A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(110)

She stood tall and proud like a goddess, uncaring that they stood a stone’s throw from her nude. But Lily did not look to the room. Not to the dais. Not anywhere but at him, and he wanted to roar his pleasure at her unwavering attention.

Twin desires shot through him—making him at once wish to lift her into his arms and carry her far from London’s prying eyes and also to grab her to him and kiss her until neither of them could think. And then get her to the nearest vicar.

He didn’t have a special license. Another reason to loathe England. Bollocks banns. He wasn’t waiting for them.

It seemed they were headed to Scotland after all.

He resisted the urge to carry her, immediately, to his curricle, however, because of the other emotion flashing in her beautiful grey eyes.

Lily was furious.

“I don’t want your money,” she said, arms akimbo, as though they were anywhere but there, in front of all London. As though half a dozen heads hadn’t turned their way the moment she’d spoken. “I don’t want my money, either.”

She was angry, but there was something else there. Something like fear.

He hated it—wanted to chase it away. He stepped toward her and she held up a hand, stopping him with nothing but a look, like a queen. “And I most definitely don’t want your dogs.”

He stepped closer at the lie—close enough that he could touch her. That he could catch her if she ran. “You’ve ruined my dogs with your table scraps and your scratches,” he said, softly. “They belong to you, now, my love.”

That’s when the tears came. “Don’t call me that.” He ached at the words, instantly reaching for her. She took a step backward. “No. Don’t you dare touch me. I’ve things to say.”

“Then I’m afraid you’re going to have to stop crying, because I don’t think I can watch it without touching you.”

She dashed an errant tear from her cheek. “I don’t want any of your silly gifts. And I don’t want you to send me off into the world to choose a different life. I choose this life.”

He nodded.

“Don’t you dare nod at me, as though you’ve known it the whole time.” Her voice rose, and he heard the strength there. “He didn’t destroy my dreams with that painting, Alec.”

He knew that now. He hadn’t understood before.

“That painting isn’t me. It’s oil and canvass. He can have it. They can have it,” she said, waving one long arm to the assembly. “They can send it all over the world, and it will never be me. But you . . .” She paused, the words suddenly softer. His breath caught, hearing the accusation in her words. “You did destroy my dreams.”

The words sent cold fear rioting through him.

He reached for her.

“No.” He stopped, and she said, “You left me. How many times did you tell me my shame was misplaced? That I deserved more? Better? A man worthy of me? You were right. I do deserve all those things. More than this.”

Fear became terror. Dear God. She was going to be rid of him.

The air had left the room. Alec struggled to breathe.

And then she said, “Do you know why I put it back? I put it back because it was wrong to deny it—this thing that is a part of me. That I refuse to be ashamed of. That you taught me not to be ashamed of. I am not ashamed of my passion. Of my choices. I am not ashamed of my past, Alec.”

She should not be.

He opened her mouth to tell her so, but she added, “And I am certainly not ashamed of you.”

Breath returned.

“You want me to choose? Let me choose.”

He nodded. Found his voice. “Do it. Choose.”

She came to him, then, close enough for him to see the silver in her beautiful grey eyes. “I choose all of it, dammit. The scandal. The Scotland. The dogs. The drafty castle. I want Burns instead of Shakespeare. But most of all, I choose you, Alec Stuart, lummox, idiot, coward, cabbageheaded duke.” She paused, then added, “Against my better judgment.”

She chose him.

The glorious madwoman chose him. Somehow.

He was the luckiest bastard in Christendom.

He reached for her then, unable to resist the urge to touch her. Cradling her face in his palms, he tilted her face up to meet his, unable to find words in the flood of joy that coursed through him. “Lily.”

Her hands came to rest on his. “You left me.”

The words, soft and wounded, threatened to slay him. “Love—”

She shook her head. “Alone. Again. Only this time it was worse. This time, I knew what it was not to be alone. I knew what it was to love.”

He did not know how to reply. And so he did the only thing he could think to do, not wanting to chase her away.

He released her and sank to his knees.

Her eyes went wide. “What are you—”

It was his turn to speak. “I thought I was saving you,” he said quietly, staring up at her, adoring every inch of her, wanting her with a desperation that clawed at him—that he wondered if he would ever slake. “When I came here, I thought I was to protect you. To play the part of guardian. Of savior.”

“I did not need a savior,” she said.

“No, mo chridhe. You didn’t. But I did. And it was you who did the saving. Lily . . . you have saved me.”