A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(76)

But he would be damned if he was going to take what he wanted and destroy the possibility of her getting what she deserved. A life with a man who was worthy of her. He’d thought it before he’d discovered her plans to steal the painting back, but once he’d committed to helping her, to finding the portrait and destroying it before it could be brought to light, his conviction was redoubled.

He would find the thing.

And he would protect her, dammit.

I’m to protect you.

How had he gathered the strength to leave her, not to turn to her. He’d heard it in her breath—the truth—the fact that she would give in to him. That she wished to. That she wanted him again. That she wanted more.

More. He’d thought he’d known what wanting felt like. What longing meant. And then he’d met Lillian Hargrove, and he’d realized the truth—that everything for which he’d ever hungered was nothing compared to her. There was nothing he would not pay. Nothing he would not do for another taste of her.

And that he was unworthy of her.

And as she’d stood in that empty house, in that empty room, where she’d once been nude for another man, he’d been willing to pay. To do. And he’d resisted.

To protect her. To give her a chance at the life she desired.

Because now, she had a chance for more than a marriage of convenience. Now, if they could find the painting, if they could steal it, she might still be ruined in the eyes of London, but she could avoid ruination in the eyes of the world.

Clever girl.

He should have thought of it himself. Would have, if he wasn’t so blinded by her beauty. By her strength. By everything about her. But he’d been too busy protecting her. From London. From her future. From her past.

From himself.

Yes. He deserved a damn medal.

When they’d left, it had begun to rain in earnest, and he’d continued to do the best thing for her, stuffing her into a hack and climbing onto the block next to the driver, for her own safety.

Or for his.

He wasn’t certain what he would do if he ended up inside the carriage with her, next to her. Sharing her space. Breathing her air. Smelling her, somehow like heather and Highlands.

The rain stung his face as the carriage careened around corners, returning her to the safety of Grosvenor Square, where they would lie in their beds, separated by walls adorned with dogs, and he would pretend to sleep, aching to go to her. To strip her bare and worship her with his hands and lips and tongue—

The thought had him growling in the cold May rain, recalling her taste. Recalling the peaks and valleys of her body and imagining how her most secret places would feel against his tongue.

“Problem, m’lord?”

Of course there was a problem.

He wanted Lily with a raging intensity. And she was not his to want.

“Stop the carriage up here,” he said, digging deep in his pocket to pay the driver. “Where are we?”

“Hanover Square.”

“I shall walk from here.”

“Sir. It rains.”

As though he hadn’t noticed. “Take your passenger to Grosvenor Square.”

His fingers brushed a piece of ecru in his coat pocket, and he extracted it, along with his purse. Looked down at it in the light bouncing about from the hack lantern. Countess Rowley. Peg’s calling card. His unknown valet must have transferred it from his shredded coat to this one.

He paid the driver his exorbitant sum, received his obsequious accolades, and climbed down from the carriage as the door opened from the inside.

Don’t let me see you, he willed her. He didn’t know that he would be able to resist her again. And, at the same time, Let me see you.

“Alec?” His name on her lips a gift in the rain.

“Close the door,” he said, refusing to look. Not trusting himself to see.

A pause. Then, “It is raining. You should ride inside.”

Near her. Touching her. He could not help the huff of frustration that came at the words. He should not ride inside. He should not be near her. He had a single task. To protect her. And he was the most dangerous thing in her world right now.

“The hack will return you home.”

“What of you? Who shall return you home?” The soft question threatened to slay him. The idea of a home they shared. The impossibility of it.

“I shall walk.”

“Alec—” she began, stopping herself. “Please.”

At the word—the one she had whispered so much while in his arms, the one that promised so much and asked for so much more than he was able to give—his hands began to shake again, just as they had in Hawkins’s house. He clenched them, willing away his desire.

Would he ever not want her?

“Close the door, Lily.” She had no choice but to follow the order when he looked up to the driver. “Drive on.”

The carriage was instantly in motion.

He rubbed a hand over his face, loathing London. Wishing he were anywhere but here.

England will be your ruin.

Removing his hand, he looked down at the card. At the direction beneath the name. Hanover Square.

Come and see me, Peg had whispered when she’d slipped the card into his coat pocket.

Earlier, Lily had asked him if he believed in fate, and he’d answered truthfully. Fate did not put him here, in Hanover Square, with Peg’s calling card. A too-skilled valet and a too-frustrating ward had done it. And, as he watched the carriage disappear into the darkness, the sound of horses’ hooves and clattering wheels masked by the rain, it was not fate that sent him to the door of number 12 Hanover Square.