A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(111)

She reached for him. “Alec—”

He bowed his head, aching for her touch. “I am yours, my love, body and soul. When I am old, I do not wish to think of you. I wish to be with you. I wish to love you.”

“Stand up, my love,” she said, her hands in his hair, and when he looked up, her tears were in earnest. “Please, Alec. Stand.”

He did, coming to his full height, his hands returning to her face and tilting it up to him so he could see her reply, whispered so softly he could barely hear it. “You,” she said. “You.”

“Always,” he replied. “Forever.”

He kissed her then, long and deep, lifting her high in his arms until her arms were wrapped about his neck and he held her off the floor for the caress, which lasted at once for an eternity and a heartbeat. They separated only when they had both lost the ability to breathe, but Alec did not put her down, instead clutching her close and burying his face in the warm curve of her neck, breathing deep, willing his heart to slow.

She laughed and he lifted his head. “What is it?”

“We have an audience, it seems.”

He shook his head. “No. They’re too distracted by the painting.” He growled. “How did you do it?”

She grinned. “Guess.”

He groaned. “Sesily.”

“I needed a boost,” she said simply. “But—”

He cut her off. “The two of you, together. You are trouble. You realize I’m going to have to murder half of London, now, for having seen you nude?”

She tilted her head. “Perhaps not, though, considering no one is looking at the painting.”

He turned to the room, massive and packed to the gills, come to see the legendary masterpiece of Derek Hawkins. Not one observer was turned to the front of the room, however. They all—to a person—had their backs to the painting.

Facing far more interesting gossip.

He raised a brow. “They still look at you. I don’t care for it.”

“At least this way I am clothed.” She grinned. “Still a scandal, but clothed.”

“Nonsense.” He kissed her again, long and slow and deep, until the women around them gasped their shock. “Duchesses cannot be scandals.”

“Not even if we try very hard?”

“Well,” he replied, “if anyone can do it, my love, ’tis you.”

“I shall require a partner.”

“No doubt a grueling task, but one I see no way of avoiding,” he teased.

She pressed her lips to his, soft and lingering. And then she said, “When can we marry?”

“We can be in Scotland in four days if we leave now.”

She smiled, and he caught his breath. “Then I think it is time you take me home.”



Beauty Bestowed traveled throughout Britain and across the Continent, making it as far east as St. Petersburg and as far west as New York City, exhibited in the greatest homes and museums in the world, lauded as a singular masterpiece, rivaling the Mona Lisa.

But Beauty Bestowed was different from other portraits. It was not a painting of a nameless muse. It was the portrait of Lillian Stuart, née Hargrove, twenty-first Duchess of Warnick, and the Scandal of 1834.

And whenever it was exhibited, wherever, her story was told. Their story was told. The story of Lovely Lily, and the duke who so adored her that he tossed her over his shoulder and carried her off to Scotland on the last morning of the Royal Art Exhibition, under the watchful, envious eye of all London.

It is no wonder that none can remember the name of the artist.





EPILOGUE



CITY CELEBRATES!

DEPARTED DUKE & DUCHESS DESCEND





Ten months later

The door to the sitting room between the master and mistress’s chambers at 45 Berkeley Square flew open, ricocheting off the wall as the Duke of Warnick pulled his duchess inside.

“Alec,” she whispered with a mix of glee and horror. “Someone will hear!”

“Don’t care,” he growled, closing the door behind them and pressing her against it. “You should be grateful I did not break it down to get you inside. Come here, wife.”

Lily wrapped her arms around his neck, loving the feel of his hands on the bodice of her dress. Wishing the dress gone. “What’s happened to you?”

“You danced with too many men tonight,” he said against her lips. “They all wanted a look at the queen of the season. I didn’t like it. Poncey Englishmen. Stanhope was the last straw.”

She laughed at that. The Earl of Stanhope was the least threatening man in England now that he’d found himself a lovely young widow who was purported to be quite wealthy. Considering the way the Earl and Countess lingered together at the edge of the ballroom, seemingly unaware of their surroundings, Lily thought he’d made a very good match, indeed.

As had she.

She pulled back to look at her husband, moonlight streaking through their bedchamber. “You once wanted me married to one of those Englishmen.”

“An error in judgment.”

“Indeed,” she said, and he kissed her, deep and thorough, pulling away only to run his lips over her jaw until she sighed her pleasure. “I needed that.”