A Scot in the Dark

by Sarah MacLean

  She stilled on the top step, the words shocking her. She turned to look at him. “What did you say?”

  He continued. “Had we never lov’d sae kindly, had we never lov’d sae blindly . . .” he recited, and the low burr, its wicked rumble, loud enough for her ears alone, made her forget where they were, and what she was wearing, and what awaited them inside. “Never met—or never parted . . .”

  She shook her head as if to clear it. They did not even know each other. She was simply drawn to the poetry. This Robbie Burns was exceedingly talented.

  “We had ne’er been broken-hearted.”

  He fairly whispered the last, low and dark and wonderful, and the promise of a broken heart filled her with aching sorrow. Without warning, her eyes filled with tears, and she looked away from him, to those dancing nearby, a whirlwind of enormous sleeves and vibrant silks.

  “Lass?” His hand tightened at her elbow, strong and steel, meant to comfort but only reminding her that comfort was fleeting. That sorrow was the most honest of all the emotions. Sorrow and regret.

  Thankfully, they were inside the house then, and she was able to pull away from his touch, relinquishing her cloak to a footman who could barely hide his shock at her horrible dress. She took the moment to dash a rogue tear from her cheek before turning back to the duke and saying, “Perhaps your Burns isn’t terrible.”

  He did not reply, searching her face for an answer she’d never be willing to give him. “Lily . . .” he said, and for a moment, she wondered what he might say if they were alone. What he might do.

  “The Highland Devil graces us with his presence!”

  And then the Marquess of Eversley was there, and she was saved, if one could be saved in this situation.

  “I don’t even live in the Highlands,” Alec grumbled.

  The marquess clapped his shoulder with a strong hand and said, “The first rule of London, friend. No one cares about the truth. You’ve a distillery there, and so Highland Devil it is. Good God, that eye is ghastly.” He turned to Lily with a smile, his dark brows rising high with surprise as he took in her clothing. She had to give the marquess his due, however; he masked his shock nearly instantly and bowed low over her hand. “Miss Hargrove. The truth, in your case, is precisely what they say. As lovely as your legend suggests.”

  “You needn’t lay it on so thick,” Alec growled from behind her. “She’s wearing a dog dress.”

  “I think it’s perfect,” Eversley said, not looking away from Lily. “I’d like to purchase one of the same for my wife.”

  She couldn’t help but match his winning smile. The scandal sheets called the Marquess of Eversley the Royal Rogue, and Lily could easily see why. He could charm any woman present. Of course, he’d traded the moniker for a new one—the Harnessed Husband—and he was now known throughout London as being thoroughly smitten with his marchioness.

  “Only because you don’t want anyone noticing that your wife is as beautiful as Miss Hargrove.”

  Lily attempted to ignore the qualifier and its casual reference to his opinion of her. Of course, she’d heard it before, that she was beautiful. She’d read it in the gossip pages. She had eyes and a looking glass. But when Alec acknowledged her beauty, it seemed somehow different.

  Somehow both more true and less important than ever before.

  Eversley was growling at him now. “You’d do best to remember that I don’t want anyone noticing her beauty, Duke. Especially not you.”

  Alec rolled his eyes, extracting a piece of paper from his coat pocket. “Can we get this done?”

  “Christ, Warnick, you brought the damn list?”

  Lily’s brow furrowed. “What list?”

  The men spoke at the same time.

  “It’s nothing,” Eversley said.

  “No list,” from Alec, even as he looked down at the paper.

  “You’re both terrible liars.” Two sets of wide, handsome eyes met hers. Lily reached for the paper, and Alec held it out of reach, the fabric of his coat pulling tighter across his muscled frame. She pulled her hand back. “You are behaving like a small child.”

  He lowered his arm. “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s most certainly not nothing. Not if you’re playing games with me while at a ball.”

  His gaze slid to the hound and hare protruding from her coif. “I’m not the only one playing games tonight, lass.”

  She took advantage of his moment of distraction to snatch the list from his grasp, turning her back on him instantly to look at it. There were five names scrawled on it. An earl, two viscounts, a baron, and a duke.

  She looked to him. “What is this?”

  Alec did not reply, but his cheeks went slightly ruddy, as though he had been caught in a particularly damning act. And perhaps he had. She scanned the list again, looking for the unifying theme of the names.

  They were all titled. All with extensive lands.

  All decent men, if gossip was to be believed.

  And all poor as church mice.

  They were potential suitors. Lily looked up at Alec. “Why does the Duke of Chapin have a question mark next to his name?”

  Alec looked to Eversley, who was suddenly riveted by the carpet beneath his feet.

  Lily would not be ignored. “Your Grace?” she prompted, enjoying the way his jaw set at the honorific.

  He returned his attention to her. “We are not certain that he is interested in marriage.”

  She narrowed her gaze. “You intend to sell me like cattle in the marketplace.”

  “Don’t be dramatic, Lillian. This is how it’s done.”

  He hadn’t even begun to see dramatic. “How you marry off your scandalous ward, you mean?”

  He did look at her then. “Well, it’s not as though you’ve made it easy. Name the man you want, and I’ll get him for you.”

  “I told you, I don’t want to marry.”

  “Then the list it is.”

  She looked down at the list. “I certainly won’t marry the Duke of Chapin.”

  “Cross the damn duke off the list. Replace it with a butcher, a baker, or a goddamn candlestick maker. But you’re going to marry if it kills me.”

  “Warnick,” Eversley warned. “Language.”

  Lily didn’t hesitate. “Killing you might be the only benefit to marrying.”

  He leaned in then, close enough that the marquess would not hear them. Close enough for Lillian to note that his eyes were not simply brown. They were brown flecked with gold and green and grey. She’d think them beautiful if she didn’t loathe the very sight of their owner, who thought himself a hero despite presenting himself every kind of villain.

  “You like your Shakespeare so much, how about this,” he said. “Sell when you can, Lillian Hargrove. You are not for all markets.”

  She snapped to attention. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Only that time is of the essence.”

  Shame flooded her, hot and unpleasant. Her heart threatened to pound out of her chest and, in that moment, she hated him. She pulled herself straight, pushing her shoulders back and holding herself with all the poise of a royal. “You, sir, are a bastard.”

  “Sadly not, love. But I can see how you would wish it so; after all, it’s my legitimacy that’s landed us in this particular situation.”

  She didn’t reply, instead pushing past him and following the throngs of people up into the ballroom, suddenly caring little for what she must look like in the ridiculous dog dress—too distracted by the blood rushing in her ears to hear the whispers around her as the ton became aware of her.

  And yet, somehow, she heard him perfectly, the whispered curse as she walked away, followed by the Marquess of Eversley’s, “That was off-sides, Warnick.”

  Good. Let his friend scold him. He’d acted abominably.

  Lily had had enough of the man and his coarseness. He could wither and die in the doorway to Eversley House if he wished. Hang him, his offensive list, and his pretty Scotti
sh poetry.

  She was more than happy for them to part now.

  Lily stepped into the Eversley ballroom, immediately drawn to the wash of bright golden light, the field of candles throughout the room, hanging from the chandeliers high above and ablaze in sconces and candelabra everywhere she turned. But it was not the candles that glittered most brightly. It was the people. All of London seemed to have turned out for the Eversley ball in bright silks and satins to match bright eyes and cheeks, the excitement of the season flooding through them.

  Lily came to a stop just inside the room, stunned into panicked stillness. What was to come next? She was at a ball, dressed thoroughly inappropriately, angry and frustrated and hurt and desperate for some exit from this current, disastrous situation.

  She could feel London’s eyes upon her, hot and scathing, chatter becoming silence as she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, willing herself to remain strong. As she looked out at the assembly, she saw the gazes slide away, like silk on fur, unable to stick. Fans raised, heads turned, and whispers began.

  Shame surged, and Lily took a deep breath. She was here now. In the middle of a ball with no choice but to find her way.

  No sooner had the decision been made than someone arrived to help.

  Several someones.

  Chapter 8

  LONESOME LILY SNATCHED UP BY SCANDALOUS SISTERS;

  BOLD BEAUTIES BEFRIEND WARNICK’S WARD

  “Dear Heaven. That dress should be immediately burned.”

  “Shush!” another voice admonished. “Perhaps she likes it!”

  “Nonsense. No one could possibly like it.” Lily turned to face the quartet bearing down upon her. The leader met her eyes without hesitation. “You don’t like it, do you?”

  Lily was so surprised by the direct question that she replied without hesitation, “No.”

  The dark-haired quartet, each pretty and perfectly turned out, smiled en masse. They were quite striking as a group, if Lily were honest, each in a different brilliant silk, yellow and green and blue and the leader, in red, who said, “That means you’re wearing it for a particular effect.”

  “For a man, if I had to guess,” Blue said, investigating the line of the bodice, which Lily had lowered and refitted that afternoon. “Amazing,” she whispered before leaning in. “Is it for a man?”

  “Why would she wear it for a man?” Green asked. “To scare him off?”

  Yellow spoke this time. “To prove that she doesn’t care for his opinion.”

  “She shouldn’t,” Red replied as she stopped directly in front of Lily. “Men rarely understand their own opinions. And if you’re brave enough to wear this monstrosity, you are smart enough to know that his opinions matter very little in the long run.”

  Lily shook her head. “He isn’t a him. That is, I don’t care what he thinks.”

  Yellow smiled softly, and Lily realized that under other circumstances, she would think that the woman was plain. She wasn’t, however. Not when she smiled. “That means there’s absolutely a him.”

  “Not in the way you mean it,” Lily replied.

  “What way is that?” Green asked.

  “She says him in such a lovely tone,” Lily pointed out, feeling rather dizzy speaking to this group. “As though there’s some emotion aside from loathing in my feelings for him.”

  “Loathing isn’t the opposite of love, you know,” Yellow said.

  “Ugh.” Red echoed Lily’s thoughts. “Don’t listen to her. We all rue the day Sophie married for love.”

  Sophie.

  Like that, Lily identified the quartet.

  “You’re the Dangerous Daughters!” she blurted out before clapping one hand over her mouth, as though she could have kept the observation from flying loose.

  Smiles turned to grins. “The very same,” Sophie said.

  Sophie was Lady Eversley, nee Sophie Talbot, now Marchioness of Eversley and future Duchess of Lyne, married in an utter scandal, six months prior. Which meant . . . Lily turned to Green, the most petite of the three, draped in green. “You’re Lady Seleste, soon to be Countess Clare and . . .” She turned to Blue, fairest of the group. “That makes you Mrs. Mark Landry.” Rich as a queen, married to a man who, by all accounts, was loud and crass and would be thoroughly unwelcome in the aristocracy if not for his outrageous sums of money.

  Mrs. Landry inclined her head. “You may call me Lady Seline.”

  They were four of the five daughters of the Earl of Wight, a coal miner with a skill for finding valuable stores of the fuel—skill enough to have bought himself, and his daughters, a title. Renowned social climbers, the women had been labeled The Dangerous Daughters by London’s scandal sheets. Lily had always thought that much better than the other, less kind name—The Soiled S’s.

  Of course, now that three of the four had been identified, Lily knew who the fourth was. Her gaze slid to the exceedingly tall woman, beautiful and buxom in her form-fitting red gown, one that would have been utterly scandalous on anyone else if not on Lady Sesily Talbot. On her, it simply looked gorgeous. Beautiful enough to remind Lily that she paled horribly in comparison to the woman.

  The woman who had been, only a year prior, linked to Derek Hawkins.

  Suddenly, Lily was not so comforted by the appearance and the tacit acceptance of this group of women.

  “You know us,” Lady Sesily said, “and the rest of the room seems to know you, so who are you?”

  “Sesily,” Lady Eversley cautioned. “Don’t be so rude.”

  She didn’t want to tell them. She didn’t want them to dislike her for her past with Derek. She’d heard about what women did to those with whom they felt they competed. And she rather liked this group.

  Not that she knew them, really. But she liked them from the scandal sheets. And from the fact that they were speaking to her instead of whispering about her behind their fans.

  They didn’t even have fans.

  Lady Eversley turned to her. “Though, I will say, you are in my home, so it would be very nice to meet you,” she said with an amused smile.

  “You’re right, Sophie. That was far more demure than I was.”

  Seleste laughed. “As though any one of us has ever been demure.”

  Sesily clasped Lily’s hands. “She is wearing a dress made of dogs. She doesn’t care about demureness, obviously. And she has no choice but to tell us who she is so we can protect her from the wolves beyond, who obviously lie in wait.” She leaned in close. “Wolves go after dogs.”

  “As though you’d know a thing about wildlife. When was the last time you left London?” Seline snorted at her sister.

  Lily did like them. So, it was time to end it. “I’m Lillian Hargrove.”

  There was a beat of silence as they all heard her, and Lily waited for Sesily to release her hands and push her away. She did not expect the other woman to clasp them tighter and say, “I’ve been wanting to meet you for a long time, Lovely Lily.”

  Confusion flared, followed by a cacophonous mix of suspicion and nerves and disappointment and, at its heart, a kernel of hope.

  Lillian blushed. “You wish to know me.”

  Sesily tilted her head to one side. “Of course I wish to know of you. All of London wishes to know you.” She leaned in. “Some more biblically than others, I imagine.”

  Lily blushed at the words.

  “Sesily!”

  “Well, really. Look at her. She as beautiful as they say.”

  “She means you wish to know her in spite of Hawkins,” Seline pointed out, her husband’s notorious bluntness clearly a quality Mrs. Landry boasted as well. She turned to Lily. “Sesily doesn’t care about Hawkins.”

  “Only inasmuch as I care that he lives out his life in deserved misery, the toad,” Sesily said before turning to Lily. “Now I understand the dog dress, though. Inspired, really. Though you should know that dress does nothing to mar your beauty.”

  Before Lily could speak, the Marchioness of Eversley spoke
. “Don’t mind Sesily, Miss Hargrove; she is unable to keep herself from saying whatever pops into her head.”

  “Posh. No one has time for circumspection.” Sesily waved a hand in the air before adding, “Derek Hawkins bears the two character traits unacceptable in a man: insufferability and a desperation to be admired by all. I might be willing to overlook one of them, but both—” She finished the sentence with an entirely unladylike sound.

  “And he’s terrible with money,” Seleste said.

  “The richest poor man in Britain,” Sesily agreed. “As though he’s a hole in his pocket. The coin spills to the ground as fast as it goes in.” She looked to Lily. “It is too bad he is so damn talented, isn’t it? We’re all blinded by his skill.”

  Lily was so taken aback by Sesily Talbot’s forthrightness that it took her a moment to find words, until Lady Eversley—widely known as the quietest and kindest of the sisters—found them for her. “Sesily, you’ve shocked her,” the marchioness admonished before looking to Lily. “You needn’t answer her. She’s utterly inappropriate when she wishes to be.”

  “I didn’t wish to be inappropriate!”

  “To be fair, Sesily is inappropriate when she doesn’t wish to be as well,” Seline pointed out.

  The marchioness laughed and took Lily’s hands. “I am very happy you’ve chosen to join us tonight. When King told me that the duke wanted to launch your season here, I confess, I was more than a little intrigued.” Her gaze flickered to the hound and hare in Lily’s coif. “Now, even more, because of your particular . . . flair.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” Lily said, still rather overwhelmed by the sisters. “But it is not a season. Not really.”

  The marchioness shook her head. “Call me Sophie. After all, my husband and your duke are too close for my lady.”

  Lily’s gaze flew over Sophie’s shoulder to the entrance to the ballroom, where Alec and the marquess had materialized, as though summoned by the words. She took in the massive Scot in his ill-fitting coat and trousers, and somehow still more commanding than the rest of the room. Lily’s heart pounded—in fury, no doubt, at his utterly inexcusable behavior. “He’s not my duke.”