A Scot in the Dark by Sarah MacLean
Together.
And now they were here, and she was feeling prouder than she’d ever been in her life, for this man who would soon be her husband, and for herself as well. After all, it was not every day that the orphaned daughter of a land steward was so privileged to stand before all of London with the man she loved.
The room was massive, the walls reaching twenty feet high and every inch of them covered in artwork. Every inch, that was, but one central spot behind a dais on the far end of the space, this one covered instead with a curtain of sorts, as though what was there was due a magnificent reveal.
Derek turned back to give her a wink. “That one’s for us.”
Lily smiled. Us. What a lovely, lovely word.
How long had she wished to be part of an us?
“Mr. Hawkins,” the secretary of the academy met them at the midpoint of the room with a firm handshake and a fervent whisper in Derek’s ear. “Thank goodness you’ve arrived. We are ready for the announcement immediately, if you are, sir.”
Derek nodded, his lips curving into a wide smile that marked his triumph. “I am always ready for announcements such as this.”
Lily looked about the room, taking in the crush of people, all waiting for the exhibition to begin. She recognized a handful of London’s brightest, and was immediately unnerved by the idea that she was surrounded by titles and funds. She stiffened, suddenly wishing that Derek had proposed yesterday, so she might be allowed to reach for him—to steady herself in the force of London’s combined gaze.
“He’s brought that Hargrove girl with him.” Lily resisted the urge to turn at the sound of her name, whispered, but too loud not to be heard. She assumed that had been the speaker’s plan all along.
“Of course he has,” came the scathing reply. “He delights in dotage. And look at the way she stares after him. Like a pup after a bone.”
The first speaker tutted her distaste. “As if it weren’t enough that she looks the way she does.”
Lily willed herself not to listen and fixed her eyes on the back of Derek’s head, where his black hair curled in perfect whorls.
They did not matter.
Only Derek mattered.
Only their future. Together.
Us.
“Everyone knows anyone who looks the way she does is a complete scandal. I cannot believe he’d bring her here. Today of all days. There are dukes in attendance.”
“I heard the Queen might appear.”
“If that is true, it’s even more disgusting that he would bring her.”
“His own consort!” The words came on a chortle, as though they were clever.
They weren’t.
Lily resisted the suggestion that she might be something other than Derek’s betrothed. As though she were a scandal. And even though she wasn’t—even though there was nothing scandalous about love—her cheeks flamed and the room grew warmer.
She turned to Derek, willing him to hear the women. To turn and tell them that not only were they speaking out of turn, but that they were speaking out of turn about his future wife.
But he didn’t hear. He was already moving away from her, bounding up the stairs to the place where the curtain hung, hiding his masterpiece. He hadn’t let her see it, of course. Hadn’t wanted to tempt fate. But she knew his skill, and knew that whatever he had selected for the exhibition would take London by storm.
He’d told her as much only minutes earlier.
And when it did take London by storm, the women behind her would eat their words.
Derek had reached the center of the dais, made a show of peeking behind the curtain before turning toward the assembled crowd as Sir Martin Archer Shee, the president of the Royal Academy, welcomed London to the exhibition. The speech was impressive, delivered in the distinguished man’s booming Irish brogue, noting the venerable history of the academy and its exhibitions.
Indeed, the art on the walls was very good indeed. It was not the quality of Derek’s, of course, but it was fine art. There were several very nice landscapes.
And then it was time.
“Each year, the academy prides itself on a special piece—a first exhibition from one of Britain’s most skilled contemporary artists. In the past, we’ve revealed unparalleled works from Thomas Gainsborough and Joseph Turner and John Constable, each to more acclaim than the last. This year, we are most proud to showcase renowned artist of stage and canvas, Derek Hawkins.”
Derek’s chest puffed with pride. “It is my masterwork.”
Sir Martin turned toward the unexpected interjection. “Would you like to speak to it now?”
Derek stepped forward. “I shall say more once it is revealed, but for now I shall offer only this. It is the greatest nude of our time.” He paused. “The greatest nude of all time.”
A hush went over the room. Not that Lily could hear it over the loud rushing in her ears.
Nude.
To her knowledge, Derek had only ever painted one nude.
It bests Rubens, he’d said as she’d lain in repose on the cobalt settee in his studio, surrounded by satin pillows and lush fabrics. It is more glorious than Titian.
The words were not a memory, however. He was speaking them again, now, casting his arrogant gaze across the crowd. “It makes Ingres look like he should return to school.” He turned to the president of the academy. “The Royal Academy, of course.”
The boast—an insult to one of the greatest artists of the day—unlocked the assembly, and the collective whispers rose in a cacophony, adding sound to the wild heat that consumed Lily.
“Outrageous,” someone said nearby.
He’d sworn it was for his eyes alone.
“I’ve never heard such conceit.”
He’d promised her no one would ever see it.
The women behind her spoke again, snide and unpleasant. “Of course. That’s why he brought her.”
It couldn’t be she.
It couldn’t be.
“No doubt,” came the agreement. “She’s low enough to be the model.”
“Model is too kind. It implies value. She is too cheap for such a word. Only allowed inside the door because of the goodwill of—”
She turned to stare at them, halting the words in the speaker’s throat, the truth of the moment bringing unwanted tears to her eyes. They didn’t care. The two women stared right at her. As though she were a roach in the gutter.
“Her guardian clearly understands that beauty has no bearing on worth.”
Lily turned away, the cruel words setting her in motion. At first, simply to escape the horrid women, and then, to escape her own fear.
And then, to stop Derek from baring her to the world.
She pushed her way through the crowd, which was already crushing closer and closer to the stage and the painting, still hidden. Thankfully. Sir Martin had resumed speaking, but Lily did not hear the words, too focused on getting to the dais.
On getting to the painting.
She climbed the stairs, driven by something far more powerful than embarrassment.
Shame.
Shame for what she had done. For trusting him. For believing him.
For believing she’d ever be more than herself. Alone.
For believing in the promise of us.
And then she was on the stage, and he was turning toward her, the room going silent once more, in utter shock at her presence. At her intrusion. The president of the academy turned wide eyes on her.
Derek moved with perfect ease, however, waving one arm toward her. “Ah! My muse arrives.”
It was time for Lily’s eyes to go wide. He’d ruined her. As though she’d removed her clothes in front of all of London. And still, he smiled at her, as though he didn’t see it. “My lovely Lily! The conduit of my genius. Smile, darling.”
She would never have imagined that the words would have made her so very furious. She didn’t stop moving. And she did not smile. “You swore no one would see it.”
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He blinked. “I did no such thing.”
Liar.
“You said it was for you alone.”
He smiled, as though it would explain everything. “Darling. My genius is too vast for me not to share it. It is for the world. For all time.”
She looked to the crowd, to the hundreds of eyes assembled, the force of their combined gaze setting her back on her feet. Making her knees weak. Making her heart pound.
Making her furious.
She turned back to him. “You said you loved me.”
He tilted his head. “Did I?”
She was out of space. Of time. Her body no longer hers. The moment no longer hers. She shook her head. “You did. You said it. We said it. We were to be married.”
He laughed. Laughed. The sound echoed in the gasps and whispers of the crowd beyond, but Lily didn’t care. His laugh was enough to slay on its own. “Dear girl,” he mocked. “A man of my caliber does not marry a woman of yours.”
He said it in front of all London.
Before these people, whom she’d always dreamed of becoming. Before this world, in which she’d always dreamed of living. Before this man, whom she’d always dreamed of loving.
But who had never loved her.
Who, instead, had shamed her.
She turned to the curtain, her purpose singular. To destroy his masterwork the way he’d destroyed her. Without care that those assembled would see the painting.
She tore at the curtain, the thick red velour coming from its moorings with virtually no pressure—or perhaps with the strength of her fury—revealing . . .
Bare wall.
There was nothing there.
She turned back to the room, surprised laughter and scandalized gasps and whispers as loud as cannon fire rioting through her.
The painting wasn’t there.
Relief came, hot and overpowering. She whirled to face the man she’d loved. The man who had betrayed her. “Where is it?”
Teeth flashed, blinding white. “It is in a safe space,” he replied, his voice booming, placing them both on show as he turned back to the room. “Look at her, London! Witness her passion! Her emotion! Her beauty! And return here, in one month’s time, on the final day of the exhibition, to witness all that into something more beautiful. More passionate. I shall set grown men to weeping with my work. As though they have seen the face of God.”
A collective gasp of delight thundered through the room. They thought it a play. Her a performer.
They did not realize her life was ruined. Her heart crushed beneath his perfectly shined boot.
They did not realize she was cleaved in two before them.
Or perhaps they did.
And perhaps it was the realization that gave them such glee.
Chapter 2
SCOT SUMMONED SOUTH BY WILD WARD
Two weeks & four days later
Berkeley Square
A ward. Worse, an English ward.
One would think Settlesworth would have told him about that bit.
One would think that among the dozens of homes and scores of vehicles and hundreds of staff and thousands of tenants and tens of thousands of livestock, Settlesworth would have thought it valuable to mention the existence of a single young female.
A young female who, despite her utter lack of propriety on paper, would no doubt swoon when she came face-to-face with her Scottish guardian.
Englishwomen were consummate swooners.
In four and thirty years, he’d never met one who didn’t widely, loudly, and ridiculously threaten the behavior.
But Settlesworth hadn’t mentioned the girl, not even in passing, with a “By the way, there’s a ward, and a significantly troublesome one at that.” At least, he hadn’t mentioned it until she’d been so troublesome as to require Alec’s presence in London. And then, it was Your Grace this, and scandal that, and you must come as quickly as possible to repair her reputation in conclusion.
So much for Settlesworth being the best solicitor in history. If Alec had any interest in aiding the peerage, he’d take out an advertisement in the News of London to alert them to the man’s complete ineptitude.
A ward seemed the kind of thing a man should know about from the start of his guardianship, rather than the moment the damn woman did something supremely stupid and ended up in desperate need of rescue.
If he had any sense, he’d have ignored the summons.
But apparently he lacked sense, all told, and Alec Stuart, proud Scotsman and unwilling twenty-first Duke of Warnick, was here—on the steps of number 45 Berkeley Square, waiting for someone to answer the damn door.
He considered his watch for the third time in as many minutes before he set to knocking once more, letting all his irritation fall against the great slab of mahogany. When he completed the action, he turned his back to the door and surveyed the square, perfectly manicured, gated and just blooming green, designed for the residents of this impeccable part of London and no one else. The place was so damn British, it made his skin crawl.
Curse his sister.
“A ward!” Catherine had crowed when she’d heard. “How exciting! Do you think she is very glamorous and beautiful?”
When he’d told Catherine that, in his experience, beauty was the reason for most scandals, and he wasn’t interested in dealing with this particular one, his sister had insisted he immediately pack his bags, playing him like a fine fiddle, the baggage. “But what if she’s been greatly maligned? What if she’s all alone? What if she requires a friend? Or a champion?” She’d paused, blinking her enormous blue eyes up at him, and added, “What if I were in her place?”
Younger sisters were clearly a punishment for ill deeds in former lives.
And current ones.
He crossed his arms over his chest, the wool of his jacket pulling tight across his shoulders, constricting him just as the architecture did, all ironwork and stone façade. He hated it here.
England will be your ruin.
Next door, a gaggle of women exited number 44 Berkeley Square, making their way down the steps to a waiting carriage. A young lady saw him, her eyes going wide before she recoiled in shock and snapped her gaze away to hiss a whisper at the rest of the group, which instantly turned in unison to gawk at him.
He felt their stares like a blazing heat, made hotter when the oldest of the group—mother or aunt, if he had to guess—said loudly, “Of course she would have such a man waiting for an audience.”
“He looks veritably animalistic.”
Alec went instantly cold as the group tittered its amusement. Ignoring the wash of fury that came over him at the assessment, he returned his attention to the door.
Where in hell were the servants?
“She’s probably renting rooms in there,” one of the girls said.
“And other things as well,” came a snide reply. “She’s outrageous enough for it.”
What on earth kind of scandal had the girl gotten herself into?
Settlesworth’s letter had been perfunctory in the extreme, apologizing for not apprising him of the existence of the ward and laying the girl at Alec’s feet. She is at the heart of a scandal. A quite unsurvivable one, if you do not arrive. Posthaste.
He might hate all things English, but Alec wasn’t a monster. He wasn’t about to leave the girl to the damn wolves. And, if the she-wolves next door were any indication, it was a good thing he was here, as the poor girl was already their meal.
He knew what it was to be at the hands of Englishwomen.
Resisting the urge to tell the women they could pile into their carriage and drive straight to hell, he raised his fist to pound once more.
The door opened in an instant and, after impressively recovering from his shock, Alec glowered down at the woman standing before him, wearing the drabbest grey dress he’d ever seen.
He imagined she was no more than five and twenty, with high
Drab frock or no, it was not beyond hyperbole to say she was easily the most beautiful woman in Britain.
Of course she was.
Nothing made a bad day worse like a beautiful Englishwoman.
“It’s about bloody time,” he growled.
It took the maid several seconds to recover from her own shock and lift her eyes from where they had focused at his chest up to his face, her eyebrows rising with every inch of her gaze.
Alec was transfixed. Her eyes were grey—not slate and not steel, but the color of the darkest rainclouds, shot through with silver. He stiffened, the too-small coat pulling tight across his shoulders, reminding him that he was in England, and whoever this woman was, she was irrelevant to his interests. With the exception of the fact that she was standing between him and his immediate return to Scotland.
“I suggest ye let me in, lass.”
One red brow rose. “I shall do no such thing.”
She closed the door.
Alec blinked, surprise and disbelief warring for a fleeting moment before they were both overcome by a supreme loss of patience. He stepped back, sized up the door, and, with a heave, broke the thing down.
It crashed to the foyer floor with a mighty thud.
He could not resist turning to the women next door, now frozen in collective, wide-eyed shock. “Animal enough for you, ladies?”
The question spurred them into action, sending them fairly climbing over each other to enter their carriage. Satisfied, Alec returned his attention to his own house and, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, crossed the threshold.
The maid stood just inside, staring down at the great oak slab. “You could have killed me.”
“Doubtful,” he said. “The door is’nae heavy enough to kill a person.”
Her gaze narrowed on him. “Number Eighteen, I presume.”
The words could not have held more disdain. Ignoring them, Alec lifted the door from its resting place and turned to lean it against the open doorway. He deliberately thickened his accent. “Then ye ken who I am.”