Her eyes went wide. “Tomorrow?”
“We haven’t time to dally. You’ve seven days to catch him.”
I’ve seven days to resist you. Alec’s teeth clenched at the thought.
“And if he is otherwise occupied?”
“He shan’t be.”
She raised a perfect auburn brow. “You may not like the title, Duke, but you have most certainly mastered the superior arrogance that comes with it.”
He snapped. “You chose the damn man. I’m fetching him for you, am I not?”
Silence stretched between them until he felt like a dozen kinds a beast for yelling. He opened his mouth to say something else. To apologize.
She stopped him. “By all means, then, fetch him.”
“Lily,” he said, suddenly feeling very much like the morning was getting away from him.
She narrowed her gaze on his. “What did I tell you about calling me Lily?”
The name wasn’t for him. She’d made that clear.
“Lillian,” he tried again. “Last night—I was—it was—” This woman turned him into a blathering idiot. How was that possible? He took a breath. “Let’s chalk it up to my brutishness.”
“Stop calling yourself that. You’re not a brute.”
“I shredded a topcoat.” And more. Her bodice.
He would not think on the bodice.
“You need a better tailor.”
She was frustrating as hell. “That doesn’t make me less of a beast.”
Lily was quiet enough that he thought she might not answer. Instead, she said the worst possible thing he could imagine. “Why do you do that?”
“What?”
She moved again, around the table, and he followed suit, keeping his distance. “Call yourself that. A beast. A brute.”
The Scottish Brute.
He hesitated. “You’ve called me that, as well, have you not?”
“In anger. You use it in truth.”
Because I will always have it in me. And it will never be good enough for you.
“What do they call me in your ladies’ magazines?”
“All sorts of things. The Diluted Duke, the Highland Devil—”
“I’m not a Highland Scot. Not anymore.”
“Forgive me, Your Grace, but no one seems to care about truth.”
That much, he knew and was grateful for. He did not wish to discuss the truth. “Either way,” he said, “it will never happen again.” If he vowed it to her, perhaps he would stop wanting it.
After a long moment, she nodded and said, “I shall require a chaperone.”
“No. Chaperones get in the way.”
“That’s the point of chaperones. To get in the way and maintain propriety.”
“We don’t have time for propriety.”
Hardy barked; the dogs were beginning to think that the circling of the breakfast table was a game of sorts.
Lily ignored the dog. “Then why worry about a chaperone at all? My reputation is not exactly gilded.”
Because she was every man’s dream. And a chaperone was essential. Not just a doddering old lady with poor eyesight and worse hearing. She needed a chaperone who both understood the critical, time-sensitive nature of the situation and was able to—should it be necessary—drop a man into unconsciousness if he were too forward.
There weren’t many pugilist chaperones to be had in London on short notice, Alec imagined.
But there was an ideal solution. One he had devised in the dead of night, as he forced himself to think of her as ward and not woman. He was rather proud of his success. “I’m not worried.”
She stopped, looking at him with utter disbelief. “You’re not.”
“Not in the slightest.” He rocked back on his heels, crossing his arms over his chest. “I have the ideal chaperone for you.”
That auburn brow rose again, threatening to lose itself in her hair. “And who is that?”
He smiled. He had her now. “Me.”
She laughed, the sound light and lovely and temptation incarnate. “Honestly.”
“I am being quite honest.”
Her brow furrowed, and he resisted the urge to soothe the twin wrinkles above her nose. “You are no kind of chaperone.”
“Nonsense. I’m the best possible chaperone.” He paused, ticking off the reasons on his fingers. “I have a vested interest in your finding a successful match so I can leave London and never return—”
“Something you could do this moment if you’d simply give me the funds to leave.”
He ignored the statement and continued. “I am predisposed to loathe all Englishmen, so I will be on my guard more than some aging spinster.”
She raised a brow. “You are old and unmarried as well, Your Grace. I would have a care with whom you call an aging spinster.”
He ignored the taunt. “And, as a man, I am more than able to predict any compromising situations.”
Lily pursed her lips and was silent for a long minute—long enough for Alec to conclude that he had won her over to his argument, particularly when she nodded. “It sounds as though you’ve planned the whole thing quite perfectly.”
“I have, rather.”
He’d risen early to do so, committed to getting Lily married soonest. He intended to sign her dowry papers the moment she selected a suitor, and return to Scotland.
And forget about her.
“There is only one problem with your plan.”
“What is that?” There was no problem with the plan. He’d considered the plan from all angles.
“It has to do with compromising situations.”
He did not like the phrase on her lips. Or, perhaps he liked the phrase too much on her lips.
Irrelevant.
There was no problem with the plan.
“You see, Your Grace, since you arrived in London, I’ve found myself in precisely one compromising situation.” She stood straight and leveled him with a cool, grey gaze. “Last night. With you.”
It seemed there was a problem with the plan.
Chapter 12
ONE DUKE’S LOSS IS ANOTHER EARL’S GAIN
When she exited Dog House the next afternoon, dressed for a walk in Hyde Park with a gentleman she did not know, Lily was expecting a simple vehicle. Black. Possibly emblazoned with some kind of canine crest, considering her current residence. What she found, however, was a curricle beyond any conveyance Lily had ever seen.
It was not the sleek two-seated gig that young men rode proudly throughout London. Nor was it the elaborate gilded curricle in which ladies spent their Hyde Park afternoons.
It was unparalleled, and not only because Angus and Hardy sat at the center of the seating block like perfect little canine guards. Enormous and high seated, with great black wheels that reached nearly to her shoulder, the entire vehicle gleamed, pristine in the sunlight, even the wheels—which seemed to have somehow avoided the grime of the city’s cobblestone streets.
As if the vehicle and the dogs weren’t enough, the horses were remarkable. So black they shone nearly blue in the sun, and perfectly matched—precisely the same height, the same width. They took her breath away.
And all that before the driver appeared, coming around the side of the vehicle, tall and broad and tartan-clad, looking at once exceedingly wealthy and utterly wild with his bronzed legs and his wide shoulders and his eyes that seemed to see everything and his lips . . .
No. No lips.
She was not thinking of lips today.
Certainly not lips belonging to the Duke of Warnick.
She lifted her chin in the direction of the curricle as she descended the steps to Dog House. “This is beautiful.”
He grinned, turning to admire the curricle. “ ’Tis, isn’t it?”
She couldn’t help but match his smile with a shake of her head. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“That’s because there isn’t anything like it,” he said. “It’s custom made.”
Her brow furrowed. “You’ve a custom curricle? Whatever for? Do you spend a great deal of time driving about the Scottish countryside, eager to be seen?”
He laughed at the question, the sound warm like the unseasonable day. “It’s built for racing. Very light, perfectly balanced, fast as a bullet. It’s virtually unbeatable.”
She did not care for the image of him careening down a road at high speeds, putting himself in danger, but she ignored the concern. It wasn’t as though he were hers to worry about, after all. “Designed by you?”
“By Eversley, as a matter of fact.”
Confusion came once more. “So it belongs to the marquess.”
“Nae. He traded it to me.”
“For what?” She couldn’t imagine what a comparable item might have been.
“For a used saddle.”
Her mouth fell open. “Why would he do that?”
He smirked, rocking back on his heels. “Because the idiot man fell in love.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I, but I was not about to turn the offer down.” He extended a hand to her. “Shall we go?”
She did not hesitate, letting him hand her up onto the seat—higher than any curricle seat in which she’d ever sat—to take her place next to Hardy, who immediately set his face in her lap for scratching. Lily was happy to oblige.
Alec pulled himself up to sit next to Angus. “You’re going to ruin my dog with sausage and adoration.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “It’s not as though I’m dressing him in jeweled crowns.”
He smiled at the jest, so quickly she wouldn’t have seen it if she hadn’t been looking. But she was. He had a beautiful smile. Not that she was noticing for any specific reason. It was simple fact. Like the sky being blue, or dogs having tails.
She was distracted from her line of dunderheaded thought when the vehicle began to move in the calmest ride she’d ever had, the box barely shifting with the motion of the wheels.
It was a glorious curricle. “I should like one of these.”
“I shall buy you one. As a wedding gift.”
Always with his mind on the goal—to get her married—to make her another’s problem. “If it is a wedding gift, it will not be mine. I’d rather it were a—”
He cut her a look. “A what?”
She shook her head. “I was going to say that I’d rather it was a birthday gift.”
“And your money is not enough?” he said, dryly.
“My money is my due. A gift, though, I have always thought one would be nice.”
“Always thought?” He looked to her. “You’ve never received a birthday gift?”
She looked away, unwilling to reply with his gaze on her. He saw too much. “When I was a child I did. Trinkets. But once my father . . .” She hesitated, then shook her head. “They are for children, I suppose, gifts. When was the last time you received one?”
“My last birthday.”
She blinked.
“Catherine gave me a kitten. She thought I deserved something as arrogant as I was.”
Lily laughed. “And?”
“She named the damn thing Aristophanes. Of course it’s arrogant.”
“And do you love it very much?”
“I tolerate it,” he said, but she noticed his lips curving in a small, fond smile. “It gets its fur all about my pillow. And yowls at inopportune times.”
“Inopportune?”
“When I am abed.”
Lily blushed, imagining the times to which he referred. “I’m sure that is unpleasant for your bedmates.”
He did not miss a beat. “You haven’t lived until you have been woken by these two beasts chasing a cat up the walls.”
Lily laughed, stroking Hardy’s lovely, soft head. “Nonsense. I’m sure they are perfect princes.”
Without looking, Alec reached to give the dogs a rough scratch, first Angus, and then—his hand fell to hers, on Hardy’s head, sending a thrill of awareness through her in the heartbeat before he snatched it away.
“Pardon me,” he said. They rode in silence for a long moment, Lily wishing that he would touch her again, until he cleared his throat. “We should discuss the goals of this afternoon.”
She looked to him. “The goals?”
“Indeed.”
She waited for him to continue. When he did not, she said, “I thought the goal was to get me betrothed before the painting is revealed.”
“It is.”
She looked away, ignoring the pang of displeasure that came with his words. She did not want to be rushed into marriage. That had never been the dream. The dream had been passion and love and something more powerful than a walk in the park. Eyes meeting across a crowded room. She’d settle for eyes meeting across a moderately populated room. Eyes meeting. Period.
Instead, she was about to be shown like cattle.
And all in the hopes that they could trick a man into choosing her before the entire city saw her nude.
It was humiliating, really.
And then he said, “It’s important that you appeal.”
She whirled to face him. “That I appeal?”
He nodded, the carriage speeding up along the wide street as they sailed toward Hyde Park. “I have some suggestions.”
“On how I might appeal.”
“Yes.”
This was not happening. “These suggestions. Are they as a chaperone?”
“As a man.”
It hadn’t been at all humiliating before. Now it was humiliating. Perhaps she would topple off this remarkable conveyance. Perhaps its uncommon speed would blow her into the Thames and she would sink into the muck.
If only they were nearer to the Thames. No such luck. “Go on.”
“Men like to talk about themselves,” Alec said.
“You think I don’t know that?”
“I suppose you should, considering your friendship with Hawkins,” he offered, the wind strangling the words.
“We were never friends,” she snapped.
“I’m not surprised by that, either,” he allowed. “It’s difficult to imagine anyone wishing for his friendship.”
She’d wished for far more than friendship from Derek Hawkins, but that was irrelevant. She watched him for a long moment and said, “You don’t.”
“You’re damn right I don’t. I don’t want that man breathing the same air as me. Ever again.”
“I mean, you don’t like to talk about yourself.”
Except to call himself a brute. A beast. What had happened to him to believe that? To think himself coarse? If she allowed herself to think on him, he was all grace and glory. Muscle and sinew and features that were the envy of grown men everywhere, she imagined. And his kisses—
No.
Thank heavens, he stopped the wayward, dangerous thoughts. “I’m Scottish,” he said, as though it explained everything.
“Scottish,” she repeated.
“We’re less arrogant than the English.”
“The English, who are worse at everything in the world than the Scots.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “That’s not arrogance. That’s fact. The point is, you should ask him questions. About himself. And let him blather at you.”
She blinked. “Blathering. How very romantic.”
He smirked, but went on. “Ask him about things Englishmen like. Horses. Hats. Umbrellas.”
She raised a brow. “Umbrellas.”
“Titled Englishmen seem to be exceedingly concerned with the weather.”
“It does not rain in Scotland?”
“It rains, lass. But we are grown men and so we do not weep with the wet.”
“Oh, no. I imagine you frolic in it,” she said, wryly. “For what better scent than that of wet woolen tartan?”
He raised a brow. “Second suggestion. You should do your best not to disagree.”
“With you?” she retorted.
“As a matter of fact, tha
t would be helpful in the long run, but I meant with Stanhope. Men like women who are agreeable.”
“Biddable.”
“Exactly.” Alec seemed happy that she had caught on so well.
“Well, I’ve sat for a legendary nude portrait. If that isn’t biddable, then what is?”
He cut her a look. “I wouldn’t bring up the portrait.”
“You’re taxing my small female brain with all these rules, Your Grace.”
He sighed. “Do you want to marry or not?”
“Oh, yes,” she retorted. “I dream of a husband who will blather on at me.”
He sighed. “You’re being deliberately obtuse.”
“Are you certain it’s deliberate? After all, you encouraged me to leave my brain at home, did you not?”
“That brings me to the last suggestion.”
“Do my best to sound like a cabbagehead?” His lips twitched. He was amused. “It must be remarkable to be able to find this conversation amusing, Your Grace. Do go on and tell me your last brilliant suggestion.”
“Put your best features forward.”
She gaped at him. “What on earth does that mean?”
“Only that if he’s so very landable, you likely have a great deal of competition.”
They turned into Hyde Park, Rotten Row looming ahead of them. The carriage slowed to a stop, and a well-dressed man noticed them from several yards away. He smiled a warm greeting, and it occurred to Lily that, if that was indeed, Frederick, Lord Stanhope, then he was precisely what Pearls & Pelisses claimed him to be. Tall, sandy-haired, and handsome, with a wide, winning smile and kind eyes.
“Well. He’s most definitely a Lord to Land,” she said.
If only Lily could work up excitement about him, the afternoon would be off to a tremendous start. But, instead, she was taking courtship advice from a Scotsman. About her best features.
It did not bode well for the afternoon.
“If you like that sort of thing.”
She turned to him. “Handsome, titled, and unmarried? You’re right. It’s a very strange preference.”
Alec grunted, and Lily took the irritated sound as a sign that she had won their little battle. As Lord Stanhope approached, she turned to face Alec, noting his large leather-clad hands still holding the reins. “I suppose you’re going to offer an opinion as to which of my features are best enough to be put forward?”
A Scot in the Dark Page 18
