A Scot in the Dark by Sarah MacLean

And then, as if telling her the truth had not been enough, he’d disappeared.

  She’d waited for his return three nights earlier, ultimately falling asleep in the receiving room at Dog House, not wishing to miss him. He had not returned. Nor had he returned the day after. Nor the day after that.

  He’d even taken the dogs which she had to believe meant he had no intention of returning, no matter how much she wished for it.

  And so, this morning, Lily had taken matters into her own hands, and called in reinforcements.

  “Aren’t you happy that we decided to take on the mantle of chaperone?” She looked up from the ribbon case to find Lady Sesily Talbot on the opposite side, grinning widely. “We’re near to fairy godmothers with all of our hard work and dedication.”

  In the corner, Seleste and Seline lingered over a collection of hairpins and accessories that some would call de rigueur and others would call de trop. They giggled at something in the pile, and Lily wondered what it must be like to have such little about which to worry. They were married—or nearly so—to men who were rumored to adore them. And so they lived without hesitation. Without loneliness. Always part of an us.

  Lily felt a keen spear of jealousy as she watched them, imagining how her life might have been different, if only. If only her father hadn’t died. The duke followed suit and the others, like little toy soldiers, all in a row. Perhaps she would not have been alone on Michaelmas. Perhaps she never would have met Derek. Never sat for the painting.

  Never met Alec.

  She inhaled sharply at the thought, rejecting it instantly. She would not trade meeting Alec. Not even if she had driven him away. Not even if she never saw him again.

  “Dear Lily,” Sesily said, breaking into her thoughts, more than welcome to do so. “Would you like to tell us why we are here?”

  I have found it.

  We attend Hawkins’s performance tomorrow. With Stanhope.

  You require a gown. No dogs.

  The missive had arrived along with directions to a modiste shop on Bond Street that morning, unsigned. It had not required signing. And still she wished for it, some kind of personal acknowledgment. What would he have chosen? Alec? His initials? His title?

  Not the last, certainly.

  Ugh. She was disgusting herself. He’d invited another man to join them. If that weren’t enough to prove her simpering was cabbageheaded, she did not know what was. She looked to Sesily, trying for brightness. “I require a gown.”

  Sesily raised a brow. “And the bit where you look as though you are a lad missing his favorite pup?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Because we are friends, I shall be patient and wait for you to tell me.”

  Friends. The unexpected word, one that Sesily used so quickly, as though friendship were natural and honest for her. As though it could be for Lily.

  The ache in Lily’s chest grew more insistent.

  “My ladies.” Madame Hebert, widely believed to be the best dressmaker in all of London—the scandal sheets claimed that she was rescued from Josephine’s court at the height of the wars—stepped through a nearby set of curtains. “It is a pleasure to see my favorite sisters again—” She looked to Lily. “Non! Not only sisters! Three and a new face.” She drew closer, setting a hand to Lily’s jaw, turning it left, then right. “You might be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever had in my shop.”

  It was not a compliment, but instead stated as fact. Lily blinked. “Thank you?”

  “This is Lillian Hargrove,” Sesily interjected. “Ward to the Duke of Warnick.”

  One perfect black brow rose, the only indication that the modiste heard the words.

  “Or simply Lily,” Lily replied.

  The dressmaker nodded. “You are here for Warnick.”

  If wishing made it so. She pushed the thought aside. “No.”

  “For another,” Seleste interjected with glee. “Earl Stanhope.”

  Except she wasn’t. Not really.

  Madame Hebert did not look away from Lily. “I heard you wore a dog dress to the Eversley ball.”

  “You did?”

  The Frenchwoman narrowed her gaze. “It is true?”

  “I was trying to prove a point,” Lily said, suddenly even more embarrassed than she was the night of the ball.

  “To Stanhope?”

  She straightened her shoulders. “To Warnick.”

  There was a long moment while the dressmaker considered the words. And then, “Oui. I shall dress you.”

  “Oh, excellent!” The trio of sisters clapped their hands excitedly. “She’s obviously going to need everything.”

  “Not everything,” Lily corrected, “Only a dress for—”

  Madame Hebert was already moving, pushing through the curtains as though Lily would simply follow. And she did, the Talbot sisters nearly carrying her along. “She does not dress just anyone,” Seline whispered. “She’s very particular.”

  “You’d think if she were particular, she’d avoid the scandal,” Lily whispered back. “Do you think she knows about me?” They entered the workspace and fitting rooms of the dress shop, revealing several seamstresses sewing beneath windows along the far wall, along with a woman poised on a raised platform, back to the door, young woman at her feet, pinning the hem of a lush amethyst silk.

  “I never avoid the scandal,” Hebert replied, as though she’d been a part of the conversation all along. “It’s scandals who are seen. And I like my clothing to be seen.” She turned to face Lily, indicating a platform nearby. “I would have avoided you before you were a scandal, Lovely Lily. When you were Lonely Lily.”

  “I do adore Hebert.” Sesily sank onto a nearby chaise and repeated herself to the older woman. “She’s going to need everything.”

  The dressmaker tilted her head, considering Lily for a long moment before she said, “Oui.”

  “Non,” Lily said. “I only need a dress for the theater.”

  “Valerie,” Hebert was already turning away, summoning a younger woman nearby. “Bring me the blues.” Turning back, she said, “I’ve a handful of dresses that shall work for you, and require minimal adjustments before tomorrow night. But as I told your duke, the rest of the trousseau will have to come in time.”

  “He’s not my—” she began the denial before the Frenchwoman’s entire sentence settled. “Trousseau?”

  “One of my very favorite words.” Seline sighed from her place next to her sisters on the settee nearby. “The best part of marriage.”

  “Well, the second best part,” Seleste said dryly, sending her sisters into giggles.

  “Lily will learn about that bit,” Seline replied. “And with Stanhope—what a treat.”

  “He is terribly handsome,” Seleste agreed.

  Sesily, however, remained quiet, watching Lily carefully, through eyes that seemed far too knowing.

  “The Earl of Stanhope is not going to marry me,” Lily said, turning away to the modiste, who was busy sifting through Valerie’s armful of gowns, finally extracting a stunning cerulean gown. When she held it up for viewing, Lily nearly gasped at the rich color. “It is beautiful,” she said, unable to stop herself from reaching for it.

  Madame Hebert nodded. “Oui. And you shall be beautiful in it.” She thrust it into Lily’s hands and pointed to a dressing room. Lily did as she was told and returned within minutes, the gown a shockingly near-perfect fit for her.

  “Oh, my,” Seleste sighed.

  “That is it,” from Seline.

  Sesily smiled broadly. “He shan’t know what’s hit him.”

  For a fleeting moment, the words summoned a vision of Alec, eyes narrowed to slits, hands reaching for her, just as he had in the carriage on the way home from the Eversley ball. What would she do to capture his attention again? To summon his touch? His kiss?

  She’d wear this dress every day for the rest of time.

  And then she remembered it was not for Alec. It was for another
man. One she must catch. In three days’ time.

  The dressmaker pointed to the unattended platform, her staff swarming like beetles, immediately fussing about her, barking orders in French, pinning with wicked speed, as though she had been born with a pincushion attached to one wrist. Lily did not speak French well enough to know what was being discussed, and so she did her best to remain still as they moved about, letting only her eyes move, from the Talbot sisters on the nearby settee to the others in the shop, seamstresses, a woman in the corner who appeared to be calculating the accounts, and the other customer who had apparently completed her fitting and was, in that moment, exiting a dressing room.

  Lily’s gaze widened.

  Countess Rowley’s gaze trailed the blue gown to the floor, taking in the cut, the fall of the fabric, the hemline, before rising again to meet Lily’s eyes, a knowing, unsettling glint in her own. And when she spoke, it was with all the calm of a queen. “He shall adore that.”

  The room quieted in the wake of the pronouncement, the only movement the subtle straightening of the trio on the chaise.

  Lily did not speak. Too afraid to do so.

  The countess did not feel similarly. “He always liked blue.”

  She would not rise to the bait.

  “Thank you,” she said, deliberately returning the countess’s appraisal. “I rather like blue myself.”

  One blond brow arched. “You know he came to see me three evenings ago.”

  “Who does she—” Seleste began.

  “Has she been with—” Seline chimed in.

  Sesily raised a hand, stopping them from speaking even as she rose to her feet, as though she might save Lily from this moment.

  As though anyone could save Lily from this moment.

  Three evenings ago, she’d asked Alec if he wanted her. Three evenings ago, he’d said no.

  “I don’t believe you,” she said.

  It was a lie. She did believe it. Three evenings ago, he’d gone to this woman, this cool, unmoving, unmoved woman. The opposite of Lily. Thoroughly aristocratic and filled with London perfection. And his past.

  And Lily had returned home, and waited for him.

  And he had not come.

  The countess saw the lie for what it was. She smiled and approached, looking every inch as though she was made for this place, this moment. Looking like the kind of woman any man would want. Beyond scandal.

  Beyond shame.

  Jealousy shot through Lily as the countess neared, a small, knowing smile on her lips. “He came to me, because he wanted the reminder that you are not for him.”

  The words stung like a blow, hard and wicked.

  Lily refused to show it.

  She straightened, willing herself strong. “If he came to you, Peg, then I assure you, I am not for him.”

  “Good girl,” she thought she heard one of the Talbot sisters say.

  Surprise warred with anger on the countess’s face, there, then gone, disappeared by that cool mask. “Poor Lovely Lily. Don’t you see? Alec is not built for a lifetime, but instead best used for one night.”

  Even without full understanding, the words whipped their punishment, and Lily did all she could do, turning to the modiste. “Are you through, Madame?”

  “Not quite,” the Frenchwoman said from her place at the hem of the gown. “But the countess is.” Lady Rowley was not given an opportunity to respond before the dressmaker was snapping her fingers and a collection of young women arrived to move her into the front room.

  Seline and Seleste released twin breaths from the settee as Sesily rushed forward. “That woman is a termagant.” She drew close. “You handled her beautifully. I was particularly impressed by the use of her given name.”

  The name Alec used with her.

  The name he’d used with her for God knew how long.

  He had gone to her. And he’d left Lily.

  “I . . .” She trailed off, unable to find words. She looked down at her hands to discover them shaking. She looked up to Sesily. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Sesily met her gaze and took her hands, holding them tightly, keeping them still. “You remain strong. And you never, ever let her see you tremble.”

  “Agreed,” Seleste joined them, along with Seline. “Nor him.”

  Lily shook her head. “I don’t know to whom you refer.”

  Sesily smiled at the proper words. “Of course not. But if you did . . .” She paused. “. . . know to whom we refer, that is . . . if you did . . . I assume you’d choose him over the other?”

  Tears threatened, and Lily looked to the ceiling, willing them away. Willing herself away from here. As Madame Hebert stood from her place at Lily’s feet, crossing the room to a cabinet full of fabric, Lily reminded herself that Alec was not an option. He was never an option. And two nights past, he had made it more than clear.

  She looked to her friend. “He does not want me.”

  “Bollocks,” Sesily said.

  Lily shook her head. “It is true. He left me alone in the house. I have not seen him in three days. Apparently he left me to seek comfort in the arms of . . .” She trailed off, and waved an arm in the direction of the front room of the shop. After a long moment, she added, soft and sad, “Yes. Yes of course, I choose him.”

  It was the first time she’d admitted it aloud, and the words were terrifying and heartbreaking all at once. She wanted him. More than she’d ever wanted anything. “But he doesn’t want me.”

  “Oh, Lily,” Sesily said, climbing up onto the platform and wrapping her in an embrace. Lily had always heard that friends’ embraces made one feel better, but this did not. This made her feel worse. It made her want to give herself up to the other woman, to cry and wail and leave all her sadness, all her hopelessness, at Sesily’s feet.

  But somehow, in that wanting, she discovered the truth.

  That it also made her feel like she was not alone.

  “We’ve another sister, did you know that?” Sesily said, and it took Lily a moment to catch up to the change in topic. “Seraphina.”

  Lily nodded. “Duchess of Haven.” The fifth of the Soiled S’s, accused of trapping a duke into marriage, disappeared from London months earlier.

  A shadow crossed Sesily’s face. “Sera couldn’t win her duke. Not in the end.”

  Sometimes, love was impossible. Lily understood that.

  Except it did not seem that she understood the Talbot sisters, who looked to her with new resolve. “But your duke. You shall get him. We shall help.”

  It wasn’t possible of course, but it was a wonderful fantasy.

  Lily removed herself from the embrace, dashing away tears to discover Seleste and Seline had joined them. That she was not alone. That she was not one, but four.

  Five.

  For behind the Talbot sisters stood the French modiste, London’s most revered dressmaker, holding a length of fabric and watching her with a keen, knowing eye. “If you choose him,” she extended her arms, revealing the fabric. “You find him. And you wear this.”

  Lily’s eyes went wide as she took the offering, the movement punctuated by little excited gasps from her friends. Holding the fabric in her hands, she admitted it again, her single, undeniable truth. “I want him.”

  “Then he is yours,” Sesily replied, her words dry and full of knowledge. “Truthfully, if that does not win him, the man cannot be won.”

  Chapter 16

  TARTAN: TEMPTING TEXTILE? OR TERRIBLE TREND?

  Alec didn’t think it possible, but the Kensington town house once owned by the aging Number Nine and his wife was even worse than the dog house.

  Evidently, Lady Nine had been a collector. Of everything.

  In the three days he had been living in the deserted town house off Regent Street—Settlesworth had mentioned something about a boating accident in the North Country that took Duke and Duchess Nine tragically together—Alec had been overwhelmed by tables full of miniature animals, shelves laden with porcelain
statues, and glass-doored cabinets chock full of tea sets. It occurred to him that when this particular house had been downsized to a skeleton staff, several maids had likely been kept on for the purpose of dusting the mad collection of useless items.

  It also occurred to him, as he entered the house in the dead of night, greeted by Angus, the dog’s wild tail wagging, barely missing a low-lying table filled with little china bells, that he should have selected a different house. This was not a place for beasts—of the four- or two-legged variety.

  He crouched to give the dog a proper greeting, “Good evening, friend.” Angus leaned in for a scratch, sighing his pleasure at Alec’s touch. “We’ve each other, at least.” He looked up, surveying the foyer. “Where is Hardy?”

  He was not entirely surprised that the second dog was missing—Hardy had spent the last three days sighing and wandering the house aimlessly, as though he longed for his lost love.

  As though she had not imprinted herself on every part of him in the week he’d known her, she’d also ruined his dogs.

  It had been the most difficult thing he’d ever done, returning to the Dog House that night, resigned to find a new home, where he would not threaten her future. From which he could guard her from a distance.

  She’d been asleep in the receiving room when he entered, the dogs at the hearth nearby.

  If not for the lingering scent of Peg’s perfume on his plaid, he might not have been able to leave her. But he had. And now he had a miserable dog to show for it.

  With a sigh of his own, he stood, making his way up the central staircase to the bedroom that had been prepared for him, Angus trailing him in the darkness. Hardy would survive. He would resume his ordinary life, and return to his ordinary character when they returned to Scotland.

  Alec could only hope he would do the same.

  Time grew short and Scotland loomed like a promise. A place where he would have no memory of Lily. Of her beauty. Of her smile. Of her strength. Of all the ways he wished to—

  Love her.

  He shook his head at the thought, insidious and unwavering. He did not love her. He would not love her.

  He could not love her.