Why?
And, worse, why did Lily want him just the same?
Love was a hateful, horrible thing, somehow made worse in the darkness of this damn theater, this place that had brought her nothing but shame—shame she would gladly wear if she could have Alec along with it.
But she couldn’t have him. Even as he offered her choice, he refused her the only choice she wished to make.
And so she would take the rest of what he offered. Freedom.
She stood, turning for the back of the box. Sesily met her gaze, understanding, and raised a brow. Lily did not pause, making her way through the box blindly, not caring who saw. Not caring who knew where she was going.
Caring only about finding him and telling him precisely how much she loathed him. She pushed through the thick curtains and into the brightly lit hallway beyond, empty of people—all of whom were no doubt watching Derek, odious and compelling in equal measures.
There was no sign of Alec, which meant he was already headed into the bowels of the playhouse, searching for the painting. Her heart began to pound at the thought of him setting eyes upon it. Somehow, the idea of his finding it, touching it, claiming it, was worse than the idea of all of London seeing it.
She headed for the back stairwell, the one that twisted down to the wing of the stage, resolved to be there when he found it. To claim it before he could.
“Miss Hargrove.” The words stopped her and she turned back to find Lord Stanhope at the entrance to the West box.
“My lord—” she began, not knowing what to say.
He found the words for her, approaching. “Take care.”
Sesily entered the hallway as well, hanging back when Stanhope looked over her shoulder. “Do not mind me, my lord. In this play, I am merely the unskilled chaperone. Imagine me in need of spectacles and terribly hard of hearing.”
Lily could not help but smile at her friend.
Stanhope approached again, his own smile near-blinding. “You are lucky to have such friends, Miss Hargrove.”
“I am, my lord.” She hesitated, then added, “It is something of a new experience for me. As is having such a kind gentleman who sides with me.”
“I think you would not find me kind if you knew me long.”
She wondered at the words from this man who seemed so very perfect. “You are wrong,” she said. “You forget I have had my share of unkind men. And you are not one. I would wager well that you are good.”
“Heiress chasing is not the most honorable of activities.”
“I hope you will chase more worthy ones in the future, my lord.”
He shrugged one shoulder, a lock of hair falling over his brow, making him look effortlessly charming. “It shall be terribly boring, don’t you think? I find I enjoy playing the part of the other gentleman.”
“You should not be the other, you know. You should be the gentleman.”
“And would you have me, Miss Hargrove? As gentleman?”
She would be lucky to have him. And yet, “No, my lord. I would not saddle you with my scandal.”
“And if I would have it? If I would bear it?”
She smiled. “Then you most certainly do not deserve it.”
“It has nothing to do with the scandal, though, does it? It has to do with the gentleman.”
Tears threatened at the kind words. “It does. I am afraid I have chosen poorly.”
He raised a brow. “You know, I think you are wrong. I think you have chosen the best gentleman of all.”
She thought it, too. But for some reason, he would not have her.
You will regret it. You will regret me.
He was the best gentleman. If only he would see it.
“Thank you, my lord.” And she was off, rushing down the stairs to her scandal. And to the man she would claim, if only he would allow it.
Chapter 19
THE ART OF WARNICK
It wasn’t there.
Alec stood at the center of Derek Hawkins’s offices, turning in a slow circle, seething in fury and frustration.
The painting wasn’t there.
The rest of the empty studio from Covent Garden was there, lining the walls, six canvases deep, a collection of artwork that would make the docents of the British Museum squeal with excitement. It seemed that, in addition to being a superior bastard, Hawkins was, in fact, a superior talent. Which meant Lily’s portrait was as beautiful as they said.
Allegedly.
As it was not there.
What next? How would he save her?
There was no time. He had two days to find the painting. Two days before it was revealed to the world and Lily had no choice but to marry him. And it wasn’t there, goddammit.
He resisted the urge to lower the candle to the nearest canvas and set the entire theater ablaze. Hawkins would deserve it. For threatening her. For using her. For touching her.
Alec cursed, long and wicked in the darkness.
“What does that mean?” She spoke from the doorway.
He hadn’t heard the door open. He whirled to face her, the candle in his hand casting her face into flickering golden relief as she stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “You should be upstairs.”
She approached, and he moved backward, until his trousers brushed against a large still-life of pears and he had no choice but to stop. She, however, did not stop.
Why didn’t she stop?
“Upstairs,” she said. “With Stanhope.”
“Yes.”
“Instead of down here. With you.”
“Yes.” Couldn’t she see it?
“While you risk all to save me.”
Why didn’t she understand? He would give up everything he had, everything he was, if it would keep her safe. “Yes.”
A long silence stretched between them, muffled shouts from the stage beyond somehow making the room seem smaller. More intimate. Alec wanted to climb the walls to escape it. To escape her.
And somehow, she seemed perfectly calm. “It is not here, is it?”
He exhaled. “Nae.”
“I gathered as much when I heard you cursing.” How was it that she was so calm? “And so my demise approaches.” She smirked, indicating the theater beyond the door. “Like Birnam Wood.”
“What have I told you about Shakespeare?” he snapped.
She smiled. “Last I heard, you were cursing him quite thoroughly.”
“It is my right as a Scot.” He tried not to look at her. She was so close now, close enough to smell. To touch. To ache for. And they were alone.
She whispered his name like a sin. “Alec?”
He swallowed. “Yes?”
“What does the curse mean?”
He shook his head. “It does not translate.”
She waited for a long moment before he lifted his gaze to hers, her grey eyes silver in the candlelight. “And what does mo chridhe mean?”
He shook his head. “It does not translate.”
One side of her mouth rose in a little, knowing smile. “Is it better or worse than the curse?”
She was killing him. He was trying to be noble. To protect her. And—
“Why do you not want me, Alec?”
He wanted her with every ounce of his being. How did she not see that? He closed his eyes. “Lily. Now is not the time.”
“What better time than this?” she asked. “What better time than now, on the eve of my destruction?”
“We’ve tomorrow to find it—”
“We shan’t find it. That has never been our prophecy.”
“Stop referring to the damn play like it’s relevant. Everyone dies at the end.”
“Not everyone. From the ash comes a line of kings.” She paused, then said quietly, “Scottish ones.”
“Cursed ones. There are no kings in Scotland now.”
“Aren’t there?”
He ran a hand through his hair, frustration coursing through him, setting him aflame. “Get out, Lily. We’ve anothe
r day, and I shall find the damn painting if I turn London inside out. Go to Stanhope. And see if he might be your happiness.”
“He shan’t be,” she said.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do, though,” she said. “How could one man make me happy when I love another so well?”
He turned for the door. “You know not of what you speak.”
They had to leave this place, before they were caught. And he had to find air—she’d thieved it from the room with her beauty, like a fairy. And now hear him—thinking Scots madness like the damned king beyond.
He’d reached the door when she spoke, “I know you are a coward.”
He looked back at the words to find her unmoved from her place at the center of the room, surrounded by the work of the man who had ruined her, straight and strong and proud as Boadicea. And wearing his plaid like a banner.
She was perfect.
He turned away without speaking, and she threw her next spear. “I know that I tremble from wanting you.”
He bowed his head, pressing his forehead to the door.
The stage beyond went quiet, as though all of London had hushed to let her be heard. And then, quiet and longing, “I know that last night, you trembled as well.”
The words broke him. He was moving before he could think, and she was in his arms, wrapped about him, and her lips were on his, and she was sighing into his mouth like he was the greatest gift she’d ever received. He kissed her, reveling in the feel of her lips on his, of the way she softened instantly against him, as though she had been waiting for this moment—for him—for a lifetime.
Just as he had waited for her.
He lifted her, carrying her to the desk at the far end of the room, setting her down and taking her face in his hands, aligning their lips so he might taste her again and again, memorize the softness of her lips and the pretty little moans she sighed when he slid his tongue over her lips, stole into her softness, thieved from her like a beggar at a banquet.
He kissed her until they were both gasping for breath, until he lifted his lips from hers and removed his hands from her, holding them up, wide and weak between them. “I still tremble, Lily.”
Her gaze flickered to them, eyes going dark and devastating when she noted their shaking. When she reached for one, bringing it to her lips, kissing each fingertip before turning his hand palm up and pressing a warm, wet kiss to the center of his palm.
And when her tongue slipped out and swirled a circle there, branding him with her mark, he growled and took her again, licking deep and slow, until she writhed against him, sighing for more. He broke the kiss, trailing his lips over her cheek to the lobe of her ear, where he whispered, “I will ever tremble. There will never be a time when I do not ache for you. When I do not want you with every thread of my being.”
“Then have me,” she said, her breath hot at his ear. “Take me. Claim me. I am yours.” The words roared through him, nearly deafening him with desire.
But he did not deserve her.
He stepped back. Releasing her. “I am not the hero of the play, Lily. You must choose a better one. One more worthy of you. That is the point of this entire exercise.”
A beat. And then she came to her feet like an avenging queen and pushed him away from her with enough strength to set him off balance. “I choose you, you lummox.”
Good. If she was angry, she might leave him alone.
“I am not an option,” he said.
“Yesterday, you offered to marry me,” she replied.
And he would have done it. Would do it still. If only . . . “I am not enough.”
The sound she made bordered on a scream, full of frustration and anger. “You are a duke, Alec. And I am the orphaned daughter of a land steward who has been ruined in front of all London.”
“Not has been. Not yet.”
“You were not there. I assure you, it is roundly done.”
“It is not done until the painting is made real. And it shan’t be. Not if I can stop it.”
She shook her head and spread her arms wide, indicating the room. “You cannot stop it! He will win this battle. He won it the moment he marched up to me in Hyde Park and convinced me that attention was akin to love.” She gave a little, humorless laugh. “Ironically, I seem to be caught in a similar web now.”
He froze. “It is not the same.”
She cut him a look. “You are right. It is not the same. Derek never made me feel ashamed of myself.”
What in hell? “All of this—every bit of it—has been to keep you from shame. To keep you from regret.”
“How many times must I tell you that I do not regret it?”
He lost his temper. “Goddammit, Lily! Can you not simply trust that I know? That the hero you spoke of abovestairs—he is not me? You think I do not wish to marry you and protect you and love you as you deserve? You think I do not wish my past erased and this dukedom mine in truth so I might get down on my knees and beg you to be with me? So that I may make you a duchess? You think I do not wish for those children? The ones you planned to dress in pretty little embroidered clothes? The ones who would fit those silly red boots?”
Her eyes were wide, and he did not care. Still, he raged. “You think I do not wish to take you to our marriage bed and make love to you until we no longer shake? Until we no longer move, for the pleasure of it? You think I do not love you? How can you not understand it? I love you beyond reason. I think I might have loved you from the moment you closed the damn door in my face in Berkeley Square. But I am not the man you deserve.”
He stopped, breath coming fast and angry, self-loathing coursing through him, and he forced himself to look at her. Tears glistened in her eyes, and he hated himself for what he’d done. “I am not he. Not for a lifetime. Not even for the one night we had.” He thrust his hands through his hair. “We must go before we are found.”
She did not move from her place. “What did you say?”
He looked to her, “What?”
“You are not for a lifetime. You are for one night.”
The words were a wicked blow, unexpectedly cruel on her lips. Recovering from the sting, he nodded. At least she understood. Perhaps she would leave him in peace now.
He would never be at peace again.
“We must go,” he said, wanting to claw at his cravat, tight about his neck.
Lily was not through, however. “What did she do to you?”
He stilled. “Who?”
“Countess Rowley.”
Memories of the past raced through him. How did she know? It did not matter. He should have told her before then. The truth would drive her away as surely as he ever could.
And that was the goal, was it not?
No.
Yes. It was the goal.
He turned for the door. “We must go.”
“Alec.”
“Not here, Lily. Not while all of London waits beyond this room.” And he tore the door open, without hesitation.
All of London was not beyond, it turned out.
Only one of London was there.
Derek Hawkins stood on the other side, dressed in Renaissance garb, broadsword dangling from his hand. He raised the blade, setting it to Alec’s chest, just above his heart. “I do not know the law in Scotland, Duke, but in England, we are within our rights to kill intruders.”
Of course Derek was here to muck everything up.
Right now, she would give everything she had to disappear him from his place at the door, making a mountain of a molehill, threatening to kill them, if she’d heard correctly. Lord deliver her from men with a flair for the dramatic. She checked the clock on the desk.
It was half-nine and the theater was in intermission. It occurred to Lily, vaguely, that she hoped Sesily was as good at being a poor chaperone as she was at being a scandal, because Lily and Alec were going to require an excellent excuse for their absence as the entire box realized that they were missing.
Somet
hing better than Oh, they are likely breaking into Hawkins’s office, stealing Lily’s nude, and having an amorous encounter upon his desk.
In this particular case, the truth was not an appropriate excuse.
Especially now, as it seemed they would be waylaid further.
Certainly, they should not be here, in this inner sanctum. But neither should Derek be. She approached, refusing to cow to this man who had so thoroughly used her. Remarkably, because two weeks past, she would have cowed. Two weeks past, she’d been a different woman.
Two weeks past, she had not had Alec.
Alec, her massive Scot, whose broad shoulders and superior height dwarfed Derek, blocking her view as she advanced, having had enough of Derek Hawkins. “Should you not be on stage, Derek?”
That’s when she saw the sword, poised high and dangerous, the tip of it at Alec’s heart. Alec, who looked calmer than any man should be in that position.
Lily froze, terror threading through her at the image. “What do you think you do, you madman?”
Derek did not look at her. “I protect what is mine. My theater. My art. And I am willing to do anything for it.” He paused, looking down at Alec’s empty hands. “You are wise to have avoided taking anything from within.”
When Alec spoke, it was with utter, complete disdain. “You think I want your artwork? To what end? To grace my walls with your child’s play?”
The words were rife with insult, and Lily’s jaw dropped. How could he taunt a man with a broadsword pressed to his chest?
Derek sneered. “I think you want at least one piece of it, Diluted Duke.”
“There you are right. But I’ve no intention of looking at it.”
Derek laughed. “I suppose you think that having seen the real thing, you do not require it.”
While Lily gasped at the insinuation, Alec did not move, except to raise his hand and clutch the blade of the broadsword in one massive fist. Her gaze fell to his fingers, expecting them to bleed with the cut from the blade. Her stomach flipped at the idea that he hurt himself for her. “Let us go, Derek. You must return to the stage. And we’ve taken nothing.”
Derek raised a brow. “How do I know that is true?”
A Scot in the Dark Page 28
