A Scot in the Dark by Sarah MacLean
“You like it?” he asked, and the doubt in the question surprised her. It had been months since she’d heard it last, on late nights when it would creep into his thoughts and he would offer to bring her back to England if it would make her happy.
But England did not make her happy. Not the way he did.
She kissed him again, deliberately misunderstanding. “Yes, husband. I like the way you taste. A great deal.”
Doubt was replaced with desire. “I meant Scotland, minx.”
She matched his look. “Aye, mo chridhe. I like it very much.”
He growled at the words in perfect Scottish brogue, and let out a long sigh of his own. “Well then, why in hell are we here?”
“Because you have a sister who begged for a season.”
Cate had been thrilled to receive Lily at Dunworthy when they had returned from London, excited beyond measure to have a sister, just as Lily had been. The two became fast friends and, within weeks, Alec had agreed that Cate could have the season of which she’d dreamed.
It had not occurred to him that the season would require months in London. “Let’s leave her here and go home.”
“No. Did you see her tonight? Her happiness?”
“No,” he lied. “Between the two of you, I spent the entirety of the evening wanting to beat off London’s male population with a large stick.” He kissed her again, deep and lovely. “Let’s go home, lass. I want to make love to you in the mist.”
She shivered at the words. “They have mist in London.”
“Not Scottish mist.”
Her laugh was replaced by a long groan when his hands moved again, sliding higher, toward the place where she wanted him quite desperately.
He cursed soft and wicked. “Duchess?”
“Mmm?”
“Why aren’t you wearing underthings?”
She sighed. “For this precise reason.”
“And you did not tell me so at the ball? Do you realize what I could have done with that information? We could have defiled several of the Eversley House sitting rooms.”
“I intended it,” she said, willing him higher. Aching for him to give her what she desired. “But I was waylaid.” She stopped. “Between ensuring that Cate received the proper introductions and the Duke of Montcliff—”
“What about Montcliff?”
“I’m feeling quite proud of myself, honestly. The Duke of Montcliff added one hundred thousand pounds to the scholarship fund tonight.”
Inspired by her own childhood and Alec’s past, Lily had thrown herself into the work of ensuring that children who lacked funds or connection had the means to secure the futures they desired. The ones they deserved. She wished to give possibility to as many children as she could. And the stoic Duke of Montcliff’s surprising donation had made that goal even more real this evening.
Her announcement garnered Alec’s attention. “One hundred thousand? Honestly?”
She reached for him, her fingers feathering through the hair at his temple. “Remarkable, no? Think of the choices they’ll make. Think of the freedom they’ll have.”
He bowed his head, leaning into her touch, before he took her in his arms once more. “You, my love, are remarkable.”
She blushed at the praise, even as she basked in it. “Apparently he liked the idea of being in partnership with us. Did you know that we are society darlings? It’s a disappointment, really. I had thought scandal had more stick.”
“Mmmm. Disappointing indeed,” he said, distracted again, turning her to face the door, working at the buttons down the back of her gown. “I am happy to scandalize you now, if you like.”
“If you do not mind very much, Your Grace.”
“Not at all,” he teased at her ear. “I want a look at these missing undergarments.” He began to work at the buttons. “Must there be so many of these?”
She laughed. “You need a button hook.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said with affront. “I need no such thing.” His hands went to the top of the dress and Lily gasped as he gave the dress a mighty tug, sending buttons flying across the room.
“You ruined my dress.” She gasped, not caring in the slightest.
“I shall buy you a dozen more,” he said as the dress fell in a pool of silk at their feet. “It was worth it. Turn around.”
She did, proud and fearless, eager for his gaze. For his touch.
For him.
“You are glorious.”
She smiled, heat coming high on her cheeks. “I’ve something for you.”
He raised a brow. “I see that.”
The smile became a grin. “Something else.” She took his hand then, leading him to the entrance to the duchess’s bedchamber, which served as a wardrobe and private office rather than sleeping quarters, which was best, as the bed was currently occupied by dogs.
Two massive grey tails thumped at their appearance, and Alec went to greet the hounds as Lily crossed to the little desk in the corner of the room.
She lit a candle, revealing the box she had left for just this moment. Lifting the parcel and turning back to face her husband, she said, “I had a conversation earlier this week with Bernard.”
“Love, I have to say, your invoking the name of our solicitor standing in the nude, candlelight flickering across your stunning skin, is not precisely how I wished the evening to proceed.”
“It turns out, husband, that tomorrow is your birthday.”
He quickly calculated the date. “It is, as a matter of fact.”
“And we shall have a serious conversation about you keeping such information from me, I assure you. As I intend to do with your sister. I shouldn’t need a solicitor to apprise me of such a thing. But thank goodness for Bernard.”
“Yes. I’ve always found him a great asset.” She laughed at the dry words, and he came closer, pointing to the box. “Is that my present?”
“It is, as a matter of fact.”
“May I have it?”
“Do you deserve it?” she teased. He did, of course. She’d never known a man so deserving.
His gaze darkened. “Only tell me what I might do to earn it, my love, and I shall do it with pleasure.”
The words sent a thrum of desire through her as she imagined all the things he might do for her. To her. The things she might do in return. Her breath quickened, and he drew nearer still, his fingers coming to the box, removing it from her hands as he said, soft and low and liquid, “I do not require a present. I only require you.”
She shook her head to clear it of her own desire. “No,” she said. “Open it.”
He did, sliding the top from the small, square parcel and peered inside. Lily was riveted to his handsome face, made even more beautiful in the flickering golden candlelight, his perfect, tempting lips already curving in anticipation.
And then anticipation was gone, replaced with confusion.
And then surprise.
And then joy, as he reached into the box and extracted the pair of little white boots, complete with red leather soles.
Joy turned to adoration when he looked at her. “Your boots.”
Lily smiled. “No longer mine.”
Alec was on his knees, then, pulling her to him, pressing kisses across the soft, bare skin of her stomach, whispering in Gaelic to the child who grew within. “You have given me so much,” he said, finally, to Lily. “And now . . .”
Lily’s hands came to his head, reveling in her proud, strong Scot—the man who had given her everything she had ever dreamed. Holding him. Loving him.
They stayed like that for a long time, until the Duke of Warnick stood, lifted his duchess into his arms, carried her to their very sturdy bed, and loved her, quite thoroughly, in return.
Author’s Note
The inspiration for this and all Scandal & Scoundrel books is modern celebrity gossip, something that readers who—like me—have a secret love for US Weekly, TMZ, and Tatler will notice right away. While Scandal & Scoundrel is
The Scandal & Scoundrel series could not be written without the vast, fascinating collections of the New York Public Library and the British Library—the gossip columns of newspapers long defunct remain in their archives. For this book, I am also grateful for the archives of the Royal Academy of Arts, now in its 248th year—which continues to exhibit contemporary British art to the public at large during its annual summer exhibition. It should be said that, while Exhibition-related people and paintings in the book are historically correct, the idea of a final, touring piece to be revealed on the last day of the exhibition is all mine.
As with all my books, this one would be a pale version of itself without Carrie Feron (who is always right), Nicole Fischer, Leora Bernstein, and the outstanding team at Avon Books, including Liate Stehlik, Shawn Nicholls, Pam Jaffee, Caroline Perny, Tobly McSmith, Carla Parker, Brian Grogan, Frank Albanese, Eileen DeWald, and Eleanor Mikucki. Special shout-out to Lucia Macro for wonderful conversations about all the best bits of romance. And, of course, many thanks to the remarkable Steve Axelrod.
Thanks to Lily Everett for extensive celebrity “research,” to Carrie Ryan and Sophie Jordan for always answering the phone, to my sister Chiara for an early read, and to Ally Carter for a late one.
To Eric, thank you for being the best of men. To V, may you always face scandal with strength, and be better for it. And to my amazing readers, thank you for always taking the journey with me—nothing without you.
As A Scot in the Dark goes to the printer, I’m hard at work on book three in the Scandal & Scoundrel series—the story of Sesily’s disappeared sister, Seraphina, and the duke she did not win. Join me (and the rest of the motley Scandal & Scoundrel crew!) in 2017 for The Day of the Duchess!
An Excerpt from The Day of the Duchess
Scandal & SCOUNDREL
Vol 3 / Iss 1 13 August 1836
DISAPPEARED DUCHESS DISCOVERED!
GOSSIP PERFUMED Parliament today, when Seraphina, the Disappeared DUCHESS OF HAVEN returned from her scandalous sojourn to scandalize society and spar with her spouse on the floor of the House of Lords.
The Long Lost Lady's parliamentary petition? DIVORCE!
By all accounts, HAUGHTY HAVEN has hied home, ceding the floor (but not the war) to his once lady love, then disdained duchess, and now unwilling wife. The lady will not be ignored, however. She follows, furious, vowing to end the marriage by any means necessary. Is there anything more salacious than a summer scandal?
MORE TO COME.
The Day of the Duchess
Scandal & Scoundrel, Book III
Coming Summer 2017
Chapter 1
August 1836
House of Lords, Parliament
She’d left him two years, seven months ago, exactly.
Malcolm Bevingstoke, Duke of Haven, looked to the tiny wooden calendar wheels inlaid into the blotter on his desk in his private office above the House of Lords.
August 20, 1836. The last day of the parliamentary session, filled with pomp and idle.
Which lead to lingering memory.
Haven spun the wheel with the six embossed upon it. Five. Four. He took a deep breath.
Get out. He heard his own words, cold and angry with betrayal and quiet menace. Don’t ever return.
August became July. May. March.
January 20, 1834. She is gone.
His fingers moved without thought, finding comfort in the familiar click of the wheels.
March 17, 1833.
The way I feel about you . . . Her words now—soft and full of temptation. I’ve never felt anything like this.
He hadn’t, either. As though light and breath and hope had flooded the room, filling all the dark spaces. Filling his lungs and heart. And all because of her.
Until he’d discovered the truth.
The clock in the corner of the office ticked and tocked, counting the seconds until Haven was due in his seat in the hallowed main chamber of the House of Lords, where men of higher purpose and passion had sat for centuries before him. His fingers played the little calendar like a virtuoso, as though they’d done this dance a hundred times before. A thousand.
And they had.
March 1, 1833. The day they met.
So, they let simply anyone become a duke, do they? No deference. Teasing and charm and pure, unadulterated beauty.
You think dukes are bad, imagine what they accept of duchesses?
That smile. As though she’d never met another man. As though she’d never wanted to. Until him. He’d been hers the moment he’d seen that smile. Before that. Imagine, indeed.
And then it had fallen apart. He’d lost everything, and then lost her.
Would there ever be a time when he stopped thinking of her? Would there be a date that did not remind him of her? Of the time that had stretched like an eternity since she’d left?
The clock struck eleven, heavy chimes sounding in the room, echoed by a dozen others sounding down the long, oaken corridor beyond, summoning men of longstanding name to the duty that had been theirs before they drew breath.
Summoning Haven from his memories.
He spun the calendar wheels with force, leaving them as they lay. November 37th 3842. A fine date—one on which he had absolutely no chance of thinking of her.
Haven stood, moving to the corner of the room where his red robes hung—a thick, heavy burden meant to echo the weight of responsibility shouldered by he who wore it. He swung the garment over his shoulders, the red velvet’s heat overwhelming him almost immediately, fairly suffocating him. All this, before he reached for his powdered wig, grimacing as he flipped it onto his head, the horsehair whipping his neck before laying flat and uncomfortable, like a punishment for past sins.
Ignoring the sensation, Haven ripped open the door to his offices and made his way through the now quiet corridors to the entrance to the main chamber of the House of Lords. Stepping inside, he inhaled deeply, immediately regretting the act. It was August and hot as hell on the floor of Parliament, the air rank with sweat and perfume. The windows were open to allow a breeze into the room—a barely-there stirring that only exacerbated the stench, adding the reek of the Thames to the already horrendous smell within.
It was time to go home for the summer.
Haven’s heart filled at the thought. At home, the river ran cool and crisp, unsullied by the filth of London. At home, the air was clean, promising summer idyll and hinting at more. At the future.
He slid into one of the long benches surrounding the speaker’s floor, where the Lord Chancellor had already begun. “My lords, if there is no more formal business for this session, we will close this year’s parliamentary season.”
Fists pounded on seatbacks around the hall, a chorus of approval echoing through the chamber.
Haven exhaled and resisted the urge to scratch at his wig, knowing that if he gave in to the desire, he would become consumed with its rough discomfort.
Instead, he thought of Highley. He could be there in two hours, and he would have two weeks before the visitors began arriving. Not visitors. Before the women began arriving. Before he selected his second wife.
After all, he was the sixth Duke of Haven, and he required an heir, something that he could not procure with a wife who had left him two years, seven months ago, exactly. A wife who was gone. Forever.
And so, he would take the summer, and he would find himself a new wife. It should not be so difficult, honestly, considering how easily he’d found the first. He’d stepped from a crowded ballroom to a balcony in search of fresh air. And there she’d been, fresh air, incarnate. As though she’d been waiting for him.
And she had.
This summer, he would find a new wife. And in doing so, he would do what his first wife so clearly wished. He would forget her. And all the mistakes they’d made in the balance.
“My lords!” the Lord Chancellor called. “Is there, indeed, no additional formal business for the current session?”
A rousing chorus of “Nay!” boomed through the room. One would think the House of Lords was filled with schoolboys desperate for an afternoon in the local swimming hole instead of two hundred pompous aristocrats eager to get to their mistresses.
The Lord Chancellor grinned, his ruddy face gleaming with sweat beneath his wig as he spread his wide hands over his ample girth. “Well then! It is His Majesty’s Royal will and pleasure . . .”
The enormous doors to the chamber burst open, the sound echoing through the quiet hall, competing with the chancellor’s voice. Heads turned, but not Haven’s; he was too eager to leave London and his wig behind to worry about whatever was going on beyond.
The Lord Chancellor collected himself, cleared his throat, and said, “. . . that this Parliament be prorogued to Thursday, the Twentieth day of October next . . .”
A collection of disapproving harrumphs began as the door closed with a powerful bang. Haven looked then, following the gazes of the men assembled to the now closed door to chambers. He couldn’t see anything amiss.
“Ahem!” the Lord Chancellor said, the sound full of disapproval, before he redoubled his commitment to closing the session. Thank God for that. “. . . Thursday, the Twentieth day of October next . . .”
“Before you finish, my Lord Chancellor?”
Haven stiffened.
The words were strong and somehow soft and lilting and beautifully feminine—so out of place in the House of Lords, off limits to the fairer sex. Surely that was why his breath caught. Surely that was why his heart began to pound. Why he was suddenly on his feet amidst a chorus of masculine outrage.