A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(33)

Alec felt more constricted with every moment that passed, until he did his best to get the upper hand. “I imagine you wish you’d changed gowns.”

She did not waver. “Nonsense. I’ve simply taken pity on you, my lord. We will make a fine pair, considering that coat does not fit you.”

He shifted at the mention of the clothing, the movement underscoring the truth in her statement. “No?”

She shook her head and moved forward, taking hold of the outer edge of one sleeve and giving it a little tug, as though testing its strength. “No.” He resisted the urge to move at the light brush of her gloved hand against his. For a moment, he entertained a wild thought of capturing that hand, of pressing it to his own. And then her gaze fell to his lap, and he imagined pressing her hand to the straining fabric at his thighs. Before he could embarrass himself, she added, “Nor do those trousers. You should find yourself a better tailor.” She paused, then added, teasing in her tone, “Someone English, perhaps.”

He remained transfixed by her hand, disliking the way it felt on him.

Liking the way it felt on him.

Before he could decide, she removed it from his person, and—madly—he wondered if he could convince her to return it so he could make a thoroughly informed decision on the matter.

Instead, he cleared his throat and pressed himself back against the seat. “This was an English tailor. I’m told he’s very good.”

“He’s not. I could have made you a better suit.”

“Yes, well, considering what you are currently wearing, I shall remain with the poor tailor.”

She was affronted. “I beg your pardon. This dress did not simply fit itself to me.” She slid a hand over the seam at her side, where the bodice fit like skin. Alec could not help but follow that hand. It would have been rude not to.

More rude than what you imagine doing with that particular seam?

He did not have to respond to the thought, as Lily continued. “I am an excellent seamstress.”

The words unlocked the memory of her chamber in Berkeley Square. Of the trunk there, filled with wedding dresses and children’s clothing. And those boots.

Those damn boots, he could still smell them.

“Apologies,” he said, shifting at the thought, suddenly uncomfortable. “Your skilled craftsmanship is overshadowed by the rest of the qualities of that gown.”

She smiled at that, white teeth flashing in the dimly lit carriage, and he disliked the thread of pleasure that came with the response. “Trust me, Duke. This gown is impeccably crafted. It’s simply hideous. You require another tailor.”

The tailor had been scared to death of him. Too terrified to tell him that he was too big for the ready-made clothing that he had in stock. Too terrified to send him somewhere else.

After all, Alec was a duke. One did not turn down a duke.

Not even one who was so monstrously large and so ill-fitting in manicured, cold, perfect England.

What a beast.

Barely tamed.

Brute . . .

Discomfort shot through him, having nothing to do with the clothing, and everything to do with something that the right tailor could not repair. “I shan’t be staying long enough to need another. We shall get you betrothed and I shall return to Scotland for the summer, where summer is not filled with putrid stench and steaming cobblestones. Where we have real nature.”

“Unfettered by fences.”

“Certainly not iron ones.”

“You do not like London.”

“London should not take it personally. I don’t like England.”

“Or the English.”

“Not many of them.”

“Why not?”

Because England had given him nothing but pain.

He did not reply.

She frowned at him. “We have some lovely things.”

His brows rose. “Name three.”

“Tea.”

“That is from the Orient, but it was an excellent try.”

She sighed. “Fine. Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare has nothing on Robbie Burns.”

Lily looked to him. “You’re being ridiculous.”

He spread his hands wide. “Go on, then. Give me your best Shakespeare.”

“It’s all the best,” she said, smartly. “It’s Shakespeare.”

“It seems you cannot think of anything worthy of competition.”

She looked away, as though she could not imagine how he couldn’t see the truth of her argument. “Fine. My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.”

He raised a brow. “A children’s love story.”

She gaped at him. “It’s Romeo and Juliet.”

“Babes without any sense. Killing themselves over infatuation.”

“It’s considered one of the greatest love stories of all time.”

He lifted one shoulder. Let it drop. “Unless you know better.”

“And I suppose that your Burns is the better in question?” she scoffed.

He leaned forward in the darkness, allowing his brogue to thicken. “Infinitely so. You want romance, you ask a Scot.”

She leaned forward as well, bridging the space between them, competitive and beautiful, insane dog dress be damned. And when she spoke, she had a matching brogue. “Prove it.”