A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(42)

Crossing the ballroom, Alec ducked through a doorway into a dimly lit corridor that he vaguely remembered led to a series of salons. If he had to guess, he’d imagine there was scotch stored somewhere nearby.

Once he’d found it, he would seek out Lillian, who was no doubt hiding in the ladies’ salon, wishing she’d donned an appropriate garment and hopefully regretting the fact that she’d left him in the middle of a ballroom as couples continued to dance around him.

Likely not regretting that at all, as it was his fault that she’d run.

He’d deserved the embarrassment.

And she deserved his apology.

She’d get it. In the form of one of the men on his list. He’d seek one out and deliver him to her—for a waltz and a refreshment. They could take a turn about the room or whatever ridiculous courtship England required.

He wouldn’t turn her about the room if he were courting her.

He’d take her into the darkness on the terrace beyond the ballroom—down into the gardens where the light from the ball was gone and the stars above were all they could see, and he’d kiss her until she wanted nothing but to marry him. Until she couldn’t remember any words but Yes.

Then he’d lay her down on the cool earth, strip her bare, and feast on her with nothing but the sky as witness.

After which, he’d take her to Scotland and marry her. Immediately.

And she would regret it. Forever.

He ran a hand over his face at the thought, the idea of his hands on her—of them soiling her perfection—making him wish he was anywhere but here.

Christ.

He had to get her married. If it killed him, he would do the right thing and get her married.

But first, he needed a drink.

He opened the first door he came to, entering a dark room, leaving the door open to allow some semblance of the already diffused light in. He squinted into the darkness, making out a sideboard at the far end of what he imagined was some kind of study, a decanter beckoning him into the night.

He headed for it, grateful for the quiet, momentary distance from the ball, the aristocracy, and London in general. Both the Marquess and the Marchioness of Eversley had spent their childhood mere miles from the Scottish border, so Alec was confident that whatever the amber liquid in the decanter was, it was whisky as it should be.

He poured two fingers and drank, wrapped in the familiar rich flavor. Satisfaction flooded through him. King was a good friend, stocking the house with Alec’s whisky—distilled and bottled on Stuart land. Alec would have to tell Lillian about Scotland’s superior whisky at some point—yet another thing her England could not claim.

He leaned back against the sideboard and exhaled, enjoying the shadows that hid him from view. It was so rare that he felt invisible in London, and the moment was warm and welcome and as close to perfect as England could be.

And then she entered the room, and he was reminded of how imperfect England was. Of how it had destroyed him, and threatened to destroy her.

Of how much safer and happier she would be in Scotland, far from this place with its judging eyes and its inane rules. For a moment, he imagined Lily in the wilds of his country. He wanted to see her on the banks of the Oban. On the cliffs high above the Firth of Forth. In fields of heather that spread like purple fire as far as the eye could see.

Scotland would suit her.

The thought came with a longing that ripped him from fantasy and returned him to the moment.

He should have said something immediately. Should have announced himself. And he might have, if she hadn’t immediately moved to the window at the opposite end of the room. Whether it was moonlight or the residual glow of the ballroom in the back gardens, she was cast in a light that made her ethereal and so beautiful that his breath caught in his chest.

She raised her hand to the glass window, three long, delicate fingers trailing down the pane, and she let out a long, lush breath, one that filled the room with emotion—frustration. Sadness, and something much more powerful. Longing.

Alec’s breath returned with force at the last, at the familiarity of it.

Because, in that moment, he longed, too.

The thought shook him. He was her guardian. She was his ward.

She was a grown woman. Ward on a technicality.

It did not matter. She remained his ward. She remained under his protection. And he might have been terrible at protecting her until this moment—he might have failed at protecting her reputation and her emotions—but he could damn well protect her from himself.

And, besides, he did not care for beautiful women. They were pretty promises that too quickly became lies.

The thought returned him to the present, and he made to move, to talk to her and apologize and start anew. To convince her that he would play his role perfectly, and that they would find her the life she wished. A proper man. A loving family. A future that was filled with home and hearth and happiness, as she deserved. Whatever she wished.

But before he could speak up from his place in the darkness, the door to the room closed with a soft snick, startling them both, directing their attention to the shadowy figure just inside the room. “Hello, Lily.”

Hawkins.

Alec had an instant desire to destroy the man for risking being found alone with Lillian. For once more tempting the fates of scandal with a dark room and an unmarried woman.

It did not escape him that he’d been alone with her moments earlier, but it was different. There was no time to parse the double standard of the situation, however, as Hawkins was moving toward Lily with a speed Alec did not like. He straightened in the darkness, ready to approach and tear the man limb from limb, but she spoke before he could move.