A Scot in the Dark by Sarah MacLean
She stopped.
He rubbed the back of one hand across his mouth, aching for her. Afraid of her.
“Are you going to do it?” she whispered.
With effort, he rose his gaze to her. “Do what?”
She smiled at him—not the coquettish smile he’d seen on women before in this particular situation, but something far more dangerous—she looked happy. Gleeful. Eager.
You could make her happy if you decide to do so.
He pushed the thought away. He didn’t want Stanhope here. And then she replied, and the earl was the farthest thing from his mind. “Are you going to tell me what you want me to do?”
He was assaulted with images—with hundreds of ideas of what he’d like her to do for him. To him. To herself. He returned his attention to the trousers, a half-dozen buttons in the way of what he wanted. And he did as he was asked.
“Take them off.”
Her smile turned utterly satisfied. “With pleasure.”
The trousers were gone before he had time to appreciate her skill with the fastenings, shucked across the room, revealing bare legs that promised sin and salvation all at once. She lay back on the tiny bed, one long arm covering her breasts, and the other cutting a swath across her beautiful, rounded stomach, the hand covering the place he wanted more than anything in the world.
“Go on, Your Grace,” she teased, knowing that with every breath, with every movement, with every stunning smile, she made him mad with desire. “What can I give you next?”
“Open for me.” The command shocked him even as her lips fell open in a stunning, surprised inhale. For a moment, he thought he’d gone too far. And then she did, spreading her beautiful thighs wide on the narrow bed. She did not, however, move her hand.
He raised a brow. “Minx.”
She smiled. “You will have to be more specific about your desires, Your Grace.”
She was magnificent.
“I desire you,” he said.
The smile widened, but the hand did not move. “Much more specific.”
He unclasped the pin on his shoulder, holding his plaid in place, and her eyes widened, her fingers tightening so barely that one might not even notice. One might not notice, that was, if one were not fully riveted to the woman in question, hard and hot and desperate for her.
He was naked in seconds, his cock hard and aching for her.
Her eyes widened, and she—dammit—she licked her lips, her gaze trained on him. “More specific, even, than that.”
“I desire that you move your hand, lass,” he said, approaching the bed and staring down at her, reveling in her glorious nudity. “So that I might have a closer look at you.”
She raised a brow. “Only a look? Is that some kind of Scottish half measure?”
His lips twitched at her teasing and he let his burr take over. “Once I’ve seen ye, lass, if yer lucky, I might touch ye, and once I’ve touched ye, ye can wager I’ll be tastin’.”
She laughed then, wild and free, like the Highlands. “I think, Mr. Stuart,” she whispered, moving her hand, revealing a thatch of secret, stunning auburn hair, “that if ye’ll be touchin’ me, it’ll be you who is lucky.”
And she was right. He was the luckiest man alive. For the night.
To honor that good fortune, he laid himself down next to her, and proceeded to do all he’d promised, whispering to her the whole time, revealing her secrets in the little room as he made love to her. “So soft,” he said at her ear, his lips lingering over the soft skin of her neck. “So wet.” He licked, worrying the lobe between his teeth as he slipped a finger through her folds, drenched with her desire. “So warm,” he said, that finger sliding deep and returning again and again, swirling and petting and stroking until she was writhing beneath him and he moved to her breast.
He licked, long and slow, before taking the straining tip between his lips and sucking, soft and rhythmic, in time to the movements of his hand, and she came off the bed like she was pulled on a string, one hand threading into his hair, the other finding his, strong and sure below, slowing it as she rode her climax to its glorious end.
And it was glorious. She turned pink with pleasure, with excess. And when she settled, sighing his name and opening those eyes to meet his, he could see that her thoughts had scrambled.
She dragged his mouth to hers once more, kissing him slow and deep and thorough.
And when she released him, he said, “I desire it again.”
Her eyes went wide and her lips curved into a little O. He moved, this time spreading her thighs apart with his shoulders and lifting her to his mouth with one arm, turning her into his banquet. Loving her with his hands and mouth until she came apart in his arms, his name first a whisper and then a scream on her lips.
And when she’d collapsed once more in a heap on the bed, he pressed soft kisses to her stomach and whispered, “You, Lily. It will always be you. Everything. Always. You,” until her breathing returned to normal and he growled, “Again,” before pressing his mouth to the center of her, where she glistened, warm and pink and sated.
“Alec,” she sighed, barely able to find the words. “Please. Love. What of you?”
As though there were anything in the word that would give him more pleasure than the taste of her on his lips and the sound of her in his ears and the feel of her in his hands.
One last time.
“Once more,” he said. “Once more.” And he made love to her with slow, slick strokes, gentle and slow, honoring her. Worshipping her. Pleasuring her until she found her rhythm once more, moving in time to his strokes, to her own desire. Until she came again, hard and long and magnificent, her hands in his hair and his name on her lips.
This.
This was what he would think of when he was old.
He had destroyed her with pleasure.
She was in pieces on the bed, without ability to move or even think, when he came up to lie beside her, to hold her as she trembled, weak from his hands and mouth and words. She turned into him, his large, warm arms coming around her.
“You betrayed me,” she said to his broad chest, rubbing her cheek across the crisp hair there, unable to summon the energy to say it with more conviction. “We were to be with each other.”
“And we were.”
She shook her head. “You did not take your pleasure.”
He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “That was the most pleasurable experience of my life, love. Sleep.” The words rumbled beneath her ear.
As though she could sleep with him there, with the hard length of him against her thigh like a promise. She was not going to sleep. Not until he had received his pleasure as openly and as thoroughly as she had.
Not until she had given it to him.
“No,” she whispered, sending her hand over the planes of his chest, enjoying the way the muscles of his torso tightened beneath her touch, and he hissed his desire. “I’ve other plans.”
“Lily,” he spoke her name in the flickering candlelight, his hand coming to hers, halting it on its path, just as her fingers found the place where soft hair grew thicker. “You don’t have to . . .”
She turned her face into the warmth of him, pressing a soft kiss to the skin on his chest. And another. And another, until his breath was coming harsher and she could feel the deep pulse of his heart beneath her lips. Only then did she slide her tongue out in a little circle, honoring him, adoring the way he drew tight like a bowstring at the touch.
She moved, her lips sliding down his body, over his torso, his free hand coming to her hair as he spoke her name low and dark and wonderful. She imagined he intended to stop her, but then she was licking over the planes of his stomach, breathing him in, and he was trembling at the touch, and—thank Heaven—forgot to stop her.
Not even when she moved her hand, sliding his away, clearing a path to the place she desperately wanted to reach. She leaned back, reveling in the size and strength of him—glorying in the fact that he was hers in
And then ran her lips up the hard, straining length of him, breathing his name as he arched off the bed with a wicked curse, and she gloried in the power he had given her. The strength. The pride that this man was not only hers, but that she was about to give him all he desired.
She licked over the tip of him, the salt and sweet of him tempting her even as he groaned her name, his hands coming to her, fingers sliding into her hair—not pulling to or pushing away, but cradling her with near-unbearable gentleness.
“Once more,” she whispered his words back to him, and the groan deepened, his fingers flexing against her as she parted her lips and took him slow and deep, adoring the feel of him. The steel of him. The desire that rioted through him.
And through her, as well, as he gasped his pleasure in a wicked, tempting echo of what she had experienced only minutes earlier.
She’d never in her life wanted anything more than Alec’s pleasure, and that desire drove her further, licking and sucking and drawing him as deep as she could, playing with speed and sensation, finding the places that seemed to drive him wild and trying—desperately—to send him over the edge.
His hands tightened in her hair. “I can’t . . . Lily . . . Please . . . If you don’t . . . I won’t be able to . . .” The words were a growl, deep and fierce. “Lily.”
“I don’t want you to stop,” she whispered to the pulsing, beautiful head of him. “I don’t want you to hold back. I want you to give it to me. All of it. Let me revel in you.”
He whispered her name, dark and sinful in the little room, and Lily thrummed with power. With passion. With her own desire as she sucked deeper, licked, found a rhythm that brought them both to the edge, a string of Gaelic on his lips as he gave himself up to her, to passion, and finally, finally, with her name on his lips, to release.
She stayed with him, adoring him as he basked in his pleasure before ultimately lifting her to lay with him, pulling her into his arms, running his hands over her naked skin, whispering long strings of his lovely, lyric language against her hair, interspersing the words with soft, lingering kisses until she shivered and he pulled a blanket over them both.
“That was—”
The words were barely there—a rumble beneath her ear as much as anything else—trailing off, his thought incomplete. She smiled, kissing his chest. “I agree.”
“Lily,” he whispered, those massive hands still moving, cloaking her in warmth and love and security. “My Lily.”
She closed her eyes and sighed. “Yours.”
His hands stilled at the word, just barely, just enough for her to shift at the change, and he began anew, long, languid glides that tempted her with comfort she had never before experienced.
“Sleep,” he said, and there was something in the soft, rough word that sent a thread of unease whispering through her, but she was too exhausted to consider it. Too consumed with him to be able to think of a time he might not be with her. Touching her. A part of her.
His hands stroked over and over, until avoiding sleep became an impossibility. Lily closed her eyes and pressed closer to him with a final, soft plea. “Be here in the morning. We shall start anew.” And then, from the edge of sleep, “Do not leave me. Be here.”
Be mine.
Not two hours later, she woke in the darkness, cold and alone beneath the covers of her Berkeley Square bed. The curtains were open, but the London night beyond was dark as soot—the darkness that came when it was nearly dawn.
She sat up to light the candle on the bedside table, knowing even before the spark turned to flame what she would find.
He was gone.
Tears came, desperate and unavoidable as she looked around the room, this room that she’d chosen because she’d once been so lonely, and now fairly breathed with the memory of him. Of his touch. Of his kiss. Of his past and the way it destroyed him even as it made him the man he was.
He’d left her.
She threw her feet over the edge of the bed and Hardy sprang awake, a yelp of surprise waking Angus, who slept at the threshold of the room.
Hope slammed through her. The dogs were here. He had not left.
And still, the thread of certainty remained.
She set one hand to Hardy’s big head, staring down into the dog’s soulful eyes. “Where is he?”
Hardy sighed longingly, and Lily understood the pathetic sound better than any she’d heard in her life.
He had left. No doubt thinking she should be without him.
No doubt thinking she could be without him.
That was when she saw the letter. On the desk, propped up next to the still-covered painting, was an envelope in familiar ecru. He’d left her a note, drafted on her own paper. Propped on a pair of baby boots—the ones with red leather soles.
He had left her.
Dreading the truth, Lily reached for the envelope, her name in bold, black scrawl across the face.
Opened it.
The dowry is yours. The money due to you today, as well. And, of course, the painting, to do with what you wish.
I am leaving you Angus and Hardy—they have loved you from the start, and will be able to protect you better than I ever could. Not that you need them. You have always been strong enough to keep yourself safe.
You are the most glorious woman I have ever known, beautiful and passionate and powerful beyond measure, and no man will ever be worthy of you, especially not me. You asked me once for freedom, Lily, and though I have been a terrible guardian, today, I can give you that. Freedom to leave this place or stay in it. To be a queen of London and the world. To have the life you wanted. The life you dreamed of. The children, the marriage, the little feet that fit these silly red boots.
Whatever you choose.
Never doubt I will think of you, Lily. Then, and now.
Happy birthday, mo chridhe.
—Alec
The words swam with tears.
He’d left her.
Lillian Hargrove had been alone for the lion’s share of her existence. Since the moment she’d lost her father, she had lived beneath the servants’ stairs of a ducal mansion, between the glittering world of the aristocracy and the more ordinary common one. She’d learned to be alone here, in this room, in this house, living a quiet half life that lacked the promise of her dreams, and then a scandal that threatened even that.
And then Alec Stuart had broken down her door and vowed to protect her.
And her life had changed. And her dreams had changed. Now, they were of him alone. And he thought himself unworthy of them.
Her whole life, she’d been terrified of loneliness. Of living out her years with no one to share them with. And now, here, she knew the truth—that she’d trade a lifetime of the loneliness that had once so threatened her for a single day with Alec. Without hesitation.
For an intelligent man, the Duke of Warnick was a proper fool.
He’d left her. Like Endymion, choosing an eternity of dreams over a lifetime with the goddess he loved. There had been a time when Lily had thought she understood the choice. After all, dreams could feel terribly real.
But now—now that she had held him in her arms, laughed with him, loved him—dreams were nothing compared to the reality of him.
Her gaze settled on the painting, wrapped in cloth, leaning against the chest where she had once kept her dreams—dreams she’d thought destroyed by scandal.
Scandal that had brought him to her.
Scandal that he had taught her to bear, unashamed.
He could not leave her. Not when she needed him so much. Not when she loved him so well.
Not when he had so thoroughly become her dreams.
If he wanted her to put those little boots to use, he could damn well fill them himself.
Chapter 22
LILY LAID BARE!
MISS MUSE OR MISUSED?
All of London had chosen to attend the final morning of the
It was not the artwork London came to see, however; it was the scandal.
Lovely Lily, revealed.
“It’s horrible, really, what he did,” Alec heard at his elbow as he pressed through the crowd. “No girl deserves that.” On the surface, the words were sympathetic, but they were injected with such salacious glee that he gritted his teeth.
“She should not have sat for it if she did not wish for it to be made public,” came an utterly disdainful reply, and he realized that attending the exhibition might have been a poor idea, for he wanted to murder every person who spoke ill of Lily.
It was easy to throw stones at scandal when one’s own tales were still secret.
He pushed himself through the throngs, into the exhibition hall.
“And there,” a woman nearby said loudly enough to be heard, but softly enough to pretend it wasn’t for his benefit. “The guardian.”
“A terrible one, it seems,” another said on a gleeful giggle. “And am I surprised? Look at the man. Clothed as a barbarian. There are ladies present. We can see his knees.”
“And what lovely knees they are,” the first replied, her words thick with innuendo.
It was not the most ladylike sentiment he’d ever heard expressed, considering these two were so angry at his mere presence, but Alec let the comment pass. He could not murder all the gossips in London, no matter how well he would like to. In less than an hour, he’d be high atop his curricle, going hell-for-leather up the Great North Road, headed home.
Not home.
He would never be home again. Not as long as Lily was elsewhere.
He cleared his throat at the thought. Yes, home. England had always been his ruin, and today was no different. Indeed, if the last ten days had done nothing else, they had shown him the truth of his father’s curse.