He settled on, “Not for all the blunt in London.”
“What then?”
“It is no matter who she marries. Only that she does.”
King and West looked to each other, then back to Alec, now firmly resolved in his modified plan. He waited for one of them to speak. When they did not, he said, “What of it?”
After a long moment, West replied. “Nothing. It sounds an excellent plan.”
King raised a brow. “I cannot imagine how it could possibly go wrong.”
Alec heard the sarcasm in the other man’s tone, and in scathing Gaelic, told him precisely what he could do with himself, before turning on his heel and heading for the club’s boxing ring.
He could do with a fight.
Chapter 4
DILUTED DUKE AND DOGS RESUME RESIDENCE
Lily should have known when she saw the maid scurrying past the foot of the stairs at eight o’clock in the morning that something was amiss.
She should have sensed it from the quivering silence of the house, as though someone of import was present. But she didn’t.
Not until she smelled the ham.
For five years, Lily had descended the same stairs at the same time to take tea and toast in the breakfast room. It was not that she preferred tea and toast for breakfast—simply that it was the food that was offered. And even then, there were days when the cook forgot her, and she had to go looking for breakfast. Those were the better days, honestly, because they allowed her to enter the kitchens and be in the company of others.
Lily lived in the margins of life at 45 Berkeley Square. She was neither nobility nor servant—too highborn to be welcome in the lives of the staff, not highborn enough to be honored by them. For the first year, she’d ached for their friendship, but by the second, she’d simply become a part of this dance, weaving through them, not unwelcome, but more . . . invisible.
Though she had disliked the disinterest for years, recently, she had become comforted by it.
After all, Lily was no longer invisible beyond this house.
She was altogether too visible beyond this house.
The fact remained, however, that the invisible did not receive ham for breakfast. And so it was that, as the maid disappeared down the long hallway and the salty scent of cured meat beckoned to Lily from the breakfast room, she realized that she was not alone in the house.
That the duke had decided to take up residence.
She pushed open the door to find him behind a newspaper, a plate piled high in front of him, nothing but shirtsleeves visible.
Shirtsleeves. The man didn’t even have the courtesy to dress for dining.
Therefore, Lily did not have the patience for courtesy. “You slept here?”
Alec Stuart did not lower the newsprint when she crossed the threshold. “Good morning, Lillian.”
The words rumbled through her, thick with a Scots brogue that she told herself she did not care for, as it was too low. Too languid. Far too familiar.
Of course, it had to be familiar, as the man was sitting at her dining table, as though he owned the place. Which he did, of course.
She stopped halfway down the large dining table and repeated herself. “You’re not staying.” That’s when she noticed the dogs seated on either side of him, two enormous grey wolfhounds, all wiry fur and lolling tongues, one with several inches of slobber hanging from his jowl. “And they are certainly not staying.”
“You don’t care for dogs?” He did not lower his paper.
She did, actually. She’d always rather wished she had one. “They are dogs? I thought they were small horses.”
“This is Angus,” he said, one hand peeking out from behind the paper to stroke the massive head on his left. “And this is Hardy.” He delivered similar care to the other. “They’re kittens. You’ll like them.”
“I shan’t have a chance to, as you are not staying. There are eight other residences in London, Your Grace, not to mention wherever you’ve laid your head the other times you’ve been to town—I’m sure you can find another that will suit.”
He lowered one corner of his paper. “How do you know I’ve been to town before now?”
“Good God,” she said. “What happened to your face?”
“A lady wouldn’t notice.”
His right eye was swollen shut, black and a wicked shade of green. “Is the lady in question blind?”
One side of his swollen lip lifted in a barely there smile. “You should see the other man.” He returned to his paper.
She should be grateful for the beating. For the way it took away from those supremely distracting lips. She’d never in her life even noticed a man’s lips before, and now all she could think was how she hoped the swelling was not permanent. It would be a tragedy to ruin such a mouth.
Not that she was interested in his mouth.
Not at all.
She cleared her throat. “What did he do to you?”
“Nothing,” he said, as though the entire morning were perfectly ordinary. “I went looking for a spar.”
Men would forever perplex her. “Whatever for?”
“I found myself irritated.” He set the paper aside.
Her eyes went wide. “You are wearing tartan.”
A deep red plaid cut a diagonal swath up his torso, over his shoulder, where it was met with another drape of wool and fastened with a pewter pin. The garment only underscored how ill-fitting he was here, in this house—in this world he’d inherited so unwillingly.
In this world that she had so desperately wanted before she’d so desperately wanted to be rid of it.
He lifted his paper again. “I find it more comfortable.”
“Are you wearing trousers?” The words were out before she could rein them in.
His good eye met hers with a piercing brown gaze. “No.”
She’d never in her life been so embarrassed as in the wake of that single, simple word. She wished to crawl beneath the table. She might have done, if doing so wouldn’t have brought her entirely too close to the source of her embarrassment.
Thank heavens, he changed the topic. “You did not answer me.”
She couldn’t remember the question. She couldn’t remember any question in the entirety of her life but her last. She was mortified.
“How do you know I’ve come to town before now?” he repeated.
“I read the papers, just as you do,” she said. “You’re a particular favorite when you arrive in town.”
“Oh?” he said, as though he did not know it already.
“Oh, yes,” she said, recalling the way the scandal sheets described him, the ladies’ dark dream. She supposed he was a particular specimen, if one liked the tall, broad, and brutish sort of thing. Lily did not like it. Not at all. “The whole of London is warned to put out the sturdy furniture, in the event you happen along for tea.”
A muscle in his cheek tightened slightly, and Lily was surprised that the triumph she expected to feel knowing that she’d struck true did not come. Instead, she felt slightly guilty.
She should apologize, she knew, but instead bit her tongue in the long, uncomfortable moment that followed, during which he remained still as stone, coolly regarding her. They might have stood there for an age, in a battle of will, if not for the long strand of drool that dropped from one dog’s jowl to the carpet below.
Lily looked to the spot before saying, “That carpet cost three hundred pounds.”
“What did you say?”
She smirked at his shock. “And now it has been christened with your beast’s saliva.”
“Why in hell did you spend three hundred pounds on a carpet? For people to walk on?”
“You gave me leave to decorate the house as I saw fit.”
“I did no such thing.”
“Ah, of course,” she replied. “Your solicitor did. And, if I am to live in such a cage, my lord, it may as well be gilded, don’t you think?”
“We return to the bird met
aphor?”
“Clipped wings and all,” she said.
He lifted his paper once more, his reply dry as sand. “It seems to me that your wings work very well, little wren.”
She stilled, not liking the unsettling knowledge in the words. Returned to the original topic. “You took no interest in the house, Your Grace, so I see no need for you to live in it.”
He replied from behind his newspaper. “I find I have an interest in it now.”
The cool statement reminded her of why she had entered the breakfast room to begin with. She took a deep breath. “You are not—”
“Staying. Yes. I am not without ability to hear.”
She didn’t doubt his sense of hearing. She doubted his sense, full stop. But it did not matter. The house was large enough for her to avoid him until her funds arrived, and she was free of him. And London.
Before she could say as much, however, they were interrupted by the arrival of the butler, Hudgins. “Your Grace,” the ancient man croaked as he doddered into the room leaning heavily on a cane, a slim parcel under his arm. “A missive has arrived for you.”
Lily turned to assist the butler—always half doubting his ability to get from one location to the next without hurting himself—removing the parcel from his hands. “Hudgins, you mustn’t overtax yourself.”
The butler looked to her, clearly insulted, and snatched the parcel back. “Miss Hargrove, I am one of London’s best butlers. I can certainly carry a parcel to the master of the house.”
The haughty words sent heat rushing through her—embarrassment of her own. His quick retort did not simply reveal that he’d been insulted, but also served to remind her of her place, neither above nor belowstairs. And certainly not permitted to instruct the staff in front of the duke.
She immediately searched for a way to make amends as he doddered toward the duke, setting the envelope on the table.
“Thank you, Hudgins,” Alec said quietly, the low burr rumbling across the room. “Before you leave, there is another matter with which you might assist me.”
Lily was forgotten. The butler straightened as much as his aging bones would allow, obviously eager to prove he was more than able to help. “Of course, Your Grace. Whatever you require. The entire staff is here for your aid.”
“As this is a matter of serious import, I would not wish for any but you to aid me.”
Lily turned to the duke with a frown—wanting to underscore Hudgins’s frailty. To make the point that the butler no longer served in the traditional sense. That despite his rising and dressing the part each day, he did little more than answer the door when he was able to hear it, which was becoming less and less frequent. Hudgins had earned a retirement of sorts, comfortable and quiet. Could the Scotsman not see it?
“I require a complete accounting of the items of value in several rooms of the house,” Warnick said. “Paintings, furniture, sculpture, silver . . .” He trailed off, then added, “Carpets.”
What on earth? Why? Lily’s brow furrowed.
“Of course, Your Grace,” the butler replied.
“Not all the rooms, you understand. Only the critical locations. The main receiving rooms, the sitting rooms, the library, the conservatory, and this one.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“I should think it would take you no longer than a month to produce such an accounting. I should like it to be as thorough as possible.”
It should not take the man more than a week, honestly, but Lily did not say as much.
“That should be a fine amount of time,” Hudgins replied.
“Excellent. That is all.”
“Your Grace.” Hudgins bowed ever so slightly, and doddered out of the room, Lily watching, waiting for him to finally, finally close the door behind him before she turned on the duke.
“For a man who is so keen to eschew a title, you certainly enjoy ordering the staff about,” she said, approaching him once more. “What an inane request! A full accounting of the contents of the house. You’ve estates valued at literally millions of pounds, Your Grace. And ham.”
She hadn’t meant to say the last bit.
He tilted his head. “Did you say ham?”
She shook her head. “It’s irrelevant. What do you care what is on the walls of the sitting room in a home you did not know existed last week?”
“I don’t,” he said.
She went on, barely hearing the reply. “Not to mention the tedium of such a task—he’ll be occupying each of those rooms for days, considering his unwillingness to end his servitude and live out his life in—” She stopped.
He tossed a piece of ham to the dog on his left.
“Oh,” she said.
And a crust of bread to the one on his right.
“The sitting rooms. The receiving rooms. The library. Here.” He did not reply. “All rooms with comfortable furniture. A month to catalogue the contents.”
“He is a proud man. There’s no need for him to know he’s been pastured.”
She blinked. “That was kind of you.”
“Don’t worry. I shall continue to play the beast with you.” One large hand stroked over a dog’s head, and Lily found herself transfixed by it—by its sun weathered skin and the long white scar that began an inch below his first knuckle. She stared at it for a long moment, wondering if it was warm. Knowing it was. “Tell me, is it just the old man? Or do all the servants overlook you?”
She lifted her chin, hating that he’d noticed. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He watched her for a long moment before lifting the parcel from the table. She watched as he slid one long finger beneath the wax seal and opened it, extracting a sheaf of papers.
“I thought you did not read your correspondence.”
“Be careful, Lillian,” he said. “You do not wish for me to ignore this particular missive.”
Her heart began to pound. “Why?”
He set it aside, far enough away that she could not see it. “I wrote to Settlesworth after you apprised me of your plans.”
She caught her breath. “My funds.”
“My funds, if we’re being honest.”
She cut him a look. “For nine days.”
He sat back in his chair. “Have you never heard of catching more flies with honey?”
“I’ve never understood why one need catch a fly,” she said, deliberately pasting a wide, winning smile on her face. “But it is done, then. I shall hereafter think of you as a very large insect.” She pointed to the papers. “Why are my funds of interest?”
He set a hand on the stack. “At first, it was just that. Interest.”
Her gaze lingered on that great, bronzed hand on the document that somehow seemed to feel more important than anything in the world. That document that clarified her plans for freedom. She was so distracted by the promise of that paper that she nearly didn’t hear it. The past tense.
Her attention snapped to him, to his brown eyes, watching her carefully, unsettlingly. “And then what?”
He made a show of feeding a piece of toast to one of the dogs. Hardy, she thought. No. Angus. It didn’t matter. “I met a man last evening. Pompous and arrogant and obnoxious beyond words.”
Her heart pounded with devastating speed. “Are you certain you were not looking into a mirror?”
He cut her a look. “No, I was looking at Derek Hawkins.”
Her heart stopped.
Luckily, she did not have to speak, because he continued, “I went looking for him.”
Which meant he knew. About everything. About her idiocy. About her desperation. About her willingness to do whatever a man asked of her. About her naiveté.
She went hot with shame, hating herself.
Hating him for resurrecting it.
She swallowed. “Why?”
“Believe it or not,” he said, and she could hear the surprise in his tone, “I intended to force him to marry you.”
What had he said?
S
he was certain she’d misheard him. Panic rose. Was he mad? “You didn’t!”
“I did not, as a matter of fact,” he said. “Once I met the man, I realized that there was no way on green earth that I would allow you to cleave yourself to him.”
Cleave. She hated the word. Hated the roughness of it. The way it seemed rife with desperation. With obsession. With unpleasant, simpering longing.
You said you loved me.
The shame came again, flooding in on the memory of the words, high and nasal and desperate. In front of all London, punctuated by their mocking laughter. With his.
And now Alec Stuart, twenty-first Duke of Warnick, the only man in London who had not known the circumstances of her shame, knew them. And worse, thought to save her.
Panic rose. “I never asked to be cleaved to him.”
“I am told you did, lass. Quite publicly.”
She closed her eyes at the words, as though if she could not see him, she could not hear the truth. He knew. Knew everything about what had happened with Derek. But somehow, he couldn’t see the truth of it. That everything she’d ever desired, everything for which she’d ever dreamed . . . it was all impossible now.
She’d made it so.
Her fists clenched at her side and she opened her eyes to find him staring at her, as though he could see right into her soul. She looked away, immediately. “You would be surprised what ruination in front of all of London will do to one’s desires.”
There was a long moment as he waited for her to look at him again.
She could not do it.
Finally, he let out a long breath and said, “For what it is worth, Lillian, Hawkins is possibly the most loathsome man I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet.”
She looked to him, willing him to believe her. “I do not wish Hawkins. Nor do I wish your help. Indeed, all I wish is to have a life that is my own. And free of—”
Scandal. Shame.
She shook her head, unwilling to say the words aloud. “All of it.”
She would run. She would start fresh. And someday, she would forget that for which she’d always dreamed. The marriage, the family, the belonging.
A Scot in the Dark Page 6
