A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(71)

If he did not want her there, he should have asked her to return her key, no?

Locking the door carefully behind her, she turned, ready to climb the stairs to her destination quickly, eager to avoid the housekeeper, who doubled as cook, and the butler, who doubled as valet.

She had not expected to find the house so dark, however, and eerily quiet. She’d hoped for fires in the hearths along the way, some dim light to reveal her path, but there was nothing. She found a candle on the table near the door, and scrambled to light it.

When that was done, she should have immediately headed for her destination—but something about the emptiness of light and sound made her curious. She ducked into the front room, which had, when she had played the role of Derek’s muse, been filled with elaborate gilded furniture.

It stood empty now.

The discovery sent her further into the bowels of the house, toward the kitchens, where a fire was always lit. The two aging servants were rarely far from the warmth of the room. Tonight, however, they were nowhere to be found. The hearth was dark. And there was a pile of dishware next to the large sink that was unexpected.

Someone was living here. Alone.

Returning to the front of the house, she peeked into other rooms, finding each one empty of its contents. A stray chair here and there, but no room ready to receive. Her heart in her throat, she crept up the stairs. Was it possible he no longer lived here? The thought spurred her forward, fast and full of nerves.

What if it wasn’t here?

She opened the door to his bedchamber, immediately grateful for the sweet scent of his preferred perfume assaulting her. He lived here. Which meant the painting was here. She crossed the room, putting her hand to the door that adjoined his most precious space, the room he called his Room of Genius. She tried the handle, only to find it locked.

Of course.

Setting the candle on the low table between the bed and the door to his studio, Lily opened a drawer to search for the key. It had to be there. She’d come too far for it not to be there.

And that’s when she heard the sound, soft and nearly silent from beyond the room itself. There was someone there.

Heart threatening to beat from her chest, Lily turned left and right, desperately seeking an exit. She was on the third floor of the house, so escaping via the window was not an option. There was a massive cupboard on the other side of the room, large enough for two people, if she had to guess, but far too close to the door to the hallways beyond to consider it as a hiding place.

The noise came again, and her gaze flew to the door, convinced that she could hear the handle turning.

Derek was here.

She was under the bed in seconds, with a little prayer of thanks to her maker for men’s clothing. She’d never have fit with skirts and crinoline.

She held her breath as the door opened, and she squeezed her eyes shut, holding her breath and trying with every ounce of her energy to resist the urge to move. To turn her head. To flee.

The door closed, and he was in the room with her.

It was only then that she realized she’d left the candle burning. He would know instantly that someone had been there. That someone was there.

This had been a terrible mistake.

Footsteps sounded, quiet and firm as he moved through the room.

The door to the armoire opened quickly. Closed.

She willed her breath to come easily, desperate to keep quiet.

He made his way slowly around the foot of the bed, black boots coming into view as he crossed to the table where the candle burned. The light shifted, and though she could not see, she assumed he had lifted the candle.

And then the bed shifted above her. Just barely, and her eyes widened as the boots moved. And a bare leg came into view.

Followed by a knee, and a fall of tartan.

And the candle, held by a massive bronzed hand.

And, finally, Alec’s face.

She squeaked her surprise, her heart seeming to pound worse with the reveal of his identity than it had done when she thought he was Derek. “What are you doing here?”

“You have two options,” he said, the words low and rumbling with brogue. “You may come out from under there, or I will come in and fetch you.”

She narrowed her gaze. “Now you wish to keep my company?”

His features matched her own. “What does that mean?”

You left me, she wanted to say. Alone. Wishing for you. Instead, she settled on, “I cannot come out until you move, Duke.” He raised a brow, but moved, and she followed him out, coming to her feet, already fighting. “What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you don’t get yourself caught or killed.”

“Killed,” she scoffed. “No one is going to kill me.”

“You could have fallen from the window—how were you even able to make a bedsheet rope?”

“Sesily taught me.”

He looked to the ceiling. “Of course she did. The scandalous leading the scandalous.”

“She is my friend,” she said, “And I did not fall. As you see, I am quite alive.”

“Remarkably,” he replied. “You took a hack here, dressed in . . .” He paused, and fury flashed in his eyes, “Whatever this is.”

She looked down at the ill-fitting trousers and the too-large shirt and coat. “It’s men’s clothing!”

“You look ridiculous! No one in his right mind would think you male. At best he’d think you an urchin playing fancy dress.”