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.”
“What of it?”
“You bled for me.” She pressed a kiss to the bandage, and an ache began, high and tight in his chest. She looked up at him, her eyes shielded by the brim of her cap. He would have done anything to see those eyes. But they were not for him. “I wish to make him a laughingstock for that alone.”
Not for herself? Not for all things Hawkins had done to her?
He swallowed around the knot in his throat. The desire. The need. He pushed himself to remain aloof when all he wished to do was pull her into his arms. “You summon me with two lines on a scrap of paper? You come alone? In the darkness? To commit a crime?”
She stood her ground. “It is not the first time I have attempted this particular crime, Your Grace. Nor is it the first time you have.” She smiled, white teeth flashing in the shadows. “But it will be the first time we succeed.”
Christ. He loved her.
“Be careful, or you shall curse us.”
She grew serious then. “No. The universe could not possibly deny me this, as well.”
Before he could ask her to elaborate, she moved to the window. His gaze slid to her backside, where the trousers she wore fit indecently. Perfectly. His mouth went dry as he watched her stand on her toes, unsuccessfully attempting to look inside.
“Trousers again,” he said.
She turned to him, making a show of looking to his plaid. “Well one of us should wear them, do you not think?”
He raised a brow at the smart words. “You think I cannot do all required in a kilt?”
She watched him for a long moment, until he thought she might not reply, and then she said, “I think you can do anything you like, wearing anything you wish.”
The words were tempting beyond reason, and made him want to press her to the wall and show her all the things he would like to do.
He was prevented from doing so, however, by the task at hand. “I require a boost.”
He blinked. “A what?”
“That is why you are here.” She smiled, as though it were a perfectly ordinary request. “You shall boost me up. And I shall come around and open the door. And we shall get it done.”
“You are not going inside alone.”
She turned to him. “What do you think will happen? I shall be mauled by a sculpture?” He narrowed his gaze and she sighed. “I do not think I could boost you, Alec.”
He reached up and clasped the window, which opened wide without any hesitation. “How did you know this would be open?”
She grinned. “I made a friend.”
He loved the pleasure in the words. The thrill in them. He wanted her to have a hundred friends. A thousand of them. Whatever made her happy. For the rest of time.
You could make her happy.
He pushed the earl’s voice away. “A friend.”
She nodded. “Quite a good one, it seems.”
“Well, any friend who encourages a life of crime is a good one, I find,” he said dryly.
“The boost, Alec. We haven’t all night.”
He pushed her aside, and gripped the sill. “You meet me at the door.”
When she replied, he heard the disbelief in the words. “Alec. That ledge is six feet from the ground and you are wearing a kilt. You couldn’t possibly—”
He lifted himself up and onto the ledge and through the open window. He turned back to find her gaping at him, and he could not resist. “What was it that you were saying?”
She scowled. “My friend also thinks you’re an idiot.”
He couldn’t help himself. He laughed. “She is right about that.” And then, “Meet me at the door.” She did, not two minutes later, stepping into the building before immediately turning back for outside. “One moment. I nearly forgot.”
She returned, large, fabric-wrapped painting in her hands. “My final gift to Derek,” she said, when Alec raised a brow at the parcel.
He took it from her. “Lead the way.” She extracted a candle and flint from her trouser pocket. “You are, once more, impressively prepared.” Before she could reply, he said, “Let me guess. Sesily.”
She smiled. “You wound me, sir. I am successfully indoctrinated in scandal. This bit is me.”
Of course it was. He watched her light the candle, the flame casting her beautiful face in a warm, golden glow. And then he followed her through the exhibition, the walls covered from floor-to-ceiling in thousands of paintings—too many for any one to be appreciated.
“This is madness,” he whispered. “How is it that anyone would care about a single painting in this sea of paint? Enough to make you a scandal?”
She did not look back as they entered the main gallery, long and impressive, with a dais at one end, a curtained spot beyond. “You think it a love of art that makes them clamor for the scandal? They can have art anywhere. But gossip—that is far more interesting.” She pointed to one wall. “That is the other great painting of the exhibition. Constable.”
He stopped, considering the landscape, small and barely visible in the darkness. He looked down at the parcel in his hand, larger than the watercolor by ten times. “I suppose I cannot hope that the painting we seek is this size?”
“It is not.”
“Of course not.” He grumbled. “Hawkins does nothing in half measures.”
“Perhaps it is my beauty that cannot be contained in such small proportions,” she said.
He snapped his gaze to her. “The darkness has brought out your sharp wit.”
She tilted her head, then turned away, moving toward the dais. “Perhaps it is my own panic that has done it.”
Whatever it was, he did not wish it gone.
She came to the foot of the stage, and hesitated. Approached, coming to her elbow. “Lily?”
“This is where I disgraced myself,” she said. He watched as she put her fingers to the edge of the platform and huffed a little laugh. “I disgraced myself before this, I suppose. But here, it was where it all became clear, as though someone had illuminated a room I thought was a ballroom, and turned out to be a privy.”
“You did not disgrace yourself. He disgraced you. That is a different thing, entirely.”
“It is. But it is not the case. I am not a child, Alec. I kne
w what it was I did. I knew what might come of it. I knew that I might one day be a scandal.” She paused. “And I did not care. I did not wish to be anything but Derek’s.”
The words came like a blow, jealousy raging through him at the thought of her with Hawkins, the man who had utterly eschewed responsibility for her. The man who would never be good enough for her. Hero enough for her.
She continued. “The world harbors impressive hatred for women who make the mistakes I did. Beauty, used for anything but the holiest of acts, is a sin.” She looked up to the dais, to the place where the curtain hung, thick and still, hiding her shame from view. “And not one person was willing to question his role in the play. He was to be lauded for his acts. Tell me, what did I do that was so different than him?”
“Nothing,” he said, wishing only to assuage the pain he heard, keen and unsettling, in her voice. “You did nothing wrong.”
She smiled. “Society thinks differently.”
“Hang Society.”
She raised a brow. “What did you do wrong, Alec?”
That question again. Astute and direct. The question he would have to answer eventually.
But not here. Not now.
He shook his head.
She watched him carefully, candlelight flickering over her beautiful face. “If I were to tell you what you told me—that you did nothing wrong—what would you say?”
He looked away from her, unable to meet her eyes. “I would say you are wrong.”
“Because you are a man and she is a woman?”
“Because what I did is far worse than what you did.”
“You believe that.”
“I do.”
“And yet here we are, committing a crime for me. And not for you.”
He was not going to tell her. Not then. “Let us commit the crime, then. And be done with it.”
For a moment, he thought she might argue. Might push him. And for a moment, he worried that if she did, he would tell her everything there, in front of thousands of paintings, on the damn dais of the Royal Exhibition.
But she did not. Instead, she set her candle down and removed the parcel from his hands before ascending the platform and saying, “Turn away, please.”
He did, without hesitation. He had made her a promise, and he would honor it, even as he knew that this was his only chance to see the painting. To know just how beautiful it was. Not that he required a look at the art to know its beauty. It was a painting of Lily; of course it was glorious.
But it would pale in comparison to her in truth.
And so he stood in the silence, listening to her move—to the soft scrape of woolen trousers over her skin, to the whisper of linen as she crouched low and unwrapped the painting he had carried. To the little catch of breath that came as she lifted the painting from the wall. As she replaced it with another. And then, as she crouched again and wrapped the nude for removal.
By the time she stood, he was rabid with jealousy, wishing that he was one of the paintings—a length of canvas, the recipient of her soft, determined touch. “You may look,” she said, quietly, and he turned, drawn to her voice—which should have been filled with relief but was, instead, filled with humor. Her back was to him, arms akimbo, and she stared at the prime location on the wall where—
He laughed.
Jewel. She’d hung Jewel in her place.
He moved up the steps to get a better look at the brilliant, utterly perfect punishment for Derek Hawkins. The dog in glorious repose on her red satin pillow, the light gleaming along her spindly grey legs, her bejeweled crown tilted just so on her head.
Lily turned to him, her grey eyes gleaming silver with laughter. “I think he should be more than pleased that we have credited him with such a beloved piece.”
Alec nodded. “I think it exceedingly generous. To both Hawkins and the world at large. He will no doubt be supportive of the choice—what with his desire to bring masterworks to Society.”
“For all to see,” she said.
“We really have done the world a service.”
“This particular birthday gift might make up for all the birthday gifts I have missed over the years.” She grinned at him. “Thank you.”
He moved toward her, unable to resist her in her reckless beauty, the excitement and anticipation of the evening—of their actions—summoning him to her like a hound on a leash. As he drew close, towering over her, her laughter faded, and she tilted her face up to him, even as he put his hands to her cheeks, running his thumbs over her high, perfect cheekbones.
“I love your laugh,” he said, unable to keep the soft confession from her.
She pressed his bandaged palm to her cheek. “And I, yours. I wish I could make you laugh every day.” He closed his eyes, his own wishes echoing hers. She threaded her free hand into his hair and added on a barely-there whisper, “I could try, Alec. You could let me try.”
For a moment, he let himself imagine it, her hand wrapped in his, her teasing smile, her raucous laughter, her remarkable strength. He imagined standing beside her. Honoring her. Adoring her. Kissing her.
And then his lips were on hers, and it was not imaginary.
There was nothing wild about it, and that was likely why it threatened his sanity. It was soft and without urgency, as though they had a lifetime to explore each other. As though it had come on the heels of laughter in the garden at their home, children surrounding them, like a hint of a promise for the future—for a time when they had more time.
It was perfection.
And it slayed him, especially when she clenched her fingers, pulling his head back just enough to sigh, her lips parting on his name, a magnificent breath that could have sustained him for a lifetime. “Let me try,” she whispered again, her lips against his, teasing and tempting.
Yes.
Please. Yes.
But it wasn’t a viable answer. The answer was no.
And he was going to have to tell her everything to prove it to them both.
With a final, lingering caress, he pulled away and lifted the painting she’d carefully wrapped in cloth. Tucking it under his arm, he extended his hand to her, reveling in the way she came to him, in the ease with which she slid her hand—ungloved—into his, their palms pressing together as though it was the most natural thing in the word.
Without releasing her, he led her from the gallery in silence, pausing to allow her to collect her candle. Outside, he lifted her up into the curricle, sliding the painting against the block. When he took his place beside her and set the horses in motion, he could not resist taking her hand again, loving the feel of it, warm and strong in his grip.
Halfway to Berkeley Square, she laced her fingers through his, and he wondered how he would ever let her go. He didn’t then—not when they pulled into the mews and he climbed down from the block, not when he lifted her down, not even when he collected the painting. He released her only when the boy came out of the stables to collect the curricle, not wanting to draw attention to the figure that had returned with him.
They entered the house through the back entrance, Angus and Hardy greeting them in the quiet, dark kitchens with wagging tails and lolling tongues, Hardy happier than he’d been in recent days to have them together.
Alec understood the dog’s response. He, too, was happier when they were together. After they’d given the dogs proper attention, he took her hand again and led her to her chamber—the tiny room beneath the stairs that remained just as she’d left it, filled with books and papers and silk stockings draped over the bedpost.
He set the painting down, leaned it against her trunk as she watched, confusion in her eyes. “Here?”
He nodded. “It is the only place in the house—in all the houses—that is full of you.”
“Too full of me,” she said. “There is barely room for us both.”
Precisely the point. Because once he had told her all his truths, she would not wish him there any longer. And he would have no choice but
to leave, because there would be no room to stay.
She seemed to understand the reasoning without his speaking it aloud, her brow furrowing as she reached for his other hand, as though she could keep him if she held on very tightly.
But she could not keep him. Not when he—
“Tell me,” she said softly. “Whatever it is—”
He took a deep breath, knowing what the truth would do. Hating what it would do. And then he released her hands and did as she asked.
He told her everything.
Chapter 21
ALL’S FAIR IN LOVE AND WARD
“I left Scotland when I was twelve.”
Lily did not know what she expected him to say, but she did not expect that. And then, “I should say, I ran from Scotland when I was twelve.”
She desperately wished to touch him, to make sure he understood that whatever he said to her, whatever had happened in his past, she was with him. But she had learned enough about Alec Stuart in the past ten days to know that touching him would do nothing but remind him of the burden he carried. And so, instead, she clasped her hands together and sat, perched on the edge of her little bed, as though it were perfectly normal to be here.
“My mother left when I was eight.” He looked down at his hands, large and strong and perfect. “I remember very little of her, but I remember how my father responded to her leaving. He was angry and full of regret. And when she died mere months later—”
It took all Lily’s strength not to push him.
He regrouped. “The messenger came and my father read the news in front of me. He showed no emotion. And he would not countenance mine.”
Lily closed her eyes at the words. He’d been a child. And no matter who she was, or what kind of mother she had been, she’d been just that. His mother.
“Alec,” she said, wanting him close. He started at the words and met her eyes. “You shall hit your head if you are not careful. Sit? Please?”
She would have done anything for him to sit with her. But, instead, he chose the little chair at the desk, pulling it out and dwarfing it with his size. With his glory. She drank him in, aware of their knees, inches apart in the little space. “Go on.”
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