A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(3)

Which was why the female half of the aristocracy took exceeding pleasure in the events of the twenty-fourth of April, 1834, the opening day of the Royal Academy Exhibition of Contemporary Art, and the day Lillian Hargrove—current favored beauty of the scandal sheets—was made a proper scandal.

And ruined. Thoroughly.

Later, when that same subsection of the ton whispered fervently about the events of the day, white gloves hiding fingertips stained black with ink from the gossip rags they swore they never read, the conversation would always end with a horrified, gleeful “The poor thing never saw it coming.”

And she hadn’t.

Indeed, Lily had thought it would be the best day of her life.

It was the day she had been waiting for her entire life—all twenty-three years, forty-eight weeks. It was the day Derek Hawkins was to propose.

Not that she had known Derek for her entire life. She hadn’t. She’d known him for six months, three weeks, and five days—since he’d approached her on the afternoon of Michaelmas as she lingered in the Hyde Park sun on one of the last warm days of the year, and told her, in no uncertain terms, that he was going to marry her.

“You are a revelation,” he’d said in his cool, crisp voice, surprising her from her book.

Another might have considered his unexpected arrival the reason for her breathlessness, but Lily had known better. He had taken her breath away because he had found her, ignored in her place in the margins. Despite her beauty, she was alone and unnoticed by the world, thrice-orphaned—first by her land steward father; then by a string of ducal guardians, each meeting a quick end; and, finally, in full, by the neglect of the current duke.

In her loneliness, she’d become very adept at being unseen, so, when Derek Hawkins noticed her—when he saw her with the full, blinding force of his gaze—she’d fallen quite in love. Quite instantly.

Lily had done her best to seem unaffected by his words. After all, she had not read every London ladies’ magazine published in the last five years for nothing. Looking up at him, she tried her best, softest smile and said, “We have not met, sir.”

He’d crouched next to her at that, removing the book from her lap—charming her with his blinding white teeth and even more blinding impertinence. “A beauty such as you should not have time for books.”

She blinked, drawn to his cool blue eyes, trained upon her as though they were the only two people in all London. In all the world. “But I like books.”

He’d shaken his head. “Not as much as you shall like me.”

She’d laughed at the boast. “You seem very certain of yourself.”

“I am very certain of you,” he’d said, lifting her hand from her lap and pressing a warm kiss to her gloved knuckles. “I am Derek Hawkins. And you are the muse for which I have been searching. I intend to keep you. For all eternity.”

She’d caught her breath at the vow. At the way it evoked other, more formal ones.

Certainly, meeting Derek Hawkins was a shock. She’d been reading about him for years—he was a legend, an artist and star of the stage, renowned throughout London and beyond as one of the most skilled theatrical minds of a generation. News of his talent and good looks preceded him—and while Lily could not in the moment confirm the former, the latter appeared quite accurate.

But it was not his celebrity that won Lily over. She had more than fluff between her ears, after all. She did not dream of a famous suitor.

She dreamed of a suitor who would ensure she was never alone again.

After all, Lily had been alone for her entire life.

In the days and weeks that followed, Derek had courted her, playing the part of the perfect gentleman, escorting her to autumn festivals and winter events, even hiring an older female servant to chaperone them on public outings.

And then, on a cold, snowy afternoon in January, he’d sent a carriage for her, and she’d been ferreted to his studio—the inner sanctum of his artist’s world.

Alone.

There, in the sun-soaked room, surrounded by dozens of canvases, he’d honored her with his words and promises, worshipped her beauty and her perfection and vowed to keep her with him. Forever.

The words—so pretty and tempting and precisely what she’d always dreamed of hearing from a man so handsome and skilled and valued beyond measure—had filled her with more happiness and hope than she’d ever imagined possible.

For two months and five days, she’d returned to the studio again and again, sitting with more than a little pride in the room, warm with winter sunlight and Derek’s gaze. She’d given him everything he asked. Because that was what one did when one was in love.

And they were in love—a fact that was proven by this moment, as they stood in the great hall of the Royal Exhibition, surrounded by the brightest and most renowned of London’s populace. Lily was a half step behind Derek’s right shoulder (where he preferred her), wearing a pale yellow frock (slightly lower than Lily would have liked, but which he’d selected himself), her hair up in a tight, unyielding twist (precisely the way he liked).

As they’d ridden to the exhibition, the rain forcing them inside his carriage, where it tapped its rhythm on the roof and shut out the world beyond, he’d taken her hand in his and whispered, “Today is the day that changes everything. For all time. After today, all will be different. My name will be whispered throughout the world. And yours, as well.”