A Scot in the Dark by Sarah MacLean

  Followed by a knee, and a fall of tartan.

  And the candle, held by a massive bronzed hand.

  And, finally, Alec’s face.

  She squeaked her surprise, her heart seeming to pound worse with the reveal of his identity than it had done when she thought he was Derek. “What are you doing here?”

  “You have two options,” he said, the words low and rumbling with brogue. “You may come out from under there, or I will come in and fetch you.”

  She narrowed her gaze. “Now you wish to keep my company?”

  His features matched her own. “What does that mean?”

  You left me, she wanted to say. Alone. Wishing for you. Instead, she settled on, “I cannot come out until you move, Duke.” He raised a brow, but moved, and she followed him out, coming to her feet, already fighting. “What are you doing here?”

  “Making sure you don’t get yourself caught or killed.”

  “Killed,” she scoffed. “No one is going to kill me.”

  “You could have fallen from the window—how were you even able to make a bedsheet rope?”

  “Sesily taught me.”

  He looked to the ceiling. “Of course she did. The scandalous leading the scandalous.”

  “She is my friend,” she said, “And I did not fall. As you see, I am quite alive.”

  “Remarkably,” he replied. “You took a hack here, dressed in . . .” He paused, and fury flashed in his eyes, “Whatever this is.”

  She looked down at the ill-fitting trousers and the too-large shirt and coat. “It’s men’s clothing!”

  “You look ridiculous! No one in his right mind would think you male. At best he’d think you an urchin playing fancy dress.”

  “The driver didn’t seem to notice.”

  “The driver also didn’t notice you were being followed, so I would not laud his powers of observation.”

  Her brow furrowed. “You cannot simply follow a woman wherever she goes, you know. You nearly scared me half to death.”

  “You broke into a man’s house and hid beneath his bed!” he said. “What if it had been him and not me?”

  “It was not him!” she whispered, irritated. “It was you! And you shouldn’t be here!”

  “Oh, but you belong here?”

  “More than you!”

  “I forgot,” he said, “you have a damn key! I assume this is Hawkins’s bedchamber?”

  “Not that it is any of your business,” she replied, “but he never reclaimed the key.”

  “That is absolutely no reason to use it,” he snapped. “Are you lying in wait for him? Planning to tempt him back to you?”

  He was horrible.

  Lily narrowed her gaze. “How did you guess,” she responded, unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice. “This is my special brand of seduction: ill-fitting men’s clothing and hiding beneath beds for men who have no qualms ruining me.”

  His brows rose. “I do not pretend to understand the female mind.”

  She snatched the candle from his hand. “Go away. You’re not welcome here.”

  “And you are?”

  “I’ve business to attend to. I shan’t take long.”

  He paused, watching her for a long moment before he narrowed his gaze on her and said, “Why are you here?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It does if you still love him.”

  The words rendered her speechless. “Love him?”

  It seemed impossible to imagine now, two months later, with all that had happened. The painting. The exhibition.

  Alec.

  Not that Alec impacted her heart. At all.

  Liar.

  She cleared her throat at the thought. “Why not speak your mind, Your Grace?”

  He scowled at the honorific. “Do you love him? Still?”

  “No,” she said, unable to keep the shock from her voice. “Of course not. He is nothing of what I thought he was. Especially not now. Especially now that I—” Especially now that I am able to compare him to you.

  Alec remained scowling. “Then why are you here?”

  She sighed, looking past him to the door to Derek’s studio. “If you must know, I’m here to take matters into my own hands.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Only that I am tired of waiting for salvation to find me. I’ve had guardians and suitors and men who made more pretty promises than I can count. And I am tired of believing those promises. It’s time for me to make my own promise. To myself.”

  He did not move. “And what promise is that?”

  “The promise to save myself.” She pointed to the door. “That’s his studio. Two months ago, that’s where he painted the portrait.”

  He inhaled sharply. “And?”

  “And, as the subject of the painting in question, I intend to take what’s mine.”

  There was a long silence as the words settled between them, before he nodded once. “Let’s do it, then.”

  She shook her head. “I just told you that I don’t require a savior. I shall save myself this time.”

  He turned toward the door to the studio. “I heard you. But I am here and this door is locked.”

  “I was about to look for a key when you terrified me into hiding,” she snapped.

  He looked back at her. “Under the bed, by the way, is a terrible place to hide. What if he’d been heading for sleep? You’d have been stuck under there all night.”

  She raised a brow. “You’re simply jealous that you wouldn’t have fit under the bed.”

  A smile flashed at the irritated insult, and Lily loathed the warmth that coursed through her at the knowledge that she’d made him laugh.

  She didn’t care about making him laugh.

  He’d turned away, at any rate. With a firm tug, he tore the door from the jamb, as though the lock were made of paper and glue, and the warmth was replaced with shock as she stared at the demolished doorway. “Tell me, Your Grace, do houses in Scotland have doors?”

  He did not hesitate. “Rarely.”

  She should not find him amusing. “Now Derek will realize we were here.”

  “You do not think he will notice when the painting is gone?” Alec said, as though it were that simple.

  It occurred to Lily that it probably should be that simple. That she’d been willing to enter the room and take the painting, and Derek would have known when he returned that someone had done it. But for some reason, the splintered wood, the proof that it had been Alec who was here—it struck her. He’d followed her from the house, all the way here, and inside to ensure her safety, and once he’d heard her plans for the evening, he hadn’t forced her to leave them. Instead, he’d offered to help. In his own way.

  By removing the door that had been her final barrier to success.

  Somehow, despite being an enormous, overbearing, entirely difficult man, he’d also been tremendously kind.

  He set the door to the side and retrieved the candle from the bedside table, lifting it into the darkness of the studio beyond.

  Which was when the candle became a glowing reminder of what he would find within.

  “Wait!” Lily cried as she tore past him into the darkness, putting her back to the room, placing herself squarely between his light and the paintings beyond. “No.” She extended her hand. “Give it to me.”

  He clearly thought she was mad. “We don’t have time for this, Lillian.”

  She shook her head. “You’re not coming in.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because I won’t have you seeing it.”

  “Seeing what?” She cut him a look. “Oh.”

  “Precisely,” she said. “Oh.”

  “I won’t look,” he said, advancing, pressing her back into the room.

  “You’re correct,” she replied, forcing herself to stop moving. To stand her ground. “You won’t look. Because you won’t see it.”

  He looked to the ceiling. “Lillian. We haven’t any time for this.
”

  She beckoned to the candle. “Then give me the candle.”

  He relinquished the light. “There. Can you find the damn thing and let’s go?”

  “First, promise you won’t look.”

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “That may well be the case. But it’s my reputation that requires protecting.”

  “I’ve been trying to protect you! From the start!” he argued.

  “And you may finish by promising to avert your eyes from anything you see that might be scandalous.”

  “It’s a painting, Lillian. It was made to be seen.”

  Sadness flared, along with frustration and the shame that she loathed so much. He was not wrong. How could she not have expected it to be seen? But somehow, the idea that he might see it . . . it changed everything. “I didn’t intend it to be seen.”

  He was silent for a long time, and she wished for more light, so she could see his eyes when he said, finally, “Fine.”

  “Promise.”

  “I promise.”

  “The rest.”

  He sighed. “I promise I won’t look.”

  “Turn your back.”

  “Lillian.”

  She held her ground. “You wish to be my guardian? Guard. Watch the door.”

  He hesitated for the barest of moments before releasing a long breath of exasperated air and turning from her. “Just get the damn thing.”

  She nodded. “Excellent,” she said, turning to begin her search.

  There was only one problem, she realized as she lifted the candle and redirected her attention to the room she’d known so well.

  It, too, was empty.

  Everything was gone. The paintings that had lined the walls, the low settee where she’d posed for days, the easel Derek had furiously, painstakingly worked over as the sun flooded the room, making dust dance in the air between them. It was all gone.

  She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. After all, everything that had to do with Derek Hawkins was fleeting, as though he only existed when in the presence of others.

  Perhaps that was true of the painting, as well.

  Perhaps it only existed when viewed by all London.

  She laughed, high-pitched and panicked, and Alec turned. “What?” That’s when he noticed the room. “Where is everything?”

  She shook her head. “Gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  She turned to him. “I don’t know. It was here.” She pointed to the wall where windows received brilliant southern light throughout the day. “The painting was right there.”

  He scowled. “You posed here?”

  She ignored the question, instead repeating one of his earlier ones. “Where is everything?” She giggled, the sound high and unsettling and panicked. “Where did it go?”

  Alec crossed to her. “Lily,” he said quietly, “we’ll find it. There are a finite amount of places where he could have hidden it.”

  “There are a hundred places,” she said. “A thousand.” Frustration grew, tightening in her chest. “This is not a Scottish keep, Alec. It is London.” She paused. Looked at him. “Do you believe in fate?”

  “No.”

  She smiled, small and sad. “I do. This was my only chance. My opportunity to save myself. Perhaps, though . . . perhaps my disgrace is fated.”

  “It’s not.”

  She didn’t reply, turning back to the room to whisper to the empty walls, “I wanted to find it.”

  For the first time in three weeks, one day, she’d had hope that her life might be hers once more. That she might survive.

  She looked to him. “I begged you to let me run. To let me end it my way. And then you gave me hope and I thought this was the answer.”

  “It is,” he said, his gaze firm and full of something akin to pride. “Clever girl. It is. We will find it. Anywhere in London. Running is not the answer. This is.”

  And, God save her, she almost believed him. His sure certainty, as though all he had to do was will it so and it was done.

  She almost believed him. “I thought it would be here.”

  “And if it were mine, I would keep it here.” The reply came without hesitation.

  She looked up, meeting his eyes, whisky in the golden candlelight. “What does that mean?”

  He looked away, as though he’d been caught confessing something he should not have. “Only that I would keep it close.”

  “If it were your best hope of a legacy, you mean.”

  “No,” he said softly. “That’s not what I mean.”

  She caught her breath at the words, at the way they thickened the air around them. “What then?”

  He was so close, now, close enough to touch, and Lily was consumed with the keen memory of two nights prior, in the carriage. Of touching him. Of him touching her.

  She shouldn’t do it.

  Not here. Not ever.

  And still, she lifted a hand, feeling the tremors in it as she set it to his chest, feeling his heart beating strong and fast beneath the swath of tartan that crossed his shoulder. Time stopped. They both stared at that place, where her pale hand rested against the red of his plaid.

  He was so strong.

  So warm.

  Her gaze lifted to find his gaze on hers, waiting for her. Quiet and strong and patient, as though it were his whole purpose. To wait for her. To be with her.

  To be hers.

  Her lips parted at the thought, and his attention flickered to the movement, the dark and silence cloaking them in each other.

  She lifted her chin, offering herself to him. He dipped his head, closing the distance between them. Yes. Please.

  She would give anything for him.

  Her eyes slid shut.

  “Lily,” he whispered, the word a kiss of breath against her lips, filled with devastation and desire.

  Yes.

  And then he released her. Cleared his throat. “We should leave before he returns.”

  Like that, it was over, and the room spun with the speed of his departure.

  She pressed her fingers to her lips, wishing she could will away the ache there—the wanting. He wanted to kiss her. She’d seen it.

  Why hadn’t he done it?

  Was it Derek? Was it her past? Was he too reminded of what she had done here?

  Of who she had become here?

  Regret came, harsh and painful, and Lily stiffened, hating it. Hating all of it. Every minute that had led her to this moment, in the room where she’d laid herself bare for one man, and ached for another.

  With no choice, she followed Alec back into the bedchamber, attempting to appear as unmoved by the moment as he was. “What if he’s left? Absconded with it?”

  Alec ripped open the doors to the massive wardrobe in the corner, revealing a sea of clothing in silks and satins and wools and linens—every color imaginable. “I assume he is not gone.”

  She shook her head, drawing nearer. “Derek would never leave his clothes behind.”

  He looked to her. “He’s a peacock, you know.”

  “I know,” she said, reaching for a turquoise vest, brocaded in gold thread. “But peacocks can be very compelling.”

  A low rumble sounded from his chest, followed by a distinctly grumpy, “Compelling is not the same as worthwhile.”

  Her fingers stilled on the shimmering blue fabric. “Scotsmen are the latter, I suppose?” Later, she would wonder why on earth she thought the words appropriate. Where on earth the words had come from.

  But in the moment, as they stood in the dark, her past and future colliding in disappointment and frustration and doom, she didn’t care.

  He looked at her, the silence of the house cacophonous between them. He cleared his throat, and Lily heard the nervous catch there. “More worthwhile than he is.”

  More compelling, as well.

  She closed the wardrobe doors and turned, pressing her back to them, staring up at Alec towering above her. “Why did you leave me?”
>
  His brow furrowed. “I’m here.”

  You left me here, as well.

  She shook her head. “This afternoon. With Stanhope.”

  “You told me to leave you.”

  Had she? She supposed she had. But then—she shook her head. “But you didn’t leave me. You saved me. And then you left me.”

  He was silent for a long moment, and she would have given anything to know what he was thinking. Finally, he said, “You were well. And Stanhope was there.”

  It was what she had expected—a quick, perfunctory answer. But it wasn’t true. And she knew it. She shook her head. “But why did you leave me?”

  “Because . . .” He trailed off, and silence stretched between them for an eternity before he added, “Because you deserve someone like him.”

  “I don’t want someone like him,” she said.

  “Why the hell not? Stanhope is a damn prince among men.”

  “He’s very kind,” she said.

  “Is that a problem?” he sputtered. “Kind, handsome, titled, and charming. The holy trinity of qualities.”

  She smiled. “That’s four qualities.”

  He narrowed his gaze on her. “What is wrong with you, Lily? You could have him. He knows about the painting and doesn’t mind. Indeed, he seemed only to enjoy your company.”

  She should want Frederick, Lord Stanhope. She should sink to her knees and thank the stars that he was willing to have her. And yet . . . she didn’t.

  She was too busy wanting another. Impossibly so.

  Not that she could tell him that. “We’ve known each other for two hours. He couldn’t possibly desire me.”

  “Any man in his right mind would desire you after two minutes.”

  She blinked.

  He shut his mouth.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing. We must go.”

  “I’m a scandal.”

  “You’re the very best kind of scandal,” he grumbled as he headed for the door to the room.

  At least, that’s what she thought he said. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “You’re the very worst kind of scandal,” he said, louder.

  That wasn’t what he had said. She couldn’t keep her smile from her face. “What does that mean?”

  “You’re the kind of scandal a man wants to claim for his own.”

  She gaped at him. She’d never in her life heard something so romantic. And she certainly hadn’t expected it to come from the mouth of this massive, moody Scot.