of Jewel. The bejeweled hound appeared to see everything from her position and, as she lay in repose on her inane silk pillow, she most certainly mocked him.

Nearly as much as his own dogs did from their position across the foyer, standing sentry.

The overwhelming canine judgment seemed entirely reasonable, however, as Alec was certain he looked ridiculous.

The tailor he’d found on Savile Row earlier in the day had sworn to be in possession of formalwear that would “perfectly accommodate His Grace,” when, in fact, the formalwear accommodated no part of him, least of all any grace he might summon. When Alec had told the simpering man such, he’d been assured that “the fit was de rigueur.”

Alec was not an imbecile, however. His coat was too tight. As were his trousers, if he were honest.

So big. A great, Scottish brute.

Nothing about you fits, you beast.

He hated England.

But time was of the essence and he could not wait for a better-fitting garment. Tonight, he began the hopefully blissfully brief end to his sojourn in England. He’d asked West to put it out that Lillian was now in possession of a massive dowry, and he felt confident that young pups across London would happily throw their hats in the ring upon their immediate arrival at Eversley House that evening. The woman was, after all, wealthy and beautiful and ward to a duke.

She’d be smitten by sunup.

All she had to do was turn up. He looked up the stairs. No Lillian. He looked to the large clock at one end of the room, where a pendulum wrought with dogs swung back and forth. Twenty to ten. She was late.

She was here, he knew. He had hired two boys to watch the exits of the house, ensuring that if she attempted an escape, they would follow and he would find her. But presence in the house did not mean that she planned to attend the ball willingly. He was about to climb the stairs and seek her out when she appeared.

To be fair, Alec did not notice her first. Hardy did, the hound immediately coming to the foot of the stairs, staring up at her, and—to Alec’s utter surprise—barking excitedly.

“What in—” he began, following the direction of the hound’s gaze, the remainder of the question cut off by utter shock.

As best as he could tell, she was dressed as a dog.

He should have known she would have a better plan than either escape or avoidance. Of course, her plan involved doing her best to counter his plans for the evening. It was to be a battle of wills—and her first shot was an impressive one.

He was not a man who noticed fashion, but this particular dress would not be unnoticed. It was a gold and bronze monstrosity, with skirts that filled the staircase and sleeves that dwarfed her. That would have dwarfed him, he’d wager. As though that weren’t enough, gold and bronze seed pearls were sewn into the skirts, arranged in little echoes of the canine form, and the bodice—impressively fitted despite Lily having had mere hours to adjust it to her form—was covered in ornate gold fastenings, each a different dog—spaniels and terriers and bulldogs and dachshunds.

His gaze fell to her waist, where a large gold belt accentuated her shape in a garish display—a greyhound in full, extended motion, spanning the width of her.

Jewel, no doubt.

And all this before he considered her headwear, an elaborate pile of auburn curls, fastened with an array of hound-shaped pins, and shot through with a golden rod topped with a hound on the hunt, in mid-leap, heading to catch a hare, which somehow dangled high above, on a spring of sorts.

“Good God,” Alec said, as there was no other possible response to the display.

She did not hesitate in her descent, all grace, posture that would make a queen proud. It almost made one believe that she was not aware that she wore a garment that was best described as an abomination.

She was remarkable.

She stilled on the third stair from the foyer, standing eye-to-eye with him, broad, false smile on her face. “Is there something amiss, Your Grace?”

“So many things, Miss Hargrove.”

She made a show of fluffing the massive skirts. “I realize this frock is a touch out of season, what with it having been unworn for more than five years, but you did insist I find a dress.”

“Yes. The fact that the gown is out of season is precisely the problem.” His gaze went to her reticule, a small terrier-shaped satchel dangling from her wrist. “Is that fur?”

She looked to it. “Surely not dog’s.”

“I cannot imagine Lady Thirteen was the type to wear her obsession.” She snickered a laugh and he enjoyed the sound a touch too much. He cleared his throat. “Well then. Onward, Miss Hargrove.”

She hesitated.

He had her. “You did not think a little thing like that dress would dissuade me from my plans?”

“There is nothing little about this dress,” she said.

“It will be a miracle if it fits inside the carriage,” he agreed, turning away from her, heading for the door, keenly aware of the fact that she was not following. Turning back, he met her grey gaze from across the foyer. “Come now, Lillian, surely you d

id not think I would give up so easily?”

“I did think that you would be smart enough to recognize that if I am seen in public in this dress, no man will ever have me.”

“You misjudged.”

“Your sense of fashion?”

He did not rise to the bait. “Your own beauty.”

The words set her back. “I—” she started, then trailed off.

“That is what they call you, nae? The most beautiful woman in London?”

“Nae,” she mocked in an extreme Scottish accent. “Not in this.”

He wished it were true. He wished there were a way to look at her and not see her beauty. But some things were empirical truths, and Lillian Hargrove’s beauty was just that. Even now, dressed as a canine clown.

Not that Alec intended to do anything about her beauty. He’d learned his lesson about beautiful women, and it was one he did not intend to learn again.

He opened the door, baiting her. “To the coach, Miss Hargrove . . . or are you too much a coward? Would you like to find a less garish ensemble?”

Her shoulders straightened. “Not at all. I am quite comfortable.”

She sailed past him, spine straight, rabbit waving to and fro above her head, and climbed up into the waiting carriage without hesitation. Alec followed, filled with curiosity and no small amount of respect.

Once he had arranged himself on the seat opposite her, avoiding her diaphanous skirts and contorting his long legs into the little free space she had left, his too-tight trousers threatening to inhibit blood flow to his legs, she said, “Are you quite comfortable?”

“Does it matter?” he asked, knowing that the repetition of the question she’d asked so often in their acquaintance would annoy her.

Enjoying the feeling of annoying her, because it made it easier to ignore the sensation of admiring her.

He did not admire her.

“I suppose not,” she said, surprising him. “But I was making polite conversation.”

He did not wish to make conversation, so he grunted a nonverbal reply and watched the buildings beyond the window as they passed.

She did not look out the window. She looked at him.

Alec felt more constricted with every moment that passed, until he did his best to get the upper hand. “I imagine you wish you’d changed gowns.”

She did not waver. “Nonsense. I’ve simply taken pity on you, my lord. We will make a fine pair, considering that coat does not fit you.”

He shifted at the mention of the clothing, the movement underscoring the truth in her statement. “No?”

She shook her head and moved forward, taking hold of the outer edge of one sleeve and giving it a little tug, as though testing its strength. “No.” He resisted the urge to move at the light brush of her gloved hand against his. For a moment, he entertained a wild thought of capturing that hand, of pressing it to his own. And then her gaze fell to his lap, and he imagined pressing her hand to the straining fabric at his thighs. Before he could embarrass himself, she added, “Nor do those trousers. You should find yourself a better tailor.” She paused, then added, teasing in her tone, “Someone English, perhaps.”

He remained transfixed by her hand, disliking the way it felt on him.

Liking the way it felt on him.

Before he could decide, she removed it from his person, and—madly—he wondered if he could convince her to return it so he could make a thoroughly informed decision on the matter.

Instead, he cleared his throat and pressed himself back against the seat. “This was an English tailor. I’m told he’s very good.”

“He’s not. I could have made you a better suit.”

“Yes, well, considering what you are currently wearing, I shall remain with the poor tailor.”

She was affronted. “I beg your pardon. This dress did not simply fit itself to me.” She slid a hand over the seam at her side, where the bodice fit like skin. Alec could not help but follow that hand. It would have been rude not to.

More rude than what you imagine doing with that particular seam?

He did not have to respond to the thought, as Lily continued. “I am an excellent seamstress.”

The words unlocked the memory of her chamber in Berkeley Square. Of the trunk there, filled with wedding dresses and children’s clothing. And those boots.

Those damn boots, he could still smell them.

“Apologies,” he said, shifting at the thought, suddenly uncomfortable. “Your skilled craftsmanship is overshadowed by the rest of the qualities of that gown.”

She smiled at that, white teeth flashing in the dimly lit carriage, and he disliked the thread of pleasure that came with the response. “Trust me, Duke. This gown is impeccably crafted. It’s simply hideous. You require another tailor.”

The tailor had been scared to death of him. Too terrified to tell him that he was too big for the ready-made clothing that he had in stock. Too terrified to send him somewhere else.

After all, Alec was a duke. One did not turn down a duke.

Not even one who was so monstrously large and so ill-fitting in manicured, cold, perfect England.

What a beast.

Barely tamed.

Brute . . .

Discomfort shot through him, having nothing to do with the clothing, and everything to do with something that the right tailor could not repair. “I shan’t be staying long enough to need another. We shall get you betrothed and I shall return to Scotland for the summer, where summer is not filled with putrid stench and steaming cobblestones. Where we have real nature.”

“Unfettered by fences.”

“Certainly not iron ones.”

“You do not like London.”

“London should not take it personally. I don’t like England.”

“Or the English.”

“Not many of them.”

“Why not?”

Because England had given him nothing but pain.

He did not reply.

She frowned at him. “We have some lovely things.”

His brows rose. “Name three.”

“Tea.”

“That is from the Orient, but it was an excellent try.”

She sighed. “Fine. Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare has nothing on Robbie Burns.”

Lily looked to him. “You’re being ridiculous.”

He spread his hands wide. “Go on, then. Give me your best Shakespeare.”

“It’s all the best,” she said, smartly. “It’s Shakespeare.”

“It seems you cannot think of anything worthy of competition.”

She looked away, as though she could not imagine how he couldn’t see the truth of her argument. “Fine. My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.”

He raised a brow. “A children’s love story.”

She gaped at him. “It’s Romeo and Juliet.”

“Babes without any sense. Killing themselves over infatuation.”

“It’s considered one of the greatest love stories of all time.”

He lifted one shoulder. Let it drop. “Unless you know better.”

“And I suppose that your Burns is the better in question?” she scoffed.

He leaned forward in the darkness, allowing his brogue to thicken. “Infinitely so. You want romance, you ask a Scot.”

She leaned forward as well, bridging the space between them, competitive and beautiful, insane dog dress be damned. And when she spoke, she had a matching brogue. “Prove it.”

Later, he would wonder how the night would have proceeded if the carriage hadn’t taken that moment to slow, heralding their arrival at Eversley House, where half the ton waited beyond the carriage.

He would wonder if he would have made good on his instincts, and pulled this bold, brave, teasing Lillian into his lap and given her all the proof he could muster.

Luckily, he’d never know.

Because the car

riage did slow. And they did arrive.

And he was reminded that kissing Lillian Hargrove was out of the question.

She had misjudged the depths of his desire to get her married.

She’d also misjudged the depths of embarrassment that would consume her if she wore the dog dress in public. Suddenly, as she stood at the base of the steps to Eversley House, windows blazing above with golden light, noise from the revelry spilling out onto Park Lane, Lily was consumed by dread.

It was not an unfamiliar emotion, considering her general nervousness when near the aristocracy—utterly out of place, not noble enough to be welcome into their ranks, and somehow too close to their world to be ignored. Even without a season.

If only she’d never met Derek, perhaps she could have been ignored.

But Derek Hawkins made a point of being seen, and the moment he’d set eyes on Lily eight months prior, as she dawdled on the banks of the Serpentine, she’d been doomed to be seen as well. She pushed the memories of that afternoon aside, and took a deep breath, as though doing so could drive her forward, with courage.

“You are certain you do not regret your sartorial choices?” Alec asked dryly in her ear.

She ignored the thread of pleasure the low whisper sent through her. “I confess, Your Grace, I am surprised you are familiar with the word sartorial. What with your own problematic clothing situation.”

He chuckled, guiding her forward, hand on her arm, and she at once loved and hated the security she felt in it. “We have books in Scotland, Miss Hargrove.”

“So you said. Better than Shakespeare.”

“Aye,” he murmured, low and private as they approached the footman standing sentry at the door.

“You still haven’t proven it,” she said, panicked at what might come when she stepped inside the house. Into this world he was forcing upon her, even as she was desperate to flee it.

This world she’d always secretly wished to be a part of.

No. She refused to give credence to the thought.

She stiffened, and he felt the movement. Must have, because he kept talking, as though they were in the sitting room in Berkeley Square. “To see her was to love her, love but her, and love for ever . . .”