A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(81)

It was the first time she’d admitted it aloud, and the words were terrifying and heartbreaking all at once. She wanted him. More than she’d ever wanted anything. “But he doesn’t want me.”

“Oh, Lily,” Sesily said, climbing up onto the platform and wrapping her in an embrace. Lily had always heard that friends’ embraces made one feel better, but this did not. This made her feel worse. It made her want to give herself up to the other woman, to cry and wail and leave all her sadness, all her hopelessness, at Sesily’s feet.

But somehow, in that wanting, she discovered the truth.

That it also made her feel like she was not alone.

“We’ve another sister, did you know that?” Sesily said, and it took Lily a moment to catch up to the change in topic. “Seraphina.”

Lily nodded. “Duchess of Haven.” The fifth of the Soiled S’s, accused of trapping a duke into marriage, disappeared from London months earlier.

A shadow crossed Sesily’s face. “Sera couldn’t win her duke. Not in the end.”

Sometimes, love was impossible. Lily understood that.

Except it did not seem that she understood the Talbot sisters, who looked to her with new resolve. “But your duke. You shall get him. We shall help.”

It wasn’t possible of course, but it was a wonderful fantasy.

Lily removed herself from the embrace, dashing away tears to discover Seleste and Seline had joined them. That she was not alone. That she was not one, but four.

Five.

For behind the Talbot sisters stood the French modiste, London’s most revered dressmaker, holding a length of fabric and watching her with a keen, knowing eye. “If you choose him,” she extended her arms, revealing the fabric. “You find him. And you wear this.”

Lily’s eyes went wide as she took the offering, the movement punctuated by little excited gasps from her friends. Holding the fabric in her hands, she admitted it again, her single, undeniable truth. “I want him.”

“Then he is yours,” Sesily replied, her words dry and full of knowledge. “Truthfully, if that does not win him, the man cannot be won.”





CHAPTER 16



TARTAN: TEMPTING TEXTILE? OR TERRIBLE TREND?

Alec didn’t think it possible, but the Kensington town house once owned by the aging Number Nine and his wife was even worse than the dog house.

Evidently, Lady Nine had been a collector. Of everything.

In the three days he had been living in the deserted town house off Regent Street—Settlesworth had mentioned something about a boating accident in the North Country that took Duke and Duchess Nine tragically together—Alec had been overwhelmed by tables full of miniature animals, shelves laden with porcelain statues, and glass-doored cabinets chock full of tea sets. It occurred to him that when this particular house had been downsized to a skeleton staff, several maids had likely been kept on for the purpose of dusting the mad collection of useless items.

It also occurred to him, as he entered the house in the dead of night, greeted by Angus, the dog’s wild tail wagging, barely missing a lowlying table filled with little china bells, that he should have selected a different house. This was not a place for beasts—of the four-or two-legged variety.

He crouched to give the dog a proper greeting, “Good evening, friend.” Angus leaned in for a scratch, sighing his pleasure at Alec’s touch. “We’ve each other, at least.” He looked up, surveying the foyer. “Where is Hardy?”

He was not entirely surprised that the second dog was missing—Hardy had spent the last three days sighing and wandering the house aimlessly, as though he longed for his lost love.

As though she had not imprinted herself on every part of him in the week he’d known her, she’d also ruined his dogs.

It had been the most difficult thing he’d ever done, returning to the Dog House that night, resigned to find a new home, where he would not threaten her future. From which he could guard her from a distance.

She’d been asleep in the receiving room when he entered, the dogs at the hearth nearby.

If not for the lingering scent of Peg’s perfume on his plaid, he might not have been able to leave her. But he had. And now he had a miserable dog to show for it.

With a sigh of his own, he stood, making his way up the central staircase to the bedroom that had been prepared for him, Angus trailing him in the darkness. Hardy would survive. He would resume his ordinary life, and return to his ordinary character when they returned to Scotland.

Alec could only hope he would do the same.

Time grew short and Scotland loomed like a promise. A place where he would have no memory of Lily. Of her beauty. Of her smile. Of her strength. Of all the ways he wished to—

Love her.

He shook his head at the thought, insidious and unwavering. He did not love her. He would not love her.

He could not love her.

He simply had to stay away from her for three days.

Three days.

Three days to find the painting, to destroy it. To give Lily the life she deserved. He would return her life to her. And she would choose one of her infinite futures, and live her life, strong and beautiful and brilliant beyond measure.

Without him.

He’d spent the day with West and King, devising the most likely location for the painting prior to the exhibition. Planning his movements for the following evening, when Hawkins would take the stage for all of Society, and Alec would search the rear rooms of the theater.