A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(28)

Which was his problem.

Lily, on the other hand, did know they existed. And she was not afraid to use them.

Not that Lily had ever actually seen the other houses. She’d never had much interest in them. Certainly, she’d had interest from the outside, but as they’d been subsumed into the dukedom, their staffs reduced to skeletons, Lily had always imagined that the devil one knew was the devil with which one stayed—and at least number 45 Berkeley Square had killed a duke who’d held the title for longer than a quarter of an hour.

Nevertheless, Lily was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and the fact that there were seven other places to lay her head beyond Berkeley Square was a fine gift indeed.

So it was that the previous evening, she’d arrived at number 38 Grosvenor Square and been warmly greeted by Mr. and Mrs. Thrushwill, the gardener and his happy housekeeper wife. The two had shared their ploughman’s supper with her and opened a room—one they proudly kept clean and aired for just such an occasion.

Lily had tucked herself into bed, filled with thoughts of how she intended to avoid the Duke of Warnick’s mad scheme to put her on the marriage mart.

Step one, avoid the Duke of Warnick.

Certainly, 38 Grosvenor Square would be an excellent start, as he’d have to go searching for her. This house would buy her time. Two days. Possibly more.

And in the darkness, surrounded by crisp, clean linen, she’d felt relief for the first time in two weeks, five days. For the first time, she felt as though she were captain of her own ship.

That feeling lasted all too briefly, soon replaced with the thoughts that had consumed her since the opening of the Royal Exhibition. Thoughts of Derek. And of her own stupidity.

If only she’d seen the truth about him. That he’d never honored her. That he’d never intended to. That every promise he’d ever made, every pretty word he’d ever spoken, had been a lie.

Lily lay there in the dark, quiet house, turning those lies over and over in her mind, remembering the way they’d made her ache, filled with desire and something far more dangerous. Hope.

How many times had she dreamed of being seen? Of being loved? Of being honored?

And how well had she destroyed every possibility for that?

She’d seen the truth in Alec’s gaze over his breakfast in Berkeley Square. The sympathy there. No. Not sympathy.

Pity.

It was out of pity that he had come. Out of pity that he stayed, with his ridiculous promises of a massive dowry and a husband—though how she was to get it in eight days . . . it was a fool’s errand.

But the other option . . .

The painting will follow you.

Her shame would follow her.

Your error in judgment.

She hated the words, the tacit agreement that she had, in fact, shamed herself. That she would never be able to move beyond it. She didn’t want to believe it, even if it rang true. After all, even if she did marry, Society would never accept her. And they certainly wouldn’t accept a man willing to have her. No matter the funds.

Once again, a man fortified her scandal. The fact that her once-absent guardian did it with too-noble intentions mattered not a bit.

If only he would see that.

It was not the only thing he would never see, she vowed in the darkness. He would never see the tears that dampened her pillow long into the night as the darkness cloaked her in regret.

She didn’t think of the house at all until she woke, eyes on stalks, exhausted from her fitful night, to discover that the housekeeper had risen much earlier and removed myriad coverings to reveal a domicile filled with dogs.

There were more dogs than she could imagine—paintings and statues and tapestries of hounds, gilded dogs threaded into the silk wall coverings, ornate sheepdogs carved into the wooden baseboards, dogs sitting watch on either side of the front door to the town house, and elaborate spaniels wrought into the wall sconces.

Lily slowed her descent on the stairs, taking in the madness of the decor, coming to the bottom step and letting her fingers trace the intricate curves of the mahogany bulldog’s head at the start of the banister. This figure was perhaps the most unsettling of all—mouth open, teeth sharp, even a little tongue threatening to loll.

Eyes wide, she turned in a slow circle, considering the sheer quantities of hounds and decided that it was very possible that she had made a mistake in choosing number 38 Grosvenor Square to hide from the duke.

And then she heard his voice, coming from the back of the house, and she was certain of it. As she had resolved to hide from Alec Stuart for as long as possible, however, Lily headed for the exit.

Another of the ducal holdings would have to do.

“We only heard last night that you were opening the house, Your Grace,” the housekeeper said in a high pitch. “We’ve done as much as we can to prepare, but we will need to add staff.” She paused, then quickly added, “Or, if you plan to take residence here, we can summon staff from Berkeley Square.”

Lily had seconds to make her escape.

“Oh! Miss Hargrove! Good morning!” called Mrs. Thrushwill.

She froze halfway to the door.

“Going somewhere, lass?”

She blushed, turning, captured by Alec’s brown gaze and those perfect lips, one side raised in arrogant amusement. Pasting a bright smile on her face, she said, “I was going to take a walk in the square.” She turned to the housekeeper. “Good morning, Mrs. Thrushwill.”