A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(20)

“Oh,” she said.

And a crust of bread to the one on his right.

“The sitting rooms. The receiving rooms. The library. Here.” He did not reply. “All rooms with comfortable furniture. A month to catalogue the contents.”

“He is a proud man. There’s no need for him to know he’s been pastured.”

She blinked. “That was kind of you.”

“Don’t worry. I shall continue to play the beast with you.” One large hand stroked over a dog’s head, and Lily found herself transfixed by it—by its sun weathered skin and the long white scar that began an inch below his first knuckle. She stared at it for a long moment, wondering if it was warm. Knowing it was. “Tell me, is it just the old man? Or do all the servants overlook you?”

She lifted her chin, hating that he’d noticed. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He watched her for a long moment before lifting the parcel from the table. She watched as he slid one long finger beneath the wax seal and opened it, extracting a sheaf of papers.

“I thought you did not read your correspondence.”

“Be careful, Lillian,” he said. “You do not wish for me to ignore this particular missive.”

Her heart began to pound. “Why?”

He set it aside, far enough away that she could not see it. “I wrote to Settlesworth after you apprised me of your plans.”

She caught her breath. “My funds.”

“My funds, if we’re being honest.”

She cut him a look. “For nine days.”

He sat back in his chair. “Have you never heard of catching more flies with honey?”

“I’ve never understood why one need catch a fly,” she said, deliberately pasting a wide, winning smile on her face. “But it is done, then. I shall hereafter think of you as a very large insect.” She pointed to the papers. “Why are my funds of interest?”

He set a hand on the stack. “At first, it was just that. Interest.”

Her gaze lingered on that great, bronzed hand on the document that somehow seemed to feel more important than anything in the world. That document that clarified her plans for freedom. She was so distracted by the promise of that paper that she nearly didn’t hear it. The past tense.

Her attention snapped to him, to his brown eyes, watching her carefully, unsettlingly. “And then what?”

He made a show of feeding a piece of toast to one of the dogs. Hardy, she thought. No. Angus. It didn’t matter. “I met a man last evening. Pompous and arrogant and obnoxious beyond words.”

Her heart pounded with devastating speed. “Are you certain you were not looking into a mirror?”

He cut her a look. “No, I was looking at Derek Hawkins.”

Her heart stopped.

Luckily, she did not have to speak, because he continued, “I went looking for him.”

Which meant he knew. About everything. About her idiocy. About her desperation. About her willingness to do whatever a man asked of her. About her naiveté.

She went hot with shame, hating herself.

Hating him for resurrecting it.

She swallowed. “Why?”

“Believe it or not,” he said, and she could hear the surprise in his tone, “I intended to force him to marry you.”

What had he said?

She was certain she’d misheard him. Panic rose. Was he mad? “You didn’t!”

“I did not, as a matter of fact,” he said. “Once I met the man, I realized that there was no way on green earth that I would allow you to cleave yourself to him.”

Cleave. She hated the word. Hated the roughness of it. The way it seemed rife with desperation. With obsession. With unpleasant, simpering longing.

You said you loved me.

The shame came again, flooding in on the memory of the words, high and nasal and desperate. In front of all London, punctuated by their mocking laughter. With his.

And now Alec Stuart, twenty-first Duke of Warnick, the only man in London who had not known the circumstances of her shame, knew them. And worse, thought to save her.

Panic rose. “I never asked to be cleaved to him.”

“I am told you did, lass. Quite publicly.”

She closed her eyes at the words, as though if she could not see him, she could not hear the truth. He knew. Knew everything about what had happened with Derek. But somehow, he couldn’t see the truth of it. That everything she’d ever desired, everything for which she’d ever dreamed . . . it was all impossible now.

She’d made it so.

Her fists clenched at her side and she opened her eyes to find him staring at her, as though he could see right into her soul. She looked away, immediately. “You would be surprised what ruination in front of all of London will do to one’s desires.”

There was a long moment as he waited for her to look at him again.

She could not do it.

Finally, he let out a long breath and said, “For what it is worth, Lillian, Hawkins is possibly the most loathsome man I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet.”

She looked to him, willing him to believe her. “I do not wish Hawkins. Nor do I wish your help. Indeed, all I wish is to have a life that is my own. And free of—”

Scandal. Shame.

She shook her head, unwilling to say the words aloud. “All of it.”