A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(64)

Which was very unchaperonelike.

He took a step back.

“What are you playing at?” she asked.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You think we cannot hear your grunts and grumbles? And your inappropriate questions?”

He spread his hands wide. “I’m merely doing my job.”

“Your job as what, exactly? Insulting babe on a leading string?” She pointed to the dogs, who had joined them. “Hardy has better manners than you do.”

He looked to the dog, whose tongue lolled at his name, a length of drool several inches long gleaming in the sun as though to prove Lily’s point. Comparing him to the hound was rather unfair, he thought.

“My job as chaperone. I’m keeping him honest.”

She scoffed at that. “If the goal is to get me married, Your Grace, honesty is the last thing that we want to trade in.”

She looked over his shoulder, and he followed the direction of her gaze, finding Lord Stanhope now holding court at the center of the throngs on the Row, chatting with a couple seated high on a curricle, laughing and enjoying himself.

Looking the perfect candidate for marriage.

She continued, “You are, without doubt, the worst chaperone in the long, venerable history of chaperones. Spinsters the world over are wringing their lace caps.”

He knew she was right, but he had no intention of admitting that. “I suppose you are an expert in the behavior of chaperones.”

“I know they are not supposed to loom,” she snapped.

“I am not looming.”

“You are nearly seven feet tall. All you do is loom.”

“What would you have me do? Shrink to the size of your fairy suitor?”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s taller than most men in London!”

He smirked. “Not taller than me.”

“Well, of course not. You’re virtually a tree with legs.” She sighed. “Don’t loom. Follow behind at a decent distance.”

“And what if he is inappropriate?”

She spread her hands wide. “There are ten thousand people in screaming distance. You think he is going to be inappropriate? You’re mad. I thought the goal was to get me betrothed.”

“There’s no need for hyperbole. It’s not ten thousand. And that is the goal.”

“Well then, you worry about your own business. Select one of the myriad ladies who can’t keep their eyes from your scandalous legs.”

The words took him aback. “I beg your pardon?”

She huffed a great sigh of exasperation, put her hands to her hips, and looked down the Row. “They’re all looking at your legs. Which I can only assume you like, or you’d be wearing some kind of respectable attire.”

He turned to look in the direction of her gaze, noting several women immediately redirecting their gazes from him. “It’s perfectly respectable.”

“In Scotland,” she said. “In England, we don’t show our knees.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

She moved her hands to clutch her skirts. “Oh.” She made to lift the dress. “Then I should simply show mine?”

His brows shot together. “You wouldn’t.”

“Whyever not? They are no doubt some of my best features. The rest of London will see them soon enough, and Lord Stanhope would certainly enjoy them.”

He had no doubt of that. Indeed, the very discussion of her knees made Alec want to drop to his knees, lift her skirts, and inspect the hell out of them.

He’d murder Stanhope on the spot if he saw Lily’s knees.

He pushed away the thought. “What would you have me do, Lillian?”

“Wear trousers.”

“Why?” He smirked, making a show of smiling at a nearby group of women trying to look as though they weren’t looking at him. They blushed and tittered and turned away, and Lily groaned in disgust. He raised a brow. “Are ye jealous, lass?”

She looked as though she wished to do him serious bodily harm. “Why would I be? If you went with one of these ogling women, you would be less trouble for me.” She waved at the masses beyond. “You’ve your pick of all London, Your Grace. Have at it.”

I pick you.

No. No he didn’t.

He looked down at her. “It’s you who is here for the picking, Lillian.”

“I would be infinitely more pickable if I lacked my Scottish shadow.” She paused, then added, “I am returning to Stanhope.”

Every part of him resisted the idea. “That’s fine.”

“I don’t wish you to follow me.”

“I have better things to do than follow you.”

She nodded. “Excellent. Good-bye then.”

He nodded, growing more and more irritated by the second. “Good-bye.”

And she turned and sauntered away, the pretty pink muslin of her walking dress teased him, the play of light over the skirts making him think about all the pretty pink things that they covered. Ankles and calves and thighs and . . .

Knees.

He swore roundly in Gaelic, deliberately looking away from her as she approached the Row. Resisting the urge to watch her. To follow her. To guard her.

It worked, until Alec heard the loud “Oy!” coming from her direction.