A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(34)

Later, he would wonder how the night would have proceeded if the carriage hadn’t taken that moment to slow, heralding their arrival at Eversley House, where half the ton waited beyond the carriage.

He would wonder if he would have made good on his instincts, and pulled this bold, brave, teasing Lillian into his lap and given her all the proof he could muster.

Luckily, he’d never know.

Because the carriage did slow. And they did arrive.

And he was reminded that kissing Lillian Hargrove was out of the question.



She had misjudged the depths of his desire to get her married.

She’d also misjudged the depths of embarrassment that would consume her if she wore the dog dress in public. Suddenly, as she stood at the base of the steps to Eversley House, windows blazing above with golden light, noise from the revelry spilling out onto Park Lane, Lily was consumed by dread.

It was not an unfamiliar emotion, considering her general nervousness when near the aristocracy—utterly out of place, not noble enough to be welcome into their ranks, and somehow too close to their world to be ignored. Even without a season.

If only she’d never met Derek, perhaps she could have been ignored.

But Derek Hawkins made a point of being seen, and the moment he’d set eyes on Lily eight months prior, as she dawdled on the banks of the Serpentine, she’d been doomed to be seen as well. She pushed the memories of that afternoon aside, and took a deep breath, as though doing so could drive her forward, with courage.

“You are certain you do not regret your sartorial choices?” Alec asked dryly in her ear.

She ignored the thread of pleasure the low whisper sent through her. “I confess, Your Grace, I am surprised you are familiar with the word sartorial. What with your own problematic clothing situation.”

He chuckled, guiding her forward, hand on her arm, and she at once loved and hated the security she felt in it. “We have books in Scotland, Miss Hargrove.”

“So you said. Better than Shakespeare.”

“Aye,” he murmured, low and private as they approached the footman standing sentry at the door.

“You still haven’t proven it,” she said, panicked at what might come when she stepped inside the house. Into this world he was forcing upon her, even as she was desperate to flee it.

This world she’d always secretly wished to be a part of.

No. She refused to give credence to the thought.

She stiffened, and he felt the movement. Must have, because he kept talking, as though they were in the sitting room in Berkeley Square. “To see her was to love her, love but her, and love for ever . . .”

She stilled on the top step, the words shocking her. She turned to look at him. “What did you say?”

He continued. “Had we never lov’d sae kindly, had we never lov’d sae blindly . . .” he recited, and the low burr, its wicked rumble, loud enough for her ears alone, made her forget where they were, and what she was wearing, and what awaited them inside. “Never met—or never parted . . .”

She shook her head as if to clear it. They did not even know each other. She was simply drawn to the poetry. This Robbie Burns was exceedingly talented.

“We had ne’er been broken-hearted.”

He fairly whispered the last, low and dark and wonderful, and the promise of a broken heart filled her with aching sorrow. Without warning, her eyes filled with tears, and she looked away from him, to those dancing nearby, a whirlwind of enormous sleeves and vibrant silks.

“Lass?” His hand tightened at her elbow, strong and steel, meant to comfort but only reminding her that comfort was fleeting. That sorrow was the most honest of all the emotions. Sorrow and regret.

Thankfully, they were inside the house then, and she was able to pull away from his touch, relinquishing her cloak to a footman who could barely hide his shock at her horrible dress. She took the moment to dash a rogue tear from her cheek before turning back to the duke and saying, “Perhaps your Burns isn’t terrible.”

He did not reply, searching her face for an answer she’d never be willing to give him. “Lily . . .” he said, and for a moment, she wondered what he might say if they were alone. What he might do.

“The Highland Devil graces us with his presence!”

And then the Marquess of Eversley was there, and she was saved, if one could be saved in this situation.

“I don’t even live in the Highlands,” Alec grumbled.

The marquess clapped his shoulder with a strong hand and said, “The first rule of London, friend. No one cares about the truth. You’ve a distillery there, and so Highland Devil it is. Good God, that eye is ghastly.” He turned to Lily with a smile, his dark brows rising high with surprise as he took in her clothing. She had to give the marquess his due, however; he masked his shock nearly instantly and bowed low over her hand. “Miss Hargrove. The truth, in your case, is precisely what they say. As lovely as your legend suggests.”

“You needn’t lay it on so thick,” Alec growled from behind her. “She’s wearing a dog dress.”

“I think it’s perfect,” Eversley said, not looking away from Lily. “I’d like to purchase one of the same for my wife.”

She couldn’t help but match his winning smile. The scandal sheets called the Marquess of Eversley the Royal Rogue, and Lily could easily see why. He could charm any woman present. Of course, he’d traded the moniker for a new one—the Harnessed Husband—and he was now known throughout London as being thoroughly smitten with his marchioness.