A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(88)

She turned toward the door, unable to meet his gaze any longer. “I shan’t marry a man who regrets me. I may not deserve better, but I owe myself that.”

She did not expect him to reply. And she certainly did not expect him to reply with such anger. “Goddammit, Lily,” he thundered, deep and low and thick with brogue. She turned back to find the muscles of his broad, bare chest rippling with barely contained fury. “You think I would be the one who regrets? You think it would be me who was shamed?”

“I do,” she said, the words coming on a wave of confusion. “Of course it would be. Marrying Lovely Lily? The ruined Miss Muse? What worse a choice for a duke?”

He came toward her, and she thought he might take her in hand before he stopped short, crossing his arms across his magnificent broad chest. “Lily,” he said, the words no longer angry. Now, exhausted. Resigned. “I promise you. I would not regret you for a moment. You, on the other hand . . . you would regret every minute we’ve ever shared.”

Impossible.

“I would never regret it.” She stopped. “Alec. What I said—I love you.”

He turned away from her, reaching for his coat. “I shall take you home.”

This is my home. Wherever you are is home.

Tears threatened, and she resisted the words. Instead, settling on a single question. “Why?”

For a moment, she thought he might answer, his throat working, his gaze the only thing in the room. She willed him to answer. To reveal whatever demons loomed for him. When he spoke, it was not a reply, but a declaration.

“Not me. Another. Someone worthy.” And then he said, “We shall find the painting. And we shall set you free.”





CHAPTER 18



SOMETHING WICKED INDEED: SCOTTISH BRUTE SPIED AT SCOTTISH PLAY

England shall be your ruin.

As a child, Alec had heard the words dozens of times. Hundreds of them. Every time he had begged his father to send him to England. To follow his mother. To honor her. To find the place she loved—a world that had promised more for her than the Scottish borderlands ever could.

England shall be your ruin, the old man would say. Just as it was mine.

And now it was true.

Like his father, he loved an Englishwoman of whom he was unworthy. Unlike his father, he was willing to do anything to save her from a future replete with disappointment.

I love you.

He should never have made her say it. Should never have allowed himself to bask in it.

But even now, those words rioted through him, making him ache. It would make everything to come that much more difficult—knowing that she would stay with him if he asked. That she would lower herself to be with him.

He had one way of protecting her from that life. One final chance that would give her the life of which she dreamed. And so he stood alone in the largest box at the Hawkins Theater—belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Duncan West, the newspaper magnate and his legendary aristocratic wife—waiting for the show to begin. He wore a coat and trousers that ostensibly fit him, but nevertheless felt as though they would strangle him, slowly, throughout the evening.

“You look terrifying,” King said as he stepped through the curtain and into the box, his charming wife on his arm.

Alec bowed low over the marchioness’s hand before standing straight and saying, “My lady, I am ever amazed by your patience and tolerance with such a fully tactless husband.”

Sophie laughed at the words. “It is a great trial, as you can imagine, Your Grace.” She paused. “For what it is worth, I do not think you terrifying in the least. I think you quite dashing.”

“Not as dashing as I, though, correct?” her husband interjected.

She made a show of rolling her eyes, even as King pulled her tight to his side, color high on her cheeks as he pressed a kiss to her temple. “The poor Marquess of Eversley. Ever maligned by the world around him.”

King’s kiss moved adoringly to her bare shoulder in a display of affection that no doubt scandalized women peering through opera glasses throughout the theater. “I’m terribly wounded, love. You shall have to do something to make it all better later this evening.” Alec attempted not to hear the marchioness’s sharp intake of breath at the caress, before King turned to him and said, “Dashing indeed, Warnick. I see you saw my tailor.”

“I did,” he said, deliberately turning from the couple to survey the floor of the hall.

“For the theater?” King asked, innocently enough for Alec to know that danger approached. “Or for something else, entirely?”

“King,” his wife warned softly.

“It’s a reasonable question. One hears things about beautiful wards and their taciturn guardians.”

Alec cut him a look. “Why would I dress for her?”

“Why indeed,” King said, and Alec resisted the urge to wipe the smug look off his friend’s face.

“The goal is to get her married to another.”

Not entirely, any longer. He didn’t want her married. He wanted her free. He wanted her with a world of choices spread out before her. He wanted to give her the future she wished—whatever it might be.

I love you.

Whatever it might be, beyond him.

“I understand the stated goal,” King said. “I simply don’t understand its inception.”