A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(4)

She’d blinked up at him, heart bursting, knowing that he could mean only one thing. Marriage. She’d smiled and whispered back, “Together.”

The carriage had slowed in that moment, and they’d arrived at the exhibition, but she’d heard his agreement in the thunder of the rainstorm beyond.

Together.

And now they were here, and she was feeling prouder than she’d ever been in her life, for this man who would soon be her husband, and for herself as well. After all, it was not every day that the orphaned daughter of a land steward was so privileged to stand before all of London with the man she loved.

The room was massive, the walls reaching twenty feet high and every inch of them covered in artwork. Every inch, that was, but one central spot behind a dais on the far end of the space, this one covered instead with a curtain of sorts, as though what was there was due a magnificent reveal.

Derek turned back to give her a wink. “That one’s for us.”

Lily smiled. Us. What a lovely, lovely word.

How long had she wished to be part of an us?

“Mr. Hawkins,” the secretary of the academy met them at the midpoint of the room with a firm handshake and a fervent whisper in Derek’s ear. “Thank goodness you’ve arrived. We are ready for the announcement immediately, if you are, sir.”

Derek nodded, his lips curving into a wide smile that marked his triumph. “I am always ready for announcements such as this.”

Lily looked about the room, taking in the crush of people, all waiting for the exhibition to begin. She recognized a handful of London’s brightest, and was immediately unnerved by the idea that she was surrounded by titles and funds. She stiffened, suddenly wishing that Derek had proposed yesterday, so she might be allowed to reach for him—to steady herself in the force of London’s combined gaze.

“He’s brought that Hargrove girl with him.” Lily resisted the urge to turn at the sound of her name, whispered, but too loud not to be heard. She assumed that had been the speaker’s plan all along.

“Of course he has,” came the scathing reply. “He delights in dotage. And look at the way she stares after him. Like a pup after a bone.”

The first speaker tutted her distaste. “As if it weren’t enough that she looks the way she does.”

Lily willed herself not to listen and fixed her eyes on the back of Derek’s head, where his black hair curled in perfect whorls.

They did not matter.

Only Derek mattered.

Only their future. Together.

Us.

“Everyone knows anyone who looks the way she does is a complete scandal. I cannot believe he’d bring her here. Today of all days. There are dukes in attendance.”

“I heard the Queen might appear.”

“If that is true, it’s even more disgusting that he would bring her.”

“His own consort!” The words came on a chortle, as though they were clever.

They weren’t.

Lily resisted the suggestion that she might be something other than Derek’s betrothed. As though she were a scandal. And even though she wasn’t—even though there was nothing scandalous about love—her cheeks flamed and the room grew warmer.

She turned to Derek, willing him to hear the women. To turn and tell them that not only were they speaking out of turn, but that they were speaking out of turn about his future wife.

But he didn’t hear. He was already moving away from her, bounding up the stairs to the place where the curtain hung, hiding his masterpiece. He hadn’t let her see it, of course. Hadn’t wanted to tempt fate. But she knew his skill, and knew that whatever he had selected for the exhibition would take London by storm.

He’d told her as much only minutes earlier.

And when it did take London by storm, the women behind her would eat their words.

Derek had reached the center of the dais, made a show of peeking behind the curtain before turning toward the assembled crowd as Sir Martin Archer Shee, the president of the Royal Academy, welcomed London to the exhibition. The speech was impressive, delivered in the distinguished man’s booming Irish brogue, noting the venerable history of the academy and its exhibitions.

Indeed, the art on the walls was very good indeed. It was not the quality of Derek’s, of course, but it was fine art. There were several very nice landscapes.

And then it was time.

“Each year, the academy prides itself on a special piece—a first exhibition from one of Britain’s most skilled contemporary artists. In the past, we’ve revealed unparalleled works from Thomas Gainsborough and Joseph Turner and John Constable, each to more acclaim than the last. This year, we are most proud to showcase renowned artist of stage and canvas, Derek Hawkins.”

Derek’s chest puffed with pride. “It is my masterwork.”

Sir Martin turned toward the unexpected interjection. “Would you like to speak to it now?”

Derek stepped forward. “I shall say more once it is revealed, but for now I shall offer only this. It is the greatest nude of our time.” He paused. “The greatest nude of all time.”

A hush went over the room. Not that Lily could hear it over the loud rushing in her ears.

Nude.

To her knowledge, Derek had only ever painted one nude.

It bests Rubens, he’d said as she’d lain in repose on the cobalt settee in his studio, surrounded by satin pillows and lush fabrics. It is more glorious than Titian.