A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(98)

The earl poured two glasses and delivered one to Alec before sitting on a low settee covered in hideous fringe. “Where do you wish me to take her?”

Nowhere. “Scotland.”

Stanhope raised a brow. “You do not think yourself better suited to that particular task?”

The words threatened to destroy him.

He wanted to show her Scotland. He wanted to watch her feel the spray of the Firth of Forth on her skin for the first time. He wanted to stand with her in the wilds of the Highlands and breathe her in until the scents of heather and myrtle and Lily were forever intertwined.

He wanted to lay her down on his plaid in a patch of golden sunlight and make love to her beneath mountains and sky and heaven, until she cried out his name. He wanted to grow old with her there, filling the corners of his keep with their happy babes, and their babes’ babes, wearing those little red boots she’d kept secreted away from the world.

But he was not for her. “She needs someone better than I.”

“And you think that man is me.”

“I have seen you together. You make her . . .” He paused, loathing the words. “You make her smile.”

I want her to smile forever. With a man who deserves her.

“Making women smile is a particular talent.” Stanhope drank, then coughed wickedly. “I suppose I should not be surprised that this house contains only swill.”

Alec did not laugh. He could not find the energy. “You are a good man, Stanhope. And you do not grow younger. And you require an heir. And a fortune. And Lily is . . .” Alec drank, deserving the burn of the terrible liquor.

“She is perfect,” Stanhope said. “With or without the painting.”

Alec closed his eyes at the words, simultaneously grateful for the earl’s understanding, and loathing it. He did not wish her to be perfect for anyone but him. He nodded nevertheless. “She is.”

“The problem is—she is also very much in love with you.” Alec’s gaze snapped to the earl’s. “I make the chit smile, Warnick, but that is the easy bit. You could make her happy, if you decided to do so.” He set the glass on a low table next to the settee and stood. “I’m afraid I must decline your offer of an anvil marriage. Tempting though it is.”

Alec stood as well, desperation and fear and elation coursing through him. And still he said, “And what of the dowry?”

Stanhope did not hesitate, releasing a long, disinterested breath. “Is not worth it. Not if I’ve a tragic love story on my conscience. There are other dowries. I hear there is a rash of American heiresses this season.” He paused then, before saying, “If I may?”

“All you have said so far, and now you hesitate?”

“This is London, 1834. All is able to be overcome with a single act. You have it right, and at the same time entirely wrong.”

Alec’s heart began to pound. “And what is that act?”

“You don’t make the girl a countess, married for money; you make her a duchess, married for love. The world enjoys nothing more than a Cinderella story.” He opened the door to the room, revealing an aging butler.

Stanhope moved past the servant, turning back from the foyer to find Alec’s gaze. “I hope you will be the prince, Your Grace. She deserves all good things.”

And so it all fell apart. Alec had come to London nine days earlier to play the role of unwilling guardian and noble savior. To restore her reputation and get her married and get back to Scotland to a life that did not include her. A life that had satisfied him.

Until he’d met her, and all of it had gone to hell.

And he’d failed her on all levels.

And to make it all worse, fallen in love with her.

He yanked the paper from the butler’s ridiculous silver tray and opened it, dread pooling deep, certain this day could only get worse.

I require your assistance.

Meet me tonight. Half-twelve.

—L

Below, a line of direction, the mews behind the Royal Academy of Arts. It was then that Alec knew her plan—pride flooding through him at the realization. She was beautiful and brilliant and brave as a damn warrior.

Of course, she was the instrument of her own saving.

She was magnificent enough to save herself and the world in the balance.

If only she could save him, as well.

Several hours later, he drove his curricle into the mews that ran behind the Royal Academy, the night casting deep, dark shadows across the empty space. He was deliberately early, wanting to be there before her, to assess the danger of this particular mission.

He stepped down from the driver’s box, his attention already on the building ahead of him. He had half a mind to do it himself, without her.

But he should have known better.

She was already there, stepping out of the shadows as though she’d been in the darkness forever, a queen of the night.

A queen in trousers, cap pulled low over her brow.

How long had she been here? Anything could have happened to her. And he would have been too late to save her. A failure again.

Never enough.

He headed for her, frustration and desire warring within him. “What is this?” he said, pressing her back into the darkness, shielding her from prying eyes.

She reached for him. Took his hand in hers. Slaying him with the simple touch as she opened it and ran her hand over the bandage at his palm. “You bled last night.”