A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(77)

Come and see me.

It was his own shame.

He waited for no time before a maid arrived in the foyer to escort him into the depths of the house, up a back stairway and to a room that he identified before the door even opened.

Peg’s bedchamber.

And she, within, standing by the fireplace, blond hair glittering gold in the light—as gold as the silk nightgown she wore, low and clinging to the curves he had worshipped a lifetime ago, thinking they would be the first and last he would ever worship, thinking she would wish him to worship them forever.

“I knew you would come,” she whispered, low and secret, as though the maid weren’t there. And then the girl wasn’t there, disappeared into the hallway and closing the door behind her with a soft snick.

“I did not,” he said.

She smiled, that knowing smile from two decades earlier—the one that made promises she would never keep. “You underestimated my irresistibility. And you wore your kilt, you glorious thing.” She moved to the bed, lying back against the pillows, arranging herself in a way so casual that it could only have been practiced.

And it was. He had, after all, seen her in just such a position before. In a different place, in a different world, when he’d been young and green and desperate for her beauty. For her perfection.

And it had ended differently than tonight would.

Because then, he had been even more desperate for what she represented. For a future he would never have. For acceptance by her world. For England.

Now, he wanted none of those things. Now, all he wanted was Lily.

And he was here to remind himself that she was not for him. That every time he touched her, he soiled her with his past. And his shame.

“I am not here for you,” he said coolly.

A sleek blond brow arched. “Are you sure?”

“Thoroughly.”

She sighed and leaned back, unmoved by the pronouncement. “You waste my time then, darling. Why are you here?”

Why indeed? What did he want from this moment? When had Peg ever given him what he wanted?

She did not wait for him to arrive at his answer, instead saying, “If you are not here to play, then you should return home to your little scandal.”

He snapped his attention to her. “What does that mean?”

“Only that you made it quite clear at Eversley’s ball that you were willing to do anything for the girl. Even make a scene. And I know you learned your lesson about scene making years ago.” She paused, then said, “I confess, had I known that Alec Stuart—without family or funds—was to be a duke with a king’s fortune, I might have reconsidered your very sweet offer.”

They all would have. And he would have had a different life. One that had not included a long line of women who thought him worthy of play but not pride.

Peg smiled, cold and ugly. It occurred to him that she might imagine herself beautiful—that he had once imagined her so. Now, however, he knew what beauty could be. How it might come, with strength and pride and purpose and eyes the color of the Scottish sea.

She spoke again. “Would it help to hear that yours was my prettiest proposal? I still recall it. I shall do right by you. We shall spend the rest of our days happy.” She tutted. “Young and green and utterly unknowing of women and the world.”

For a heartbeat, he was fifteen again, an idiot boy. “I learned my lessons of women years ago.” There were those whom he deserved and those he did not. And of course, the one he wanted more than anything fell into the latter category.

Peg underscored the thought. “And we ladies learned our lessons about you, did we not?”

This was it. The reason he’d come. The reminder of his station. Of the life he could never have. And still, he resisted it. “You know nothing about me.”

One side of Peg’s mouth raised in a wry, knowing smile. “I know more than she does, I’d wager.” A pause. “Or has she already ridden the Scottish Brute?”

He narrowed his gaze before he could stop himself, unable to deny the shame and fury coursing through him. Unable to hide the truth from Peg.

Peg’s lips formed a perfect pout. “Oh, darling, still as sweet as ever. You care for the girl.”

“No,” he said.

Liar.

The tut again, followed by movement as she came off the bed, toward him, the gold silk slithering against her like skin. “You forget, Alec Stuart, I was the first woman you loved.”

“I never loved you,” he said, refusing to move as she came close, refusing to flinch as she reached up and put her cool hand to his face, erasing the lingering memory of Lily’s.

He supposed he deserved it.

“That’s not what you said then,” she said quietly. “Sweet-faced Scottish Alec, big as a house, like nothing I’d ever seen. Like nothing I’d ever felt.” She pressed herself to him and he resisted the urge to push her away, wanting the lesson. Wanting the reminder of who he’d been. Of what he’d been. She lowered her voice to a whisper, her hand reaching to the hem of his kilt, fingertips grazing his thigh, making him cringe. “Let the girl have it, darling. Let her feel it. You shan’t be her first, but neither will she be yours. Think on it. You are well-suited.”

He wanted to roar his fury at the way she said it, as though he were anything close to Lily. And then Peg added, “And when she’s had enough of you, come back to me. I would dearly love another go.”