A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(100)

“Perhaps it is my beauty that cannot be contained in such small proportions,” she said.

He snapped his gaze to her. “The darkness has brought out your sharp wit.”

She tilted her head, then turned away, moving toward the dais. “Perhaps it is my own panic that has done it.”

Whatever it was, he did not wish it gone.

She came to the foot of the stage, and hesitated. Approached, coming to her elbow. “Lily?”

“This is where I disgraced myself,” she said. He watched as she put her fingers to the edge of the platform and huffed a little laugh. “I disgraced myself before this, I suppose. But here, it was where it all became clear, as though someone had illuminated a room I thought was a ballroom, and turned out to be a privy.”

“You did not disgrace yourself. He disgraced you. That is a different thing, entirely.”

“It is. But it is not the case. I am not a child, Alec. I knew what it was I did. I knew what might come of it. I knew that I might one day be a scandal.” She paused. “And I did not care. I did not wish to be anything but Derek’s.”

The words came like a blow, jealousy raging through him at the thought of her with Hawkins, the man who had utterly eschewed responsibility for her. The man who would never be good enough for her. Hero enough for her.

She continued. “The world harbors impressive hatred for women who make the mistakes I did. Beauty, used for anything but the holiest of acts, is a sin.” She looked up to the dais, to the place where the curtain hung, thick and still, hiding her shame from view. “And not one person was willing to question his role in the play. He was to be lauded for his acts. Tell me, what did I do that was so different than him?”

“Nothing,” he said, wishing only to assuage the pain he heard, keen and unsettling, in her voice. “You did nothing wrong.”

She smiled. “Society thinks differently.”

“Hang Society.”

She raised a brow. “What did you do wrong, Alec?”

That question again. Astute and direct. The question he would have to answer eventually.

But not here. Not now.

He shook his head.

She watched him carefully, candlelight flickering over her beautiful face. “If I were to tell you what you told me—that you did nothing wrong—what would you say?”

He looked away from her, unable to meet her eyes. “I would say you are wrong.”

“Because you are a man and she is a woman?”

“Because what I did is far worse than what you did.”

“You believe that.”

“I do.”

“And yet here we are, committing a crime for me. And not for you.”

He was not going to tell her. Not then. “Let us commit the crime, then. And be done with it.”

For a moment, he thought she might argue. Might push him. And for a moment, he worried that if she did, he would tell her everything there, in front of thousands of paintings, on the damn dais of the Royal Exhibition.

But she did not. Instead, she set her candle down and removed the parcel from his hands before ascending the platform and saying, “Turn away, please.”

He did, without hesitation. He had made her a promise, and he would honor it, even as he knew that this was his only chance to see the painting. To know just how beautiful it was. Not that he required a look at the art to know its beauty. It was a painting of Lily; of course it was glorious.

But it would pale in comparison to her in truth.

And so he stood in the silence, listening to her move—to the soft scrape of woolen trousers over her skin, to the whisper of linen as she crouched low and unwrapped the painting he had carried. To the little catch of breath that came as she lifted the painting from the wall. As she replaced it with another. And then, as she crouched again and wrapped the nude for removal.

By the time she stood, he was rabid with jealousy, wishing that he was one of the paintings—a length of canvas, the recipient of her soft, determined touch. “You may look,” she said, quietly, and he turned, drawn to her voice—which should have been filled with relief but was, instead, filled with humor. Her back was to him, arms akimbo, and she stared at the prime location on the wall where—

He laughed.

Jewel. She’d hung Jewel in her place.

He moved up the steps to get a better look at the brilliant, utterly perfect punishment for Derek Hawkins. The dog in glorious repose on her red satin pillow, the light gleaming along her spindly grey legs, her bejeweled crown tilted just so on her head.

Lily turned to him, her grey eyes gleaming silver with laughter. “I think he should be more than pleased that we have credited him with such a beloved piece.”

Alec nodded. “I think it exceedingly generous. To both Hawkins and the world at large. He will no doubt be supportive of the choice—what with his desire to bring masterworks to Society.”

“For all to see,” she said.

“We really have done the world a service.”

“This particular birthday gift might make up for all the birthday gifts I have missed over the years.” She grinned at him. “Thank you.”

He moved toward her, unable to resist her in her reckless beauty, the excitement and anticipation of the evening—of their actions—summoning him to her like a hound on a leash. As he drew close, towering over her, her laughter faded, and she tilted her face up to him, even as he put his hands to her cheeks, running his thumbs over her high, perfect cheekbones.