A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(40)

“No,” Alec said, and she whirled to argue with him.

Sesily spoke first. “Listen to me, Lillian Hargrove. I know better than anyone what Hawkins can make a woman do. If you’re to survive this, you must do all you can to make him the villain. The first step is to make London love you. Which begins with dancing with your duke.”

He’s not my duke.

Surprisingly those were the only words Lily could think as shock and horror coursed through her, so much so that she barely heard Alec’s soft, rolling “Come.” He was looking at her when she turned to him the second time, his hand outstretched, rich brown eyes holding her gaze.

Holding her.

She settled her hand into his outstretched one even as she resisted the idea. Even as Sesily’s words echoed through her. Even as he was pulling her into the dance, pulling her close.

At another time, in another place, she might have realized that Alec Stuart, twenty-first and unwilling Duke of Warnick, was a dancer of the highest caliber. Might have asked why that was the case, considering his eschewing of all things Society. But she didn’t. She was too focused on a different man, a man she’d once believed she loved.

A man who had lied to her.

A man who had tempted her with pretty promises. Who’d convinced her to trust him. To pose for his painting without considering the repercussions of the act. Without considering the possibility of what might happen if it were ever discovered.

The woman the world would think her.

And Derek, unblemished.

Lauded, even.

And here.

Alec led her through the steps of the dance for long, silent minutes as she attempted to come to terms with the idea she’d entered the lion’s den. That she would likely see him. And that she was dressed as a damn dog. Her gaze flickered to Alec’s throat, to the long column that rose above his cravat. To the knot that bobbed there as he swallowed.

She was here, beneath the prying eyes of the aristocracy, because of him.

She let her gaze rise over his straight jaw and his full lips and his long nose to his eyes, which she would have expected to be looking anywhere but at her.

She was wrong.

He was staring right at her, his knowing brown gaze capturing hers with ease, sending a thread of awareness through her. No. Not awareness.

Fury.

“You did this.” He remained silent, so she pressed on with her accusation. “You’ve put me in the same room as him. Fodder for all London, for their censure and gossip. I’m here because of you. Because of your mad plan.”

“It’s the only way to save your future.”

“To underscore my scandal in front of them all? To elaborate upon it?”

“To get you married. The list—they are good men. Eversley’s staked his reputation on such.”

“The Duke of Chapin has been left at the altar three times. And he’s a duke. That’s a virtual impossibility, unless there’s something terribly wrong with him.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know, but if three spinsters have deserted him at such a critical time, I’m guessing the answer is akin to scales.”

“Well, I’m sure it’s not scales, but I said you could cross him off the list.”

“He never should have been on the list to begin with.”

He sighed. “Then make your own list.”

“I don’t want a list!” she said, and the words came out frantic and too loud for the room, drawing attention from couples nearby. She lowered her voice. “Why do you care so much? I’m disgraced, anyway, so why not let me go? Why force me to stay for the ceremonial tar and feathering?”

He hesitated, and in that fleeting silence, Lily realized that whatever he was about to say would change everything. Because she could see in his eyes that it would be the truth.

And then he said it.

“Lily, I’ve seen your wedding dress.”

She froze, her breath unwilling to expel. “What did you say?”

He tugged at her waist, at her hand. “Do not stop dancing.”

She did not move, finding herself instead frozen to the floor, repeating herself. “What did you say?”

He narrowed his gaze on her. “I found it,” he said, softly, like the softest gunshot that had ever been fired for the damage it did in Lily’s chest. “And the pile of pretty clothes for your future babe. Those little boots, with the soft red soles. You dream of filling those boots, Lillian Hargrove. And this is your best chance at doing so.”

She gaped at him, disbelief crashing through her. She took a step away from him, removing her hand from his clasp. “How dare you go through my things?”

“You were gone. I had to find you,” he said, coming close again, his gaze darting around them, attempting to keep them from colliding with other couples twirling by.

As though Lily cared about such a thing. He’d gone through her things.

He’d found the wedding dress. The children’s clothing. The things she’d painstakingly crafted for a husband she’d never love. Children she’d never meet. A life she’d never have.

He’d found them—her most private secrets.

And, somehow, it wasn’t anger she felt. It was embarrassment.

The dress, the clothes, the tiny socks and boots—they were all the dreams of a girl younger and more innocent than Lily was now. They were the promises that she imagined whispered in the darkness as she lay beneath the servants’ stairs and thought of a future, brighter and more beautiful than the present.