A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(29)

The older woman returned the smile. “I trust the room was comfortable?”

“Quite,” Lily said.

Mrs. Thrushwill looked to the duke. “We shall air another room for you promptly, Your Grace.”

What? No. “He’s not staying.”

“Oh,” the housekeeper replied, obviously crestfallen. “I thought—”

“I am staying, in fact,” said the duke. “Thank you.”

“Oh,” the housekeeper said once more. “Of course. Of course.” And then she dropped a curtsy and hurried off, no doubt to tell all the world about the kind, gracious, handsome duke.

Not handsome.

Giants were not handsome. Certainly not giants who were attempting to ruin Lily’s life.

“Your eye is turning colors,” she said. “Purple. And yellow.”

“A walk?” he prompted.

In for a penny, in for a pound. “I quite enjoy nature.”

“Nature.”

She nodded. “Quite.”

“Grosvenor Square is not nature.”

“It is green, is it not? There are trees.”

“It’s surrounded on all sides by fence and buildings.”

“If you think about it, all of nature is surrounded by buildings,” she pointed out. “Perhaps you are simply incorrectly identifying the boundaries.”

He was unable to concoct an exasperated answer as, in that exact moment, he seemed to realize that the house was decorated in canine glory. “What in . . .” He trailed off, his gaze falling to a particularly garish portrait of a greyhound on one wall. In it, the dog lay in impressive repose, long, spindly legs tangled together, long, sleek head on a red satin pillow, “Is that a crown?”

Lily approached the portrait to investigate the headwear and considered the title, embossed into the gilded frame beneath. “The Jewel in the Crown,” she read aloud. “Do you think the dog is named Jewel?”

“I think the dog is being mistreated abominably.”

She turned back to him. “Perhaps Angus and Hardy would like crowns.”

He looked scandalized by the very idea. “This house is hideous.”

“I quite like it,” she said. “It feels like a home.” There was something valuable in that, dogs or no.

“I thought you did not like dogs.”

“I thought you did like them, Your Grace.”

He ignored the taunt. “We are not taking up residence here.”

“You are correct. We are doing no such thing. I have ceded Berkeley Square to you. With pleasure. I find I prefer houses with working doors.”

“You fled.”

“It was not fleeing.”

“Not very skilled fleeing, as here we are,” he said. “Settlesworth sends his regards, by the way.”

Her gaze narrowed. “Settlesworth is a traitor.”

“Settlesworth is attempting to save his position, and was happy to be able to provide me with information of import.”

“Now my location is of import?”

She thought she heard him sigh before he said, “Of course it is.”

“Ah, right,” she snapped, not wanting to believe he meant well. “Because it is best you know the location of your problems.”

“You cannot escape me,” he said. “So, why not work with me? We could get the situation rectified and I can return to Scotland. I know we’d both like that.”

“As lovely as that bit sounds, your scenario results in my marrying a man I do not know.”

“I told you, you may choose any man you like. I’ve no intention of standing in your way.”

“I choose myself,” she said. “I’d rather rely upon myself than you. Or any other. I find myself more reliable.”

He sighed again, and she heard it filled with frustration and something more. Something she loathed. “Don’t you dare,” she said, turning on him in fury. “Don’t you dare pity me. I don’t want it.”

He had the grace to look surprised. “It’s not pity I feel.”

“What then?”

One side of his mouth turned up in a smile she would have called sad if she’d believed for a moment he cared. “Regret.”

For heeding his summons, no doubt. For landing himself with her. “We all do things we regret, Duke.” She knew that better than anyone.

There was a long moment of silence before he changed the subject. “Which one owned this odious place?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Number Thirteen.”

“Ah. The one killed by a sheep, allegedly.”

“Precisely.”

“What happened to him, really?”

She blinked. “That is what happened to him. He was killed by a sheep.”

His brow furrowed. “You are joking.”

“I am not. He fell off a cliff.”

“Number Thirteen?”

“The sheep. The duke was out for his daily constitutional. Below.” She clapped her hands together. “Quite smashed.”

His lips twitched. “No.”

She raised one hand. “I swear it is true.”

He looked around the garish room. “You’d think the dogs would have warned him.”