A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(60)

“And your money is not enough?” he said, dryly.

“My money is my due. A gift, though, I have always thought one would be nice.”

“Always thought?” He looked to her. “You’ve never received a birthday gift?”

She looked away, unwilling to reply with his gaze on her. He saw too much. “When I was a child I did. Trinkets. But once my father . . .” She hesitated, then shook her head. “They are for children, I suppose, gifts. When was the last time you received one?”

“My last birthday.”

She blinked.

“Catherine gave me a kitten. She thought I deserved something as arrogant as I was.”

Lily laughed. “And?”

“She named the damn thing Aristophanes. Of course it’s arrogant.”

“And do you love it very much?”

“I tolerate it,” he said, but she noticed his lips curving in a small, fond smile. “It gets its fur all about my pillow. And yowls at inopportune times.”

“Inopportune?”

“When I am abed.”

Lily blushed, imagining the times to which he referred. “I’m sure that is unpleasant for your bedmates.”

He did not miss a beat. “You haven’t lived until you have been woken by these two beasts chasing a cat up the walls.”

Lily laughed, stroking Hardy’s lovely, soft head. “Nonsense. I’m sure they are perfect princes.”

Without looking, Alec reached to give the dogs a rough scratch, first Angus, and then—his hand fell to hers, on Hardy’s head, sending a thrill of awareness through her in the heartbeat before he snatched it away.

“Pardon me,” he said. They rode in silence for a long moment, Lily wishing that he would touch her again, until he cleared his throat. “We should discuss the goals of this afternoon.”

She looked to him. “The goals?”

“Indeed.”

She waited for him to continue. When he did not, she said, “I thought the goal was to get me betrothed before the painting is revealed.”

“It is.”

She looked away, ignoring the pang of displeasure that came with his words. She did not want to be rushed into marriage. That had never been the dream. The dream had been passion and love and something more powerful than a walk in the park. Eyes meeting across a crowded room. She’d settle for eyes meeting across a moderately populated room. Eyes meeting. Period.

Instead, she was about to be shown like cattle.

And all in the hopes that they could trick a man into choosing her before the entire city saw her nude.

It was humiliating, really.

And then he said, “It’s important that you appeal.”

She whirled to face him. “That I appeal?”

He nodded, the carriage speeding up along the wide street as they sailed toward Hyde Park. “I have some suggestions.”

“On how I might appeal.”

“Yes.”

This was not happening. “These suggestions. Are they as a chaperone?”

“As a man.”

It hadn’t been at all humiliating before. Now it was humiliating. Perhaps she would topple off this remarkable conveyance. Perhaps its uncommon speed would blow her into the Thames and she would sink into the muck.

If only they were nearer to the Thames. No such luck. “Go on.”

“Men like to talk about themselves,” Alec said.

“You think I don’t know that?”

“I suppose you should, considering your friendship with Hawkins,” he offered, the wind strangling the words.

“We were never friends,” she snapped.

“I’m not surprised by that, either,” he allowed. “It’s difficult to imagine anyone wishing for his friendship.”

She’d wished for far more than friendship from Derek Hawkins, but that was irrelevant. She watched him for a long moment and said, “You don’t.”

“You’re damn right I don’t. I don’t want that man breathing the same air as me. Ever again.”

“I mean, you don’t like to talk about yourself.”

Except to call himself a brute. A beast. What had happened to him to believe that? To think himself coarse? If she allowed herself to think on him, he was all grace and glory. Muscle and sinew and features that were the envy of grown men everywhere, she imagined. And his kisses—

No.

Thank heavens, he stopped the wayward, dangerous thoughts. “I’m Scottish,” he said, as though it explained everything.

“Scottish,” she repeated.

“We’re less arrogant than the English.”

“The English, who are worse at everything in the world than the Scots.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “That’s not arrogance. That’s fact. The point is, you should ask him questions. About himself. And let him blather at you.”

She blinked. “Blathering. How very romantic.”

He smirked, but went on. “Ask him about things Englishmen like. Horses. Hats. Umbrellas.”

She raised a brow. “Umbrellas.”

“Titled Englishmen seem to be exceedingly concerned with the weather.”

“It does not rain in Scotland?”

“It rains, lass. But we are grown men and so we do not weep with the wet.”