A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel 2)

As though he were worthy of her.

His throat worked as he fought for strength, and he might have found it. Might have, if she did not take matters into her own hands. If she did not take his hand into her own, moving it until it cupped one full, glorious breast. “Please, Alec.”

He resisted the urge to move, terrified that if he did, she might continue with this mad temptation. Terrified that if he did, she might stop.

Instead, he extracted his hand from the heat of her skirts and took her face in his hands. He pulled her close, as close as possible without taking her lips, and looked deep in her eyes, the dim light of the lanterns beyond the windows casting wicked shadows across her beautiful face. “Show me,” he said.

But what he really meant was Use me.

Her eyes widened at the words, and for a moment he thought her shock would stay her. As he watched, however, the surprise turned to desire and, like a gift from God, she did as he asked.

As she was told.

Time slowed in the small space, her hand guiding his, pressing him tight against her. “Touch me here,” she said.

He did, feeling her tighten beneath his palm, even through the layers of clothing. She sighed her frustration, pushing into him, eager for more, just as he was. He took pity on her. “Do you intend to wear this dress again?”

She didn’t understand. “What?”

“The dress. Are you wedded to it?”

She shook her head. “It is awful.”

“Then let’s do right by it,” he growled, his massive hands coming to the neckline and grasping. Without hesitation, he pulled, and tore the bodice in two, freeing her to his hands and gaze.

She gasped her surprise. “You—”

He had no time for discussion. “Show me, Lily.”

And she did, setting his hand to her breast. They groaned their mutual pleasure at the contact before Alec plucked at the tight tip, using thumb and finger to tempt her until he could no longer deny himself, and he set his lips to its twin. She cried out at the touch, her fingers sliding into his hair until he suckled, lightly, just barely, and she needed more, pulling him closer, silently begging him for more.

When he gave it, reveling in the feel and taste of her, certain that if there was a heaven, it was this moment, relived again and again, she moved pressing closer to him, the glorious heat of her cradling him, hard and thick and desperate for release. He growled at the feeling, desperate to release himself, unwilling to do so—unable to trust himself to stop when necessary if he were—

And then she was moving against him, making the most glorious little noises, sighing her pleasure and groaning her desire as he worked her with tongue and lips and made promises to his body that he could never keep.

He would not take her.

He would not soil her.

She deserved better than him.

He lifted his head and looked to her, her eyes closed and frustration clear as she rocked against him, desperate for something she could not find herself. Desperate for something he could easily give her.

For something he wanted to give her.

He slid a hand beneath her skirts, the brush of his fingertips on the inside of her knee opening her eyes. Her mouth opened, and he shook his head, staying her words. “Here?” he teased, stroking there at her knee.

She shook her head. “No.”

He slid his hand up the outside of her pantaloons, loathing the fabric, the way it blocked her from his touch. But he deserved it, the denial. For what he did. For not being good enough for her. He deserved it, just as she deserved the pleasure he could give her. In this moment. Just once. Without taking his own.

“Here?” he asked again, higher on her thigh, near the crease of it that marked the beginning of her most secret place, where he wanted to be more than he wanted to draw his next breath.

She shook her head again, but this time, the word came out on a little cry. “No.”

He found the slit in the pants, and moved deeper, finding the soft curls there, stroking as she panted her desire, imagining their color—a beautiful, secret auburn. “Here, then?”

She was through with the game, and he saw the irritation in her gaze when she found his. And then she spoke, shocking the hell out of him. “Shall I show you?”

She was fucking glorious.

He replied instantly. “Please.”

And then her hand was on his, and she was pressing him deeper, past the curls and into the silken softness of her, hot and gloriously wet. He swore, low and deep in Gaelic.

She gasped a single word as she took what she wanted, her gaze unapologetically on him. “There.”

He kissed her then, long and lush, his fingers searching and stroking and tempting her secrets from her until they were without breath. Releasing her lips, he found her eyes closed, as she rocked against him, her hand on his, showing him all the ways she wanted him.

He stopped. Those eyes opened instantly. Furious.

He couldn’t help the thread of amusement that coursed through him on a wave of aching desire. “Look at me,” he said.

Her brow furrowed in confusion.

“I will give you everything you want, mo chridhe. Everything you need,” he promised, the words dark and low and filled with the accent he worked so hard to keep at bay with her. “I will show you heaven. But only if you let me watch you find it. That is my price.”

The words hung between them, sinful and full of sex, and for a fleeting moment, Alec regretted the last—as though she owed him.

She would never owe him. From this moment on, she would only need beckon and he would come to heel.

He’d never met a woman so dangerous.

But he was already wrecked by her, by her soft skin and her beautiful sighs and her magnificent gaze on his as he teased and touched, as he tested her curves and folds and the glorious dark channel where he wanted to be—beyond reason. Her eyes were locked on his as she rocked against him, begging him for more, narrowing to slits when he offered her slow, wicked strokes, and then widening when he found the spot that would bring her wicked, wonderful pleasure.

He watched those eyes, grey like the North Sea, riveted to him as her breath quickened and her hand clutched his wrist and she panted her desire, and he held that gaze until she called out his name and they lost focus and slid closed and she cried out again and again, branding him. Taking him in the darkness.

Showing him the sun.

When those eyes opened again, they found him immediately, her hands threading into his hair, her lips pressing to his, her tongue sliding into his mouth in a kiss that laid him bare and destroyed him completely, summoning his pleasure, hard and hot and nearly unbearable against her.

He pulled his lips from hers, gasping for breath, somehow still hard and thick as though he hadn’t come, wanting to strip her bare and open his trousers and make her his. Here. Now.

Forever.

And then her hands were moving her skirts, and he wondered if he’d spoken aloud. Her fingers played at the falls of his trousers, touching lightly—too damn lightly—and it took him a moment to find the strength to stop her.

Until she whispered, “Oh, my . . .”

And he loathed the reverence in the words.

Women dream of men like you, darling.

But for a night. Not a lifetime.

“No.” He lifted his lips instantly, releasing her like she was hot steel, branding him.

Her gaze was wide with confusion. “But . . .”

“No.” He lifted her off his lap and set her back on her seat, so quickly that it took her several seconds to understand what had happened.

They were both breathing heavily, and he could not look away from her for a long moment, her bodice in tatters, her legs askew, weak from the pleasure she’d found in his arms. He knew she was weak because he, too, was weak. And aching.

She was so close. He could take her.

She’d let him.

He pressed himself back aga

inst the seat, willing himself to turn away. To look out the window. To look down at the floor. Anywhere but at her. But he couldn’t, because she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

And then he made the mistake, lifting his hand to his lips, meaning to erase the feel of her there, forgetting that her scent would be on him like a promise. And the desire was more than he could bear. He tasted her, sucking his fingers deep, reveling in her.

Fire came to her eyes as she watched and he saw the truth there. He could have her. She would let him.

Christ, he wanted her.

Even now, even with her hairpins scattered and her long auburn locks falling down around her and the hound and hare, that had been shooting off the top of her head earlier in the evening, now drooping by her left ear.

She looked as though she’d been ravished.

By The Scottish Brute.

This woman wanted marriage and children and love, and those were not things he could ever give her. They weren’t things she’d want from him. Too big, too Scottish, too brutish.

Not for marrying.

Not anything like the man she deserved.

What had he done?

He had to get away from her.

He rapped on the ceiling of the carriage, slowing it immediately.

Confusion flashed in Lily’s beautiful grey eyes, as he began to strip his tattered coat from his shoulders—she would need it to cover her own shredded clothes. “What are you doing?” She looked out the window. “Where are we?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, tossing the coat to the seat beside her and opening the door before the coach even came to a stop.

“Alec,” she said, and he ached at his name on her lips.

He leapt to the ground and turned back. “You didn’t ask me the title of the Burns.”

She shook her head as though to clear it, the strange change in topic blindsiding her. “I don’t care about poetry.”

She was frustrated.

Just as he was.

“ ‘Ae Fond Kiss, and Then We Sever.’ ” Before she could respond, he added, “I’m sorry, Lily. For all of it.”

And he closed the carriage door.

Chapter 11

FEMALES!

FACE FEARS WITH FLATTERING FROCKS!

Lily did not wear a dog dress the next morning.

Though there were several canine day dresses to choose from, Lily found that she did not require any additional cause of embarrassment for the day. Instead, she wore a dress that she thought was quite flattering—a green silk intended to be worn when receiving callers, but callers where rather thin on the ground at 45 Berkeley Square, and so she’d rarely worn it.

When she’d fled to this place—which she affectionately referred to as Dog House—she’d brought the dress with her in a fit of fancy. Now, however, she was rather grateful that she’d remembered the pretty frock.

After all, it was not every day that one was kissed by a handsome man in a carriage. More than kissed. Far more.

Her cheeks flamed. Not that she wanted it to happen again.

Liar.

It was true. She simply felt that it was only proper to dress nicely with one’s kisser. Kissee. She had, after all kissed him back.

More than kissed.

And somehow, despite having been kissed before—despite having kissed before—kissing Alec Stuart, Duke of Warnick, was an experience unlike anything she’d ever experienced.

And so, she put on a pretty dress, and willed it to give her the courage to face him this morning. She entered the breakfast room of Dog House and made herself a plate, noting with a pounding heart that there remained two seats set at the table, which meant that Alec had not yet eaten.

Using the tongs shaped like dachshunds to place a sausage and large piece of toast on her plate, she moved to the far end of the table and sat, doing her best to arrange herself with the casual, effortless elegance that a woman should show when meeting a gentleman with whom she’d shared an interlude like last night’s.

Which she did not wish to repeat.

Good Lord. It had been fairly glorious. And then he’d fled. Her gaze narrowed on her plate. Like a coward. After she’d touched him—found him as desperate as she had been.

I’m sorry, Lily. For everything.

What utter rubbish. As though she hadn’t been a part of the event. As though she hadn’t wanted it.

She’d most definitely wanted it. She simply did not wish to repeat it.

Not at all.

Liar.

She pressed her lips into a flat line at the nagging, repetitive thought. While on the subject of wanting, he had wanted it, too, or so it had seemed when he’d cursed Shakespeare and hauled her across the carriage to set her aflame and show her pleasure she’d never dreamed of finding. And made her want to beg him never to stop.

Cursing Shakespeare seemed unnecessary. And quite wonderful, truthfully.

Luckily, she had not resorted to begging, because she would have been more embarrassed than she was already if she had begged him not to stop and he’d stopped. Summarily. And fled.

The Scottish coward.

It was an embarrassing disaster.

Hence, the frock.

No matter. Lily had other things to think about. Things that had nothing to do with the brawny, handsome Scotsman. Things that were much more relevant to her current situation. To her future writ large.

Things like husbands.

Angus and Hardy punctuated the thought, pushing the door wide with their furry bodies, and setting Lily’s heart to racing. Because wherever the dogs were, their master could not be far behind.

Angus immediately went to investigate the contents of the sideboard as Hardy came to greet her, bowing low on his front paws before grinning up at her. Lily reached out and ran her fingers through the big dog’s wiry fur, pausing to scratch behind his ear. He tilted his head, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, and sighed in adoration.

She couldn’t help but smile.

This great beast was nothing but a kitten. A gentle giant.

“You’ll be spoiled if you are nae careful, Hardy.”

The brogue sounded from the door, rough with morning, setting Lily’s heart racing. She looked up to meet Alec’s gaze, only to find that he was already headed to the sideboard, head down, kilt swinging about his knees. Had he not spoken, she would have thought perhaps he had not seen her.

His not looking at her made it easy for her to look at him, however, and she did just that, taking in his tartan with far more care than she did the last time she saw him in plaid—when she was too embarrassed to have a good look.

For something so silly, the plaid was tremendously flattering. Though, truthfully, Lily thought that it was possibly likely that a flour sack would be flattering to Alec.

The man had empirically lovely legs.

Not that she’d given much thought to men’s legs in her life. Until Alec. Now, every time she saw him in his plaid, she thought far too much about men’s legs.

It was terribly inappropriate.

Lily swallowed, her mouth suddenly quite dry, but did her best to pretend that this morning was perfectly normal. That he hadn’t rendered her a speechless puddle of desire the night before.

Don’t think of the puddle of desire bit.

“He’s a good boy. He deserves to be spoiled.”

Alec grunted, placing a forkful of ham on his plate alongside several roasted tomatoes. Lily waited for him to say more, to no avail.

She pushed her food around her plate with her fork, pretending to be deeply invested in the morsels there, as he finished serving himself and came to the table, taking the seat at the far end.

As far from her as possible.

Granted, it was the seat that had been set for his arrival, but still. He could have come closer.

A footman came from nowhere—apparently Dog House had been staffed with speed and efficiency—and filled Alec’s cup with steaming tea

.

“Thank you,” he said, and the poor servant didn’t quite know what to say.

Lily wanted to tell the liveried man that he should be grateful the duke spoke to him, as apparently she did not rate conversation. Not even after the previous evening.

Not even after he’d left her senseless in a carriage.

It was no good. She wasn’t going to be able to avoid thinking of it. Indeed, every time she looked at him, she could feel his palm against hers, his hands lifting her as though she weighed nothing. His arms around her. His lips on hers. His tongue. His fingers.

The room was suddenly uncomfortably warm.

Alec, for his part, seemed utterly comfortable, casually draped into the massive wooden chair at the head of the table, looking like lord of the manor, despite dining off plates adorned with scenes of a fox hunt, using silver etched with canine imagery. Indeed, he ate like a starving man, his appetite clearly unaffected by her presence.

Lily, on the other hand, felt as though she might cast up her accounts in the heavy silence that fell over the room.

Sensing her distaste for her food, Hardy sighed, setting his head on her lap and looking up at her with forlorn eyes, as though reminding her that he was there, and eager to help. She sneaked him a piece of sausage.

Angus noticed from his place at his master’s right hand and immediately came to her opposite side, licking his chops. She found a piece of meat for him, as well.

“They’ll never leave you alone now.” She looked up to find Alec remained riveted to his food, not looking at her.

Now, Lily found she was irritated. “At least the hounds acknowledge me.”

He stilled, fork halfway to his mouth, and Lily was rather proud of herself for speaking up. He looked to her, his brown eyes glittering like whisky in crystal. “What does that mean?”

“Only that their master appears unable to find the decency to say good morning.”

He set his fork down and turned to the trio of servants attempting to fade into the wall at the end of the room. “Leave us.”

They did not hesitate, closing the door in their wake with a quiet snick that seemed to reverberate through the room, sending Lily’s heart into her throat.