She cut him a look, spreading her arms wide. “You think I hide canvas beneath my skirts?”
Alec did not let Derek finish. “Let’s get to it, shall we, Hawkins? You’ve a play to return to . . . and I’ve anywhere else to be than to watch it.”
Derek scowled. “You’re no longer welcome here.”
Alec’s reply was dry as sand. “You wound me. Truly.” If there were not a sword between them, Lily might have laughed. Instead, she held her breath until Alec said, “How much?”
Derek did not move. “How much for what?”
“You’re impoverished. You’ve lost the house in Covent Garden, the studio. Your paintings line the walls here because, no doubt, you’ve nowhere else to sit them. From what I am told, the theater breaks even, but you cannot stop losing money at the tables. So I ask again—and you will not insult me by pretending not to understand—how much for the painting.”
Derek shook his head. “It is priceless.”
“I do not believe you.”
“Believe me. It is the greatest artwork since the Creation of Man.” His gaze moved to Lily. “Look at her, Warnick. You see her beauty, no doubt. Imagine what it looks like when portrayed by a genius.”
Lily could only see one side of Alec’s face—enough to see the muscle in his jaw clench and tic with anger and frustration. “Name the price.”
Derek shook his head. “There is no price. My version of Lily is not for sale.” His gaze flickered to Lily, “You see, darling? Perhaps I am the hero of the play, after all. Your duke has no trouble selling you to the highest bidder.” He paused then, like a rude child. “Oh, wait. No. He isn’t selling you. He’s giving you away. With a fortune as a bonus payment.”
Alec’s hand tightened around the sword, his knuckles going white, and Lily stepped in to ensure his fingers were not severed. She did not shift her gaze from him. “I think you ought to reconsider, Derek.”
“For you?”
“Would it make a difference if I asked?”
“No. That painting will sell all the others. That painting will make me a name for the ages.”
“And the fact that it is a painting of me? That I never intended for it to be seen?”
He gave her a long, pitiful look. “Then you should not have sat for it, darling. I shall revel in the wealth that comes from it, earned from you. As though you’d worked for it yourself, flat on your back.”
Lily gasped at the coarse words as Alec moved, fast as a cat, the broadsword turning in the air like magic, in his grasp in an instant. He took Derek by the lapels of his ancient costume and virtually carried him to the wall in the hallway beyond, setting the blade of the wicked-looking sword to his cheek. “For one so renowned on the stage, I find it difficult to believe you tempt fate so well as to exhibit such hubris while in this particular costume. You would do well to remember what happened to Macbeth.”
Derek’s gaze found Lily’s over Alec’s shoulder, and she saw it there, the expectation that she would rescue him. That she would reenact the last time they had been together as a trio. The last time Alec had threatened Derek.
She would rescue him no longer.
He must have seen it in her eyes, as he looked back to Alec and spat, “I play a brutish Scot with a whore wife. And lo, I discover a similar pair skulking about the playhouse.”
Alec pressed the sword deeper into his cheek, his words going soft and terrifying. “What did you call her?”
Derek narrowed his gaze. “You heard me. And remember, I am qualified to identify the characteristic.” He paused. “I was there before you.”
Lily paled at the words. At the scathing insult in them. Shame flooded her, and she wished to do the man serious damage for everything he’d ever done. For everything he’d ever said. And for that, spoken to Alec. Reminding him of her past. Of the things she’d done that she could not take back. “Today, like a fool, you have handed me a weapon that you toy with while prancing about your stage. A weapon I have trained with for decades.”
He pressed the blade deeper, and Derek inhaled, sharply. “What do you think your patrons would say if you were found here, in this dark hallway, gutted by Macbeth’s blade? Do you think they would believe you summoned him here, to this playhouse? What is it they call it? The Scottish Curse?” Derek’s eyes closed and Alec leaned in close. “I am your Scottish Curse, peacock. More terrifying than any ghost story you could imagine. But take heart. I’ve no intention of killing you.
“I promised you once that I would destroy you,” Alec said, his words barely there and somehow shaking the walls. “Make no mistake—I will ruin you just as you ruined her. And when you are old and withered and no one in the world can remember your name, you will quake with the memory of mine.”
Derek inhaled quickly and then released a little cry of pain, and Lily started at the sound, which was punctuated by a wild clatter of the sword as Alec flung it down the dark hallway. “Fetch, dog. ’Tis your cue.”
And Derek did, running after the sword, collecting it without looking back.
Lily watched Alec for a long moment, his breath coming in and out on waves of fury, his hands clenched and that tic in his jaw becoming more pronounced. He looked as though he were on springs—as though at any moment he might launch himself down the hall and onto the stage to finish what he had started.
She ached to go to him, and then she did, moving to his side. Taking his big, beautiful arm in hand, feeling the muscles ripple beneath her touch. “You did not have to defend me.”
Alec looked to her. “What?”
“To Derek. He is not wrong.”
“What?” His brow furrowed, and for a moment Lily wondered if it was possible that she was speaking a language other than English.
“It is my mistake, is it not? I sat for the painting. I trusted him. I . . .” She hesitated. “I thought. . . .”
He came at her, taking her shoulders in his hands. Holding her with a firmness she would later dream of. Ache for. “Hear me, Lillian Hargrove. You did nothing wrong. It was not your mistake. You loved him.”
“I did not, though. I see that now.” She gave a little huff of humorless laughter. “I suppose I should be grateful for the realization.”
“How?” he asked.
Her brow furrowed. “How?”
“How do you see it now?”
She smiled. Told the truth. “Now, I know what love is. How it feels. And what I would do for it in earnest.”
He closed his eyes at the words. Turned his head away. “We must return above. I’ve work to do. We’ve one day to find that painting.”
She released him at the words. At the hope in them. At their meaning. He still hoped to find it. To remove it from exhibition. To set her free.
It was ironic, was it not, that she had once fairly begged him for her freedom. She’d asked for money. For independence. She’d begged him to leave her and return to Scotland and let her make her own choices. Carve her own path. Face her own fortune.
And now, as he offered it to her, all she wished was to be trapped. By him.
I love you beyond reason.
“Alec.” She did not know what she would say next. How she would keep him. How she would win him.
So, she was unable to do either, as he was ignoring her, already moving, headed for the stairs, taking them two at a time, and she hurried to keep up with his long strides. She was tall, but he was Herculean, and by the time they reached the hallway that abutted the boxes, he was yards ahead of her, striding purposefully past the West box even as Sesily poked her head out to find Lily.
“You’ve something on your gown.” Her friend’s eyes went wide. “Good Lord. Is it blood?”
Lily looked down, taking in the mark at the shoulder of the beautiful blue dress, where Alec had held her firmly and told her that the past was not hers to bear.
As he bled for her.
“Is it Hawkins’s?” Sesily asked. “He’s back on the stage, but with a gash in his cheek that I’m not certain is called f
or in the play. Though, to be honest, I haven’t been paying much attention. I confess I like a witch now and then, but not near as much as I like the idea of Alec putting a gash in Hawkins’s cheek.”
“It is not Hawkins’s blood. It’s Alec’s.”
“Good God,” Sesily whispered.
“You shouldn’t curse so much, you know.”
Sesily cut her a look. “Are you about to tell me it is not ladylike?”
Lily shook her head. “I am not exactly a paragon of respectability.”
“Excellent. Then hang anyone who prefers I not curse. Sometimes, the words simply suit.”
Lily nodded. Then, after a long silence, she said, barely loud enough to be heard, “Shit.”
Sesily’s gaze was instantly on hers, and Lily saw the pity there. “What has happened?”
And there, in the hallway of the Hawkins Theater—the only place in London she should be stoic—Lily began to cry. She’d made a hash of it all. The painting was to be made public. And there was nothing to be done. And still, that was not her sadness. “He loves me beyond reason.”
Sesily tilted her head. “That does not sound so bad.”
“And still he refuses me. Claims he is unworthy of me for some ridiculous reason.”
“What reason?”
“I don’t know. If he would tell me, perhaps . . .” Lily dashed away a tear. “He won’t tell me.”
Sesily nodded. “Then you must force it from him.”
“Does he seem the kind of man who is easily forced?”
Sesily did not miss a beat. “He seems the kind of man who would throw himself into the Thames if you asked him to.”
The tears came again. “I asked him to want me—and he refused.”
“Because all men are addlepated imbeciles who deserve to be strung up by their thumbs in St. James Park and set upon by bees.”
Lily blinked. “That’s terribly creative.”
Sesily smirked. “I may fantasize now and then.”
They laughed together, until the curtains moved and Mrs. West poked her head out from behind the curtain. “Ah. I see Miss Hargrove has returned.” She looked up and down the hallway before exiting the box. “And your duke?”
“He is not my duke,” Lily said flatly.
“They never are, dear, until they are,” the newspaperman’s wife said dryly before adding, “I assume that you were unsuccessful in your quest?”
“For Alec?” Lily said.
One golden brow rose at the words. “I was referring to the painting.”
Lily blushed, hot and horrified. “Of course. The painting. Yes. We were unsuccessful.”
The woman hesitated, then said, “First, you may call me Georgiana. Mrs. West makes me sound the taciturn patroness of a North Country finishing school. Second, I am sorry that the duke is an idiot. But in my experience, all men are until they find reason. And the best of them do find reason.” She paused, then added, “And third, you might like to know that the painting is scheduled to be hung tomorrow afternoon, when the exhibition has closed for the night. It will remain covered until the reveal the following morning.”
Lily did not understand the point of the information, and she remained silent until the beautiful young woman smiled and said, “I have it on excellent authority that there will be a window open at the back of the hall tomorrow night. At half-past twelve.”
Lily blinked. “Are you—?”
Georgiana nodded like a queen. “If I’d had my way, that lout would have been eliminated from the exhibition the moment it became clear that he’d taken advantage of you. I don’t care how beautiful the painting is. He’s a bastard.”
Lily could not find words amid her surprise.
Sesily had no trouble finding words. “Well. Isn’t that lovely?”
“I find I do not like it when men take advantage of women,” Georgiana said, boredom in her tone. “And so, my dear, I hope very much that you will take advantage in return. Now, I think I shall return to the play, as I assume from the gash on Hawkins’s face and the blood on your gown that this might well be my last time watching this particular lout tread the boards.”
She turned back to the box. “My lady—”
Georgiana turned back.
“How are you able to ensure—”
That knowing smile returned. “My husband is not the only one with far-reaching connections.” She lowered her voice, so only Lily could hear. “Wives of remarkable men must stay together. I hope you will remember me when you are duchess.”
And then she was gone, the words hanging in the corridor like a promise.
Lily took a deep breath, unable to look away from the curtains, still swinging with the force of the woman’s entry. All those years without friends. How many times had she longed for them? And now, they came from the woodwork. Enough of them to make her feel real. Like a whole person.
Nearly whole.
She would never be whole without Alec.
He wanted to give her choices? To give her freedom?
Then she would take that freedom. And she would make her choice. It was the easiest choice she had ever made.
Chapter 20
ACTIONS SPEAK LOUDER THAN WARDS
Alec spent the entirety of the next day—the final day before the exhibition—tearing London apart. He’d called in every favor there was, desperate to find the damn painting. To save Lily from what was bound to be her future.
And, finally, he’d summoned Stanhope to him.
The earl came, his curiosity clear when Alec met him in the main sitting room of Number Nine’s town house. Stanhope looked about him, taking in the shelves and curio cabinets filled to bursting with figurines. Running a finger along the trunk of a porcelain elephant on a low table nearby, he said, “I did not take you for a collector, Your Grace.”
Alec was unamused. “I cannot find the painting.”
“I assume it will be easily found tomorrow.”
Frustration flared. Did no one in the entire city understand that this was Lily’s only chance to survive the scandal?
Not only.
That was why Stanhope was here, and why Alec’s heart was in his throat. “I need you to take her away.”
The earl blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Do not make me say it again.” He did not think he could.
Stanhope turned for the sideboard without asking. “Scotch? Or, whatever this is?”
Alec had never in his life needed a drink so much. “Please.”
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.
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