A Scot in the Dark

by Sarah MacLean

  “Ding dong,” Sesily said softly at her shoulder, her gaze lingering on Alec. “Can he be mine, then? He’s in need of a tailor, but I can overlook it for the evening.”

  No.

  Lily had no idea where the instant dislike for the idea of this beautiful, bold woman and Alec together came from, but she didn’t like it. Why would she care whom Alec chose to be his duchess?

  She didn’t.

  Not at all.

  “He’d be lucky to have you as queen of his drafty Scottish castle,” she said, pushing the dislike away.

  Sesily’s nose wrinkled. “I like the sound of a dukedom and a castle, but who wants to live in Scotland? It is deadly dull.”

  “That’s probably for the best, Ses,” Seline teased. “I imagine King would heartily warn his friend away from the likes of you.”

  “Nonsense,” Sesily says. “ ’Tis I who should be warned away from him—after all, everyone’s heard of the Scottish Brute’s conquests.” She leaned into Lily, “Not that anyone would ever call him such to his face. But is it true what they say? Is he terribly sexual?”

  Lily’s eyes went wide. What?

  Was that what they said about him?

  And then the name echoed through her—The Scottish Brute—she loathed that moniker. Loathed the idea that it was whispered behind his back. Loathed the idea that he was whispered about, at all.

  No wonder he hated London; in that moment, she did, as well.

  She couldn’t help herself from looking at him, her gaze lingering on his perfect mouth for a long moment, the word sexual whirling through her mind, before she remembered that she disliked him. “I wouldn’t know,” she said.

  “Hmm. Probably not, then,” Sesily smirked.

  “Good God, Sesily. Stop it,” Seline said.

  “It’s important to know a thing like that before one leaps into the fray!”

  “Ugh. You should marry him. Polite society would no doubt be thrilled to be rid of you.”

  Sesily turned to Lily, a twinkle in her eye. “Don’t listen to them. Society can’t get enough of me.”

  “No accounting for taste,” Seleste teased, and the entire group laughed. Lily couldn’t stop her own lips from curving as well—the emotion and energy of the Talbot sisters was undeniable. They were the embodiment of everything Lily had always imagined came with sisters. With family. With friends.

  There was such love between them.

  Jealousy flared, unbidden and unwelcome, and Lily willed it away. She didn’t wish to be jealous. She didn’t wish to envy them their close-knit group.

  But she did. With every ounce of her being.

  And it wasn’t just their combined fearlessness in the face of social disdain, as though they’d never in their lives felt shame. Her chest tightened as she listened to their laughter, to the way it echoed with humor and love and trust and a bone-deep loyalty, and she wanted to be one of them. Quite desperately.

  The fact that they gossiped publicly and brazenly didn’t hurt.

  “Too late, Sesily. Look who is after him,” Seline said casually, her gaze fixed over Lily’s shoulder.

  Lily turned to look as a beautiful woman approached Alec and Eversley. She saw him stiffen, even from the distance between them. Saw his gaze trail down, then up the woman’s body as she drew close, almost too close, considering where they stood, in full view of Society.

  “Who is that?” The question was out before she could stop it.

  “Lady Rowley,” Sesily said dismissively. “Married to Earl Rowley, devilishly handsome and a thorough cad. He’s been after all of us at one point or another. To no avail, obviously, as he very likely has the pox.”

  “Sesily!” Sophie said.

  “Oh, please. It’s not as though you haven’t thought it yourself.”

  “Nevertheless, we don’t discuss poxes in the ballroom!”

  A gentleman passing nearby paused, looking to them with shock, and the sisters burst into laughter. Seline waved a hand and said, “Nothing for you to worry about, my lord,” before turning back and saying, “Now Baron Orwell thinks we’ve the pox!”

  “No, no, Lord Orwell,” Sesily said too loudly, making Lily blush. “We are discussing Lord Rowley. Do you have an opinion on his probable poxiness?”

  “I’m sure I don’t,” the man said down his nose before hurrying away.

  They all laughed, and Lily enjoyed it until her attention was returned to Alec, still in discussion with the Countess Rowley. Sesily followed her gaze and said, “Well. It looks like the earl is not the only one willing to eschew his marriage vows.” Lillian couldn’t help but agree. They were not touching, but the countess could not be more free with her bosom without stripping bare in front of all London.

  Not that Lily cared whose bosom Alec had access to.

  “That smile takes years to perfect,” Seline said with admiration.

  Lillian pressed her lips together and turned away from the couple. “I imagine so.”

  “Do you think they know each other?” Seleste asked. “I mean, they say he’s a wicked catch, but I can’t see him with her.”

  Neither could Lily. Not that she wanted to even try.

  “If they don’t, they will soon enough,” Sesily said.

  Lily didn’t care. Not at all. She forced her shoulder up in a quick, stilted shrug and turned her back to the scene. “She’s welcome to him.”

  “Ooh. Warnick might require a tailor, but he’s quite skilled at the cut direct,” Sesily narrated.

  Lily resisted the urge to turn.

  “She looks furious,” Sophie said in awe before she raised her voice and said, full of unfounded glee, “And here are the gentlemen!”

  “This is trouble,” the Marquess of Eversley said from behind Lily, and she had no choice but to turn—it was simply good manners. The marquess looked relaxed and jovial, clearly a welcome fifth to the merry Talbot band. Alec, however, looked pale and stiff.

  No doubt because he was in Lily’s presence once more.

  “Don’t corrupt Miss Hargrove, ladies,” Eversley teased. “Remember, she’s new to London’s ballrooms.”

  “We wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Not on the first night, at least.”

  “Next time, however, it’s a certainty,” Sesily replied before turning to Alec and reaching for him. Lily was impressed by the movement, one lithe hand stretched out, leaving him no choice but to accept Sesily’s touch. “Your Grace,” the woman fairly purred as she lowered herself into a curtsy. “Do tell me something . . .”

  Alec seemed to return to the moment and the group. “Yes?”

  Sesily peered up through dark lashes and even Lily was drawn to her for a moment. “Are you quite wedded to spending the rest of your days in Scotland?”

  “I am, actually,” he said without hesitation.

  Sesily removed her hand from his. “What a pity.” She turned to face the rest of the room. “I shall have to locate another with whom to flirt.”

  “No one said you couldn’t flirt with this one,” Seleste pointed out. “It’s not as though flirting leads to marriage.”

  “No,” Sesily sighed, distractedly scanning those assembled. “But it’s much more fun if it might. And I’m not ending up in Scotland. No offense, Your Grace.”

  “None taken,” Alec said. “Should I apologize?”

  “It would not be out of line,” Sesily replied.

  Alec put a hand to his chest. “It is, of course, my loss.”

  Sesily grinned. “Handsome, rich, titled, and intelligent, to boot. A terrible pity.”

  The group laughed, and Lily couldn’t help herself from joining in, ignoring the thread of envy that coursed through her at Sesily’s easy way of bringing out Alec’s good humor. Lily wanted that humor for herself.

  She stiffened at the thought. No. No she didn’t.

  She didn’t want to like him.

  She wanted to leave him behind and start a new life. Far from him.

  The orches
tra began to play, and like magic, Earl Clare and Mark Landry appeared as if from nowhere to chaperone their respective Talbot sisters to the dance. Eversley bowed elaborately in the direction of his wife. “My love?” he said, the words low and dark like a promise.

  Sophie blushed prettily, and took her husband’s hand. “You know that, as hostess, I shall have to dance with others as well.”

  Eversley’s brow furrowed. “Then let it be clear that I’m in no way interested in hosting more events. You may dance with Warnick. But that’s it.”

  Sophie laughed and called to Alec over her shoulder as her husband dragged her into the fray. “I’m sorry you’ll be saddled with me, Your Grace!”

  They were left with Sesily, and Lily sent a little grateful prayer up to the gods for that, as she couldn’t bear to be alone with Alec. Not after the way he’d betrayed her. She willed him to ask the unspoken for Talbot sister to dance. But Sesily beat him to it. Turning to face them, she said, “You must dance.”

  “I—” Lily began over the pounding of her heart, but Alec cut her off.

  “No.”

  Lily ignored the disappointment that came at the curt dismissal. She wasn’t disappointed. She didn’t want anything to do with the man. And she certainly didn’t want to have to dance with him. Touching him was out of the question.

  Sesily had other ideas, apparently. “It’s not negotiable. This is the first ball of her first season and she’s wearing . . . well . . . what she’s wearing. You’re the highest-ranking man who knows her. So you have to dance with her.”

  “No one knows who I am,” he said.

  Sesily smirked. “Your Grace. You’re an unmarried duke with a king’s fortune. You’d have to be a thorough cabbagehead to believe that no one knows who you are. You may have the worst tailor in Christendom, but you’re not a cabbagehead, are you?”

  Lily had her own opinions on this particular question, but she stayed quiet.

  “I’m her guardian. Surely that’s not proper.”

  Sesily raised a brow. “Half the guardians in London end up marrying their wards. It’s an epidemic.”

  Lily didn’t stay quiet then. “Not this guardian. Not this ward.”

  Warnick cut her a look and said, “I assure you, Lady Sesily, that is not in the cards.”

  Sesily watched them both for a long moment before saying, “Certainly not. And yet still, you must dance.”

  At that, the massive Scot sighed and reached for Lily, clearly believing that the inquisition of Sesily Talbot’s gaze was less hospitable than a turn about the dance floor with his ward. “Let’s get on with it, then.”

  She snatched her hand back. “No, thank you.”

  Sesily turned to watch her carefully and then said, “I hadn’t picked you for the cabbagehead in the scenario.”

  “I’m not a cabbagehead. I’m simply not interested in dancing with him.”

  Sesily considered the duke with a long, head-to-toe look, and then said, “Is he rough with you?”

  “No. Not unless you count his forcing me to come here tonight.”

  “I don’t,” Sesily said before leaning in and saying, quietly, “Lovely Lily, you haven’t a choice. Dance with the duke and let London get a good look at you in your dog dress, before they get a good look at you with no dress at all.”

  Lily froze.

  Sesily raised a brow. “The painting is on everyone’s lips and you know it. It doesn’t help that Derek Hawkins is here this evening, arrived like the unwelcome rat he is on the arm of some ancient widow, one foot in the damn grave. No doubt he thinks she’ll leave him a fortune if he plays her dandy, the bastard.”

  There was no time to be shocked by Sesily’s language, Lily’s panic flaring, along with frustration. She looked toward Alec in desperation, but his gaze was trained on the far wall of the room. She swallowed around the knot in her throat. “I should like to leave.”

  “No,” Alec said, and she whirled to argue with him.

  Sesily spoke first. “Listen to me, Lillian Hargrove. I know better than anyone what Hawkins can make a woman do. If you’re to survive this, you must do all you can to make him the villain. The first step is to make London love you. Which begins with dancing with your duke.”

  He’s not my duke.

  Surprisingly those were the only words Lily could think as shock and horror coursed through her, so much so that she barely heard Alec’s soft, rolling “Come.” He was looking at her when she turned to him the second time, his hand outstretched, rich brown eyes holding her gaze.

  Holding her.

  She settled her hand into his outstretched one even as she resisted the idea. Even as Sesily’s words echoed through her. Even as he was pulling her into the dance, pulling her close.

  At another time, in another place, she might have realized that Alec Stuart, twenty-first and unwilling Duke of Warnick, was a dancer of the highest caliber. Might have asked why that was the case, considering his eschewing of all things Society. But she didn’t. She was too focused on a different man, a man she’d once believed she loved.

  A man who had lied to her.

  A man who had tempted her with pretty promises. Who’d convinced her to trust him. To pose for his painting without considering the repercussions of the act. Without considering the possibility of what might happen if it were ever discovered.

  The woman the world would think her.

  And Derek, unblemished.

  Lauded, even.

  And here.

  Alec led her through the steps of the dance for long, silent minutes as she attempted to come to terms with the idea she’d entered the lion’s den. That she would likely see him. And that she was dressed as a damn dog. Her gaze flickered to Alec’s throat, to the long column that rose above his cravat. To the knot that bobbed there as he swallowed.

  She was here, beneath the prying eyes of the aristocracy, because of him.

  She let her gaze rise over his straight jaw and his full lips and his long nose to his eyes, which she would have expected to be looking anywhere but at her.

  She was wrong.

  He was staring right at her, his knowing brown gaze capturing hers with ease, sending a thread of awareness through her. No. Not awareness.

  Fury.

  “You did this.” He remained silent, so she pressed on with her accusation. “You’ve put me in the same room as him. Fodder for all London, for their censure and gossip. I’m here because of you. Because of your mad plan.”

  “It’s the only way to save your future.”

  “To underscore my scandal in front of them all? To elaborate upon it?”

  “To get you married. The list—they are good men. Eversley’s staked his reputation on such.”

  “The Duke of Chapin has been left at the altar three times. And he’s a duke. That’s a virtual impossibility, unless there’s something terribly wrong with him.”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know, but if three spinsters have deserted him at such a critical time, I’m guessing the answer is akin to scales.”

  “Well, I’m sure it’s not scales, but I said you could cross him off the list.”

  “He never should have been on the list to begin with.”

  He sighed. “Then make your own list.”

  “I don’t want a list!” she said, and the words came out frantic and too loud for the room, drawing attention from couples nearby. She lowered her voice. “Why do you care so much? I’m disgraced, anyway, so why not let me go? Why force me to stay for the ceremonial tar and feathering?”

  He hesitated, and in that fleeting silence, Lily realized that whatever he was about to say would change everything. Because she could see in his eyes that it would be the truth.

  And then he said it.

  “Lily, I’ve seen your wedding dress.”

  She froze, her breath unwilling to expel. “What did you say?”

  He tugged at her waist, at her hand. “Do not stop dancing.”

  She did
not move, finding herself instead frozen to the floor, repeating herself. “What did you say?”

  He narrowed his gaze on her. “I found it,” he said, softly, like the softest gunshot that had ever been fired for the damage it did in Lily’s chest. “And the pile of pretty clothes for your future babe. Those little boots, with the soft red soles. You dream of filling those boots, Lillian Hargrove. And this is your best chance at doing so.”

  She gaped at him, disbelief crashing through her. She took a step away from him, removing her hand from his clasp. “How dare you go through my things?”

  “You were gone. I had to find you,” he said, coming close again, his gaze darting around them, attempting to keep them from colliding with other couples twirling by.

  As though Lily cared about such a thing. He’d gone through her things.

  He’d found the wedding dress. The children’s clothing. The things she’d painstakingly crafted for a husband she’d never love. Children she’d never meet. A life she’d never have.

  He’d found them—her most private secrets.

  And, somehow, it wasn’t anger she felt. It was embarrassment.

  The dress, the clothes, the tiny socks and boots—they were all the dreams of a girl younger and more innocent than Lily was now. They were the promises that she imagined whispered in the darkness as she lay beneath the servants’ stairs and thought of a future, brighter and more beautiful than the present.

  A future she would never have.

  They were pretty lies. She knew that now—she’d left them in the trunk for a reason.

  And he’d found them.

  Shame flooded through her, hotter than any embarrassment she’d ever felt. Hotter than the embarrassment she’d experienced when he’d revealed that he knew about the painting. How was it possible that she was more ashamed of a simple white dress than about no dress at all?

  “So you went through my things, like a . . .” She hesitated, looking away from him, now terrified of what he’d seen. Of what he might know about her. “. . . like the great Scottish brute you are. I don’t want you here. In my life. Find another woman to manhandle. I hear you’re terribly good at it. Your reputation precedes you.”