A Scot in the Dark by Sarah MacLean
“No,” he said.
Lily could not hide her surprise. “No?”
He shook his head. “Lead with whatever you like.” He leapt down from his seat and she watched him come around the curricle to help her to the ground.
As he clasped her waist in his hands, the touch sizzled through her, unsettling. More so when he said, softly, so only she could hear, “All your features are best.”
Alec instantly disliked the Earl of Stanhope.
It was obvious why women did like him, of course, despite his being a pauper. Lily had enumerated his positive qualities multiple times over the course of the day, had she not? Handsome, titled, and unmarried.
Charming, too. That much was clear the moment the dandy sauntered up, silver-tipped walking stick in one hand, in his perfectly tailored, somehow unwrinkled trousers and coat, bowed low over Lily’s hand and said, in perfect English boarding school inflection, “Miss Hargrove, thank you for joining me.”
Too charming.
And then the bastard kissed her.
Granted, the earl kissed her gloved knuckles, which Alec might have found a perfectly reasonable—if somewhat ridiculous—greeting when one was meeting a woman one might one day marry. Might have, of course, if he hadn’t been occupied with wanting to rip the man’s far too handsome head right from his body for putting his lips where they didn’t belong.
Instead, Alec saw to the horses, ignoring the blush on Lily’s cheeks and trying his best to forget the feel of her as he’d lifted her to the ground mere seconds earlier.
“It’s a great pleasure, Lord Stanhope,” she said, her voice lilting and lovely. “Unconventional circumstances aside.”
Alec looked to Stanhope, who was staring right into her eyes, the rude bastard. “Unconventional?” the earl prompted.
“We’ve never met,” Lily said.
“I saw you at the Eversley ball, but did not have the opportunity to ask for an introduction before you left,” Stanhope said, leaning in far too close. “Society will be terribly scandalized.”
Alec nearly groaned. She couldn’t possibly think the man amusing. He was so . . . English.
“I did not see you,” she said.
“Well, you are easy to find in a crowd.”
She laughed. “Dressed as I was, I believe you.”
The earl joined her in the laugh, bright and rumbling, and Alec wanted to hit something. “Were you dressed strangely? I did not notice.”
She grinned wide, setting Alec’s heart pounding in his chest. “You are an excellent liar, my lord.”
This had been a mistake.
She liked the idiot aristocrat. And he liked her, Alec wagered, his gaze falling to the way Stanhope held Lily’s hand—as though he owned her.
Alec did not like that.
No one owned her. She owned herself, dammit.
“Keep your distance, Stanhope,” he growled.
The moment Alec spoke, Angus and Hardy leapt down to give the earl full inspection. The fop released her hand to crouch low and greet the dogs. “What glorious hounds,” he said as Angus licked his jaw. “What a very good dog.”
First Hardy fell for Lily, and now Angus liked this peacock. England was destroying his dogs. That was perhaps the most pressing reason why he had to get Lily matched and return to Scotland.
But she wasn’t matching with this man, that was damn certain.
“Angus. Enough,” Alec commanded from where he was hitching the horses.
Angus stopped with a little whine of protest and the earl stood. Alec noticed that he sneaked in a final little scratch behind the dog’s ear before coming to his full height. He supposed that the man wasn’t all bad.
“Warnick,” Stanhope said with a wide, friendly smile. “It’s rare to see you in London, let alone here. At the fashionable hour.” His gaze slid over the skirt of Alec’s tartan, glittering with humor. “I see you dressed for the occasion.”
Alec raised one black brow. “I’m wearing a coat, am I not?”
Lily smiled over Stanhope’s shoulder, and Alec ignored the thread of pleasure that came with making her smile. He’d donned a coat for her, as a nod to her presentation on Rotten Row—Rotten indeed. But he’d kept the plaid. On principle. To remind himself that he did not belong here.
With her.
She did a fine job of reminding him herself, however. “You can take the Scot from Scotland . . .”
Stanhope grinned an idiot grin at the words. “But not the Scotland from the Scot, I see.”
They were already finishing each other’s ridiculous sentences.
Alec growled and turned away.
The earl wouldn’t stop blathering. “It shan’t be the coat that will attract attention from the ladies of London.”
“It’s you who should worry about attracting ladies,” Alec shot over his shoulder. “That’s what you’re here for.”
An uncomfortable silence fell among them, the only sounds the rustle of wind through the trees above and the chatter on the road beyond, far enough away to sound like a low hum.
Or perhaps the low hum was inside his ears.
He shouldn’t have said it. Shouldn’t have pointed out that this entire afternoon was fabricated to get Stanhope and Lily together. Courting.
Fabricated by Alec.
He turned back to find Lily’s cheeks blazing red, her gaze fixed on the ground between her and the earl. Alec wanted to go to her and apologize for his crassness. For everything. It seemed that was all he did these days—apologize to Lillian Hargrove. For being a damn brute.
He did not have a chance to apologize, however, as Stanhope leapt to rescue her with impressive speed, extending one arm as though Alec had never spoken. “I would be incredibly honored if you would turn down the Row with me, Miss Hargrove.”
Lily’s gaze lifted, and she smiled at the earl. “I would enjoy that very much.”
Alec’s heart began to pound with irritation and frustration and something else he was not interested in investigating. Instead, he directed his attention to Angus and Hardy, now sitting beside him on the ground, staring up at him in superior canine judgment.
He scowled at the dogs.
Stanhope looked to the open, empty curricle. “Is there a chaperone who might join us?”
Alec crossed his arms over his chest. “Aye, there is.”
Stanhope looked to Lily.
She set her hand to the earl’s proffered arm and turned her back to Alec. “My chaperone situation is also somewhat unconventional.”
Stanhope took the situation in stride, his gaze settling on the dogs. “An impressive ménage.” He leaned in and whispered, “Never fear. I am very good with animals.”
A beast joke. How droll. The ass deserved to have his head handed to him.
She laughed. “I do hope so, my lord.”
Was she flirting? Was that a flirt?
Alec did not care for that.
They set off down the dusty Rotten Row, which Alec assumed Lily and the rest of London would refer to as “nature.” Of course, it was nothing even resembling nature. It teemed with people, clusters of women in fine dresses, flanked on both sides by swifter forms of travel—couples in curricles and men on horseback. It was most definitely the fashionable hour; it seemed as though there was barely enough room to walk on the footpath, one was simply carried along by the stream of people.
He knew that chaperones were supposed to keep a proper distance from a couple in situations like this, but if he did, he might lose track of them. Stanhope might be so consumed with talking about himself that someone might take the opportunity to ferret Lily away. Or, worse, Stanhope could ferret her away.
Anything could happen to her.
It was best that Alec stay close. Angus and Hardy clearly agreed, as they were just ahead, flanking the couple.
“Is it always this crowded?” Lily asked the earl, her voice curling up and around Alec, who bit his tongue to keep from answering her.
“Not usu
He trailed off and smiled down at Lily until she looked up. “Or they all heard you would be here.”
Lily was far too smart to fall for such treacle.
He couldn’t see her face over the brim of her pretty pink bonnet, but he did see a flash of white teeth before she dipped her head and looked away.
She liked it.
Good Lord. “Don’t embarrass the girl, Stanhope.”
Lily’s head snapped up and she looked over her shoulder at him, her eyes going slightly wide—at his proximity no doubt. She was blushing, her cheeks red as though they’d been in the sun for an afternoon instead of a quarter of an hour.
He raised his brows, waiting for her to speak.
She turned back to Stanhope. “You are an expert in flattery.”
Alec huffed. Of course he was an expert in flattery. He was a poncey Brit. Trained to charm and seduce women.
Stanhope set one gloved hand upon hers, where it clutched his arm. “I do my best, of course, but it’s quite easy to flatter someone so lovely.”
The huff became a growl.
“Tell me, my lord, do you walk the Row often?”
“I do. I quite like it.” He looked down to her, his brown eyes twinkling. “Particularly when the company is of such caliber.”
Alec snorted, and Lily cut him a look over her shoulder before increasing her pace, no doubt to get away from him. The earl easily adjusted to the new speed, as did Alec. After a pause, Lily said, “I imagine you are in high demand as an escort.”
The little minx. She was flirting.
“Not nearly as much as I’d like you to think, I’m afraid,” the earl said. “I’m aging out of interest, unfortunately.”
She shook her head with a laugh. “Your humility is unnecessary, my lord. I’m certain London’s ladies are nothing but grateful that you remain eligible.”
He smiled. “And you, Miss Hargrove? Are you grateful for it?”
She damn well wasn’t, Alec wanted to roar. There was nothing about the Englishman that was worthy of her gratitude. And certainly nothing that she would be attracted to.
Certainly nothing she’d be interested in marrying.
“I am grateful for the company,” she said, and Alec’s breath caught at the words that reminded him of their conversation in the carriage two nights earlier.
I wondered if I would ever touch another person again.
He’d never in his life wanted to touch another person so much as he had in that moment, as she’d confessed her fears and her doubts and the reasons she’d turned to Hawkins. And then he had, kissing her, adoring her until he couldn’t think of anything but why he should not be touching her. Of why she deserved a better man.
A good man. A man with grace and gentility who would not defile her with coarseness and size and past. One infinitely better suited to her than he was.
One like the Earl of damn Stanhope.
Assuming that the Earl of damn Stanhope was well-suited to her. They didn’t know that he was suited to anyone. After all, he was seven and thirty, and unmarried. If that was not proof of a problem, Alec did not know what was.
The path twisted slightly, and the afternoon sun cast his shadow over Lily and Stanhope. “Why aren’t you married, Stanhope?”
Lily gasped and whirled around to Alec. “You can’t simply ask that!”
“Why not?”
Her mouth opened and closed as though she were a fish. “Because it isn’t done!”
“How do you know what is and isn’t done?” he asked. “You’ve never had a season.”
She looked to the sky in exasperation. “Because the entire universe knows this isn’t done.” She turned back to the earl. “My apologies, my lord. My chaperone”—she tossed the word over her shoulder with a glare—“is Scottish.”
Stanhope looked from Lily to Alec and back again, one sandy brown brow arched as though he had myriad questions but held them back. Finally, he chuckled. “No need to apologize. The duke simply asked a question half of London wishes they had the courage to. I imagine I remain unmarried for the same reason many do.” He paused, then added, “I am not the best of catches.”
“Or you’re a damn scoundrel,” Alec grumbled under his breath, and Lily stopped short. Releasing the earl’s arm, she smiled up at him through gritted teeth and said, “Would you excuse us, my lord?”
Stanhope’s brows shot up. “Of course.”
“Excuse who?” Alec asked.
“Us,” Lily said. “You. And me.”
“Me?” he said, pressing one hand to his chest. What on earth had he done?
She glared at him. “You.”
With that, she turned her back on the two men and made her way through the throngs to the edge of the path.
He looked to Stanhope, who grinned up at him as though he were nothing but exceedingly entertained by the afternoon. Resisting the urge to put his fist into the earl’s face, he followed Lily.
He caught up with her as she hurried through a space between horses trotting down the path and reached the green grass that edged the Row. He ignored the way his heart leapt when she turned, grey eyes flashing with anger. She was close enough to touch, and he found he wanted to do just that.
Which was very unchaperonelike.
He took a step back.
“What are you playing at?” she asked.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You think we cannot hear your grunts and grumbles? And your inappropriate questions?”
He spread his hands wide. “I’m merely doing my job.”
“Your job as what, exactly? Insulting babe on a leading string?” She pointed to the dogs, who had joined them. “Hardy has better manners than you do.”
He looked to the dog, whose tongue lolled at his name, a length of drool several inches long gleaming in the sun as though to prove Lily’s point. Comparing him to the hound was rather unfair, he thought.
“My job as chaperone. I’m keeping him honest.”
She scoffed at that. “If the goal is to get me married, Your Grace, honesty is the last thing that we want to trade in.”
She looked over his shoulder, and he followed the direction of her gaze, finding Lord Stanhope now holding court at the center of the throngs on the Row, chatting with a couple seated high on a curricle, laughing and enjoying himself.
Looking the perfect candidate for marriage.
She continued, “You are, without doubt, the worst chaperone in the long, venerable history of chaperones. Spinsters the world over are wringing their lace caps.”
He knew she was right, but he had no intention of admitting that. “I suppose you are an expert in the behavior of chaperones.”
“I know they are not supposed to loom,” she snapped.
“I am not looming.”
“You are nearly seven feet tall. All you do is loom.”
“What would you have me do? Shrink to the size of your fairy suitor?”
She rolled her eyes. “He’s taller than most men in London!”
He smirked. “Not taller than me.”
“Well, of course not. You’re virtually a tree with legs.” She sighed. “Don’t loom. Follow behind at a decent distance.”
“And what if he is inappropriate?”
She spread her hands wide. “There are ten thousand people in screaming distance. You think he is going to be inappropriate? You’re mad. I thought the goal was to get me betrothed.”
“There’s no need for hyperbole. It’s not ten thousand. And that is the goal.”
“Well then, you worry about your own business. Select one of the myriad ladies who can’t keep their eyes from your scandalous legs.”
The words took him aback. “I beg your pardon?”
She huffed a great sigh of exasperation, put her hands to her hips, and looked down the Row. “They’re all looking at your
He turned to look in the direction of her gaze, noting several women immediately redirecting their gazes from him. “It’s perfectly respectable.”
“In Scotland,” she said. “In England, we don’t show our knees.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
She moved her hands to clutch her skirts. “Oh.” She made to lift the dress. “Then I should simply show mine?”
His brows shot together. “You wouldn’t.”
“Whyever not? They are no doubt some of my best features. The rest of London will see them soon enough, and Lord Stanhope would certainly enjoy them.”
He had no doubt of that. Indeed, the very discussion of her knees made Alec want to drop to his knees, lift her skirts, and inspect the hell out of them.
He’d murder Stanhope on the spot if he saw Lily’s knees.
He pushed away the thought. “What would you have me do, Lillian?”
“Wear trousers.”
“Why?” He smirked, making a show of smiling at a nearby group of women trying to look as though they weren’t looking at him. They blushed and tittered and turned away, and Lily groaned in disgust. He raised a brow. “Are ye jealous, lass?”
She looked as though she wished to do him serious bodily harm. “Why would I be? If you went with one of these ogling women, you would be less trouble for me.” She waved at the masses beyond. “You’ve your pick of all London, Your Grace. Have at it.”
I pick you.
No. No he didn’t.
He looked down at her. “It’s you who is here for the picking, Lillian.”
“I would be infinitely more pickable if I lacked my Scottish shadow.” She paused, then added, “I am returning to Stanhope.”
Every part of him resisted the idea. “That’s fine.”
“I don’t wish you to follow me.”
“I have better things to do than follow you.”
She nodded. “Excellent. Good-bye then.”
He nodded, growing more and more irritated by the second. “Good-bye.”
And she turned and sauntered away, the pretty pink muslin of her walking dress teased him, the play of light over the skirts making him think about all the pretty pink things that they covered. Ankles and calves and thighs and . . .