“You look terrifying,” King said as he stepped through the curtain and into the box, his charming wife on his arm.
Alec bowed low over the marchioness’s hand before standing straight and saying, “My lady, I am ever amazed by your patience and tolerance with such a fully tactless husband.”
Sophie laughed at the words. “It is a great trial, as you can imagine, Your Grace.” She paused. “For what it is worth, I do not think you terrifying in the least. I think you quite dashing.”
“Not as dashing as I, though, correct?” her husband interjected.
She made a show of rolling her eyes, even as King pulled her tight to his side, color high on her cheeks as he pressed a kiss to her temple. “The poor Marquess of Eversley. Ever maligned by the world around him.”
King’s kiss moved adoringly to her bare shoulder in a display of affection that no doubt scandalized women peering through opera glasses throughout the theater. “I’m terribly wounded, love. You shall have to do something to make it all better later this evening.” Alec attempted not to hear the marchioness’s sharp intake of breath at the caress, before King turned to him and said, “Dashing indeed, Warnick. I see you saw my tailor.”
“I did,” he said, deliberately turning from the couple to survey the floor of the hall.
“For the theater?” King asked, innocently enough for Alec to know that danger approached. “Or for something else, entirely?”
“King,” his wife warned softly.
“It’s a reasonable question. One hears things about beautiful wards and their taciturn guardians.”
Alec cut him a look. “Why would I dress for her?”
“Why indeed,” King said, and Alec resisted the urge to wipe the smug look off his friend’s face.
“The goal is to get her married to another.”
Not entirely, any longer. He didn’t want her married. He wanted her free. He wanted her with a world of choices spread out before her. He wanted to give her the future she wished—whatever it might be.
I love you.
Whatever it might be, beyond him.
“I understand the stated goal,” King said. “I simply don’t understand its inception.”
Alec’s gaze narrowed on his friend. “What is that to mean?”
“Only that I do not understand forcing the girl to woo another. When she has a possibility so very close at hand.”
“King,” the marchioness said again.
King turned to his wife. “Look at him. I’ve haven’t seen Alec Stuart in a properly fitting English suit since school. It’s obvious for whom he dresses, so why not marry the . . .” He trailed off, and Alec gritted his teeth.
No. Don’t see it.
Understanding flared in King’s gaze. “You won’t marry her.”
“I will not.”
Pity chased understanding away, and Alec wanted to leap from the balcony to save himself from King’s approach. From his soft words, unable to be heard by any but the two of them. “Alec,” he said. “School was a long time ago.”
“I know that,” Alec replied curtly.
“Do you, though?” King paused. “You are a different man. A man, full stop. She would have you. All of you. She would be lucky to—”
Alec moved, stopping the words on his friend’s lips. “Don’t you dare. Don’t even suggest that she is the one who would be lucky in such a scenario.”
King’s eyes went wide, and his voice grew louder. “You’re a duke. She’s the scandalous daughter of a—”
Alec’s gaze narrowed. “Call her scandalous one more time.”
His friend was intelligent enough to remain silent.
“I am barely a duke. I was seventeenth in line. Like the setup to a goddamn farce. And so far beneath her it is obscene.” He looked away. “It does not matter. I am not her future.”
He had a chance to have her unruined. A chance for her to remain without him. To survive however she liked. To not regret. And he intended to take that chance.
And leave her with a better man than he could ever be.
He knew that in most circumstances, the most noble act would be to marry her. But in his case, nobility came with making a place for Lily to be happy and well provided for with a better man. One without shame behind him.
The previous evening had been a disastrous mistake.
He was racked with guilt over his inability to resist her. To ruin her again, with his body and his past. And his desire.
Guilt. Not regret.
He would never regret touching her.
And that would be his punishment.
A vision flashed, Lily barely clothed, surrounded by the proof of his coarseness. The broken bed, the canopy in shambles, the porcelain figurines smashed to the ground, she remained perfection incarnate. A goddess among ruins.
The ruins of his hand.
Of his touch.
In that keen awareness, he could not help but tell her the truth.
You will regret me.
But she would not regret what he did for her. Of that, he was certain. And so he was here, tonight, in a supremely uncomfortable suit, waiting for the rest of London to arrive, so he might commit a crime.
And give the woman he loved the life she deserved.
The curtain moved and West entered, his highborn wife on his arm, the two looking like royalty. And they were in this new age, where the news could elevate or destroy, and the ground shifted beneath the feet of the aristocracy. In a matter of years, women would survive Lily’s scandal as long as the news was on their side. The world would see the truth of her—that she was glorious and worthy only of their adoration.
Not so now, however.
Now, he required West for more than the papers.
The other man met his gaze, nodding a greeting from across the box so that he could dispense with the formality when he reached Alec, his wife firmly on his arm. The lady’s presence made it impossible for Alec to do the same. He bowed, greeting her with the title to which she was entitled, despite her marrying a commoner. “Lady Georgiana.”
She smiled, broad and beautiful. “Your Grace,” she said, setting her hand in his with a curtsy that would put a duchess to shame. “I do not use the title. I am Mrs. West.” She turned to her husband. “Proud beyond measure to be so.”
The love in the words was unmistakable, and Alec found himself, for the first time in a long while, believing in the emotion here, surrounded by couples who seemed to have touched it despite its ephemera.
Perhaps the box would bless Lily. Bring her the love of which she’d once dreamed.
The thought ached, even as he forced himself to complete it. Pushing aside the knot in his throat, he looked to West. “Tell me you have it.”
West reached into the pocket of his top coat and extracted a sheaf of paper. “That you must ask is an insult of the highest caliber. I should call you out.”
“I would choose broadswords. And you would not enjoy the outcome,” Alec said, taking the paper.
“Christ,” West said. “The Scots really are a prehistoric people.”
“I rather like the idea of broadswords,” Mrs. West said, dryly. “I should like to see you with one, husband.”
He turned to her, his voice going low and dark. “It can be arranged.”
Alec rolled his eyes and opened the document, not caring that the rest of London watched. He stared at the map for a long moment, committing it to memory before depositing it into his own pocket. “I shan’t ask you how you procured it. But I am grateful for it.”
West’s gaze lingered on his wife. “I have excellent connections. Ones that extend far beyond my reach.” He returned his attention to Alec. “And there is another thing you should know. Hawkins is evicted from his home in Covent Garden. If gossip is to be believed, he is bedding down here.”
Alec nodded once. “As the home is emptied of its contents, I am unsurprised.”
One of West’s golden brows rose. “And how do you know it is empt
y?”
“Would you believe connections beyond my reach?”
“No.” He paused. “But if those connections were worth their salt, they would tell you to offer to buy the painting tomorrow if you cannot steal it tonight.”
Alarmed by the frankness of the newspaperman’s words, Alec’s gaze flickered to West’s wife, who he knew was on the Selection Committee of the Royal Academy. The lady inclined her head. “As far as I am concerned, you play the role of Robin Hood here, Your Grace. If I had my way, the thing would have been banned from exhibition the moment Miss Hargrove was made mockery.”
Alec bowed again. “My lady.” Turning to West, he added, “Thank you.”
With their mutual support, he was prepared to do whatever he could to get the painting. Now, all that was left was for Hawkins to take the stage, so he could destroy the man and win Lily’s future.
As though he had summoned her with the thought, she entered the box on the arm of Lord Stanhope, who had collected her from Berkeley Square, where Alec had deposited her the evening before, after they’d destroyed both his sanity and the home of Duke and Duchess Number Nine.
Lily had begged him to let her stay, and he’d turned her away, praying that her anger would consume the other, more dangerous emotion that tempted him so thoroughly.
He was rather proud of himself, honestly, for orchestrating this particular scenario. As sending her away was, perhaps, the most difficult thing he had ever done.
Lady Sesily Talbot trailed behind them—a perfect chaperone considering her sister and brother-in-law stood mere feet away. If one was willing to ignore the fact that Sesily Talbot had taught Lily to escape a home from the third floor and also to wonder what was beneath a man’s kilt.
Not that he had not enjoyed her discovery immensely.
He cleared his throat, shifting his weight and longing for the concealing folds of his plaid.
No. Sesily was the best available choice, as viable chaperones for Lily were somewhat thin on the ground and he had learned his lesson at Hyde Park.
Lily laughed up at the earl as they entered, and though she was obscured from view, Alec was instantly drawn to the sound, to her glittering eyes, to the wide, open smile she offered the gentleman. Memory flashed from the preceding night, a keen reminder of what it had been to hold her in his arms as she’d laughed without hesitation, free and honest, like breath.
Alec’s hands fisted at his side, itching to lay the perfect earl low.
And then Lily was looking at him, and he was the one laid low. She stopped laughing instantly, unable to keep her emotions from her gaze. He identified them immediately: Disappointment. Betrayal. Anger. And behind it, shame.
What in hell was she ashamed of?
He could not ask her, despite a keen desire to do so.
Stanhope released her to greet the others in the box, and Lady Sesily put a hand to Lily’s shoulder, drawing her attention. Leaning in, the other woman whispered something and Lily straightened beneath the words, calm settling over her. Alec made a mental note to destroy any man who disparaged Sesily Talbot ever again, for she played marvelous sentry for Lily.
When he was too weak to do it himself.
The Marchioness of Eversley and Mrs. West extricated themselves from their husbands’ dotage to greet Lily, and gratitude flooded Alec, the two aristocratic ladies lending the full force of their combined power to Lily’s reputation. With their support, she would survive the gossip that would linger after he found the painting and destroyed it.
The ladies moved, clearing a path and indicating Lily should take a seat at the front of the box, in front of all London, bold and proud and unafraid of being seen in Hawkins’s theater. It was then that he saw her for the first time, head to toe. Saw what it was she wore.
The air was suddenly gone from the room.
The dress was the most stunning blue he’d ever seen, silk and perfectly suited to her, with a low neck that made him want to blindfold every man in the room and press wild, lingering kisses along the expanse of skin it revealed. But it was not the dress that destroyed him. It was the sash, tied tight around her waist, falling to the floor in a wide red swath.
It was his plaid. Again.
It should not have moved him. After all, had he not seen her wrapped in the tartan the night before, alone and nude on his bed? Had that not been the worst of all prospects? The one most likely to shred his patience and his nobility?
How was it possible this was infinitely worse?
The evening prior had felt like a gift. Tonight felt like a declaration of war. Like an invasion. A claiming. As though she stood in front of all London and claimed Scotland for her own.
Claimed him for her own.
And he was expected to resist.
As she approached, Alec found himself backing away, until he came up against the edge of the balcony and she said, low and without emotion. “Have a care, Your Grace, or you shall topple into the seats below.”
The prospect was not unpleasant when confronted with the alternative—facing her, looking like a queen. “You wear my tartan.”
She raised a brow. “Is it yours? I did not notice.”
Bollocks.
He wanted to pull her to him and kiss her senseless at the lie. Instead, he narrowed his gaze and lowered his voice to a whisper. “What is this game you play, Lily?”
She tilted her head and matched his volume. “Nothing but the game you insist upon. We neither of us are very good at truth, are we?”
Ironically, he replied with it. “No, we are not.”
She nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line. “The item you seek?”
“I am told it is here.”
“And what am I to do whilst you play the role of swashbuckling hero?”
He wanted it to be true. But the role was not for him. “Not hero,” he said. “Guardian.”
“Ah, yes. My hero is to be another.”
No. Never.
He was saved from answering by the dimming of the lights, footmen around the theater dousing candles, marking the start of the performance and summoning Stanhope, who placed a hand at Lily’s elbow, making Alec want to commit murder. “Shall we sit, Miss Hargrove?”
If a duke killed an earl, did the hierarchy of the aristocracy come into play? Did it matter? Newgate seemed a reasonable sacrifice for destroying a man who touched Lily while she wore the Stuart plaid.
Luckily for Stanhope, Sesily approached Alec. “Your Grace, it seems you are landed with me, as we are surrounded by turtledoves.”
It took a moment for him to find his tongue. “It is my pleasure, my lady.”
She raised a brow. “Obviously.”
They sat, and Sesily leaned in. “The wolves watch her, Duke. I suggest you refrain from making it any harder than it already is.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you know precisely what I mean. They do not watch the stage. They watch her.”
He did not look at Lady Sesily, too focused on the back of Lily’s head, on the curl of her hair, on the line of her neck. He inhaled, meaning to calm his rioting emotions, but instead catching her scent—Scotland and sanity.
He looked across the theater, desperate for something other that Lily, and found the whole world watching them—opera glasses trained on the box. On Lovely Lily, once Derek Hawkins’s muse, now his disgraced mistress, surrounded by champions who were not enough—who would not be enough if Alec did not succeed in his task.
“He knows his role,” Sesily said quietly, returning Alec’s attention to the earl, seated in front of him. Stanhope leaned in as the box darkened and the curtain opened, whispering in Lily’s ear, making her laugh.
Playing her savior in front of her judge and jury.
The role Alec would have done anything to play.
“I cannot—” The words came unbidden, unwelcome, and he stopped them before they betrayed too much.
Unfortunately, Sesily Talbot saw everything. “Then
you should not be here,” she whispered. “If you are unable to be the man she requires, then it is only fair that you remove yourself from the playing field.”
His hands fisted on his thighs. “You overstep yourself, Lady Sesily.”
“It would not be the first time,” she said. “But what sort of friend would I be if I did not name you for the coward you are?”
If she were a man, he would call her out.
But she was a woman. And so he was forced to acknowledge that she was right.
Far below, Hawkins took the stage, and the theater erupted into applause. The bastard preened beneath the accolade before he spoke his first line. “So foul and fair a day I have not seen.”
Alec was out of the box like a shot.
He’d left her again.
She stared blindly at the stage, as the man with whom she’d once imagined herself in love wooed all of London with a magnificent performance. Not that she noticed a bit of it. She was too busy seething.
How dare he leave her again? How dare he make her feel as he had the night before, make her confess her love, make her love him all the more, and then summon her here, tonight, on the arm of another?
And then leave her?
I love you. How many times had she said it? How many times had he demanded it from her?
And then he’d spoken his words, full of regret and shame, words that had echoed through her since he’d deposited her like an unwanted parcel on the steps of the Berkeley Square house.
We shall find the painting and we shall set you free.
And tonight, he passed her off to another man. Infinitely better. Infinitely kinder as he sat beside her before London. In front of the instrument of her ruin.
And somehow, infinitely less.
Why did he not want her for himself?
He’d made his pretty promises last evening—rendered her breathless with his powerful words, vowing desire and desperation. Made love to her as though she was the only woman in the world, and he the only man. And then he’d refused her. Regretted her.
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