A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(41)

A future she would never have.

They were pretty lies. She knew that now—she’d left them in the trunk for a reason.

And he’d found them.

Shame flooded through her, hotter than any embarrassment she’d ever felt. Hotter than the embarrassment she’d experienced when he’d revealed that he knew about the painting. How was it possible that she was more ashamed of a simple white dress than about no dress at all?

“So you went through my things, like a . . .” She hesitated, looking away from him, now terrified of what he’d seen. Of what he might know about her. “. . . like the great Scottish brute you are. I don’t want you here. In my life. Find another woman to manhandle. I hear you’re terribly good at it. Your reputation precedes you.”

He went stiff as a board at the words, and Lily had the sudden sense that she’d said something terribly wrong.

Not that she should care.

And then he spoke, low and dark, the angry words fairly forced from him. “You forget yourself,” he said. “As my ward, your things are my things.”

Her gaze flew to his. “You beast.”

His lips pressed into a long straight line. “And you, the most beautiful woman in London,” he said, as though being beautiful was the most ugly thing she could be. “We make a fine match, Lovely Lily.”

The nickname unstuck her. She pulled away from him and fled the room.





CHAPTER 9



GUARDIAN? OR GUARD-DOG?

No one in his life had ever frustrated Alec as much as Miss Lillian Hargrove.

He watched her walk away in her ridiculous dress, the bronze and gold and silver fabric flouncing around her with every step, hound and hare bobbing high above her head, and he burned with anger and embarrassment and frustration and a keen desire to leave her there in Eversley House, and return to Scotland.

A desire almost as strong as the one that urged him to chase after her.

He cursed under his breath. He’d hurt her. He shouldn’t have told her that he’d seen the dress.

He should have told her he only wanted the best for her. That he only wanted to protect her. That he would protect her, dammit. That it was all he’d wanted to do since the moment the damn letter had arrived in Scotland, summoning him to her side. He wasn’t a monster, after all. He recognized duty, and he would serve it.

And the more he was with her, the more he wished to serve it.

Perhaps he would have said all that if they hadn’t been here, in a packed ballroom, the focus of the aristocracy’s attention. If he hadn’t been keenly aware of his too-tight clothing, of his own too-big size, of his inability to be genteel or refined in any way.

If he hadn’t been blindsided by the arrival of Margaret mere moments earlier. Lady Margaret, now Countess Rowley. More beautiful now than she’d been twenty years earlier, when she’d been Peg, the older sister to his schoolmate, and he’d wanted her beyond reason.

When he’d had her, and believed she’d be his forever.

Marry me.

Alec cursed in the dim light, her long-ago laughter punctuating the memory of her approach tonight, as though she owned him even now, even as she was married to a fancy British earl—just as she’d always desired. The way she’d come too close and reminded him of how close they’d once been.

Of the way she’d left, his heart in her hand, crushed.

Women dream of men like you, darling.

But for a night. Not a lifetime.

King hadn’t warned him that she’d be there. Alec supposed he should have expected it. The ball was one of the first of the season, and the first hosted by the future Duke and Duchess of Lyne since the birth of their first child. Even if King weren’t brother-in-law to the infamous Talbot sisters, all of London would have been in curious attendance.

But he still could have mentioned Peg would be there.

Alec pushed away the cacophonous memories of a broken heart and a broken spirit, leaving only the memory of Lillian’s righteous fury.

He should have been able to manage that fury. To temper it.

And perhaps he would have done, if not for the shock and sting of seeing Peg. Of remembering her. And then Lily had called him a brute and a beast, and he’d remembered the same words on another set of beautiful lips. Another time. Another woman. Another encounter that ended with him left alone, imperfect.

And then, Lily, hurt, lashing out. Your reputation precedes you.

Shit.

It wasn’t an excuse for his behavior. He should have protected Lily—ironically, protecting her was the only thing he seemed unable to do, despite it being the singular requirement of guardianship.

Perhaps he’d be more successful at it if she weren’t so beautiful. If those grey eyes didn’t seem to see everything, if she weren’t so willing to tell him when he was out of line. When he was behaving abominably. If she weren’t so strong and independent and willing to fight for herself.

If she weren’t so damn perfect, perhaps he could be a better man when he was with her.

She’d called him a beast, and he was. Somehow, she made him one. Or, perhaps, she simply saw the truth, and left him there, at the center of the ballroom, feeling like one.

The orchestra stopped and the couples around him—doing their best to both stare at and ignore him—began to dissipate as the musicians prepared for the next set. The movement away from the dance unstuck him, and he turned away, committed to a single goal—finding a decent drink.