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“That’s very kind,” she said.
“There’s nothing kind about it,” he said.
“There is, though,” she said. “Derek didn’t want me at all. And that was before I was a scandal.”
“Hawkins was an idiot,” he said, more sound than words. He was stopped now, at the closed door to the room, one hand splayed wide against the mahogany.
She was transfixed by that hand. By its ridges and valleys. By the scar that ran an inch below his first knuckle, stark white against the brown of his skin. “What happened to your hand?”
He did not move. “I met with the jagged end of a broken bottle.”
“How?”
“My father was an angry drunk.”
Lily winced, wanting to go to him. Instead she said, “I’m sorry.”
Still he did not look at her. “Don’t be. I left the day after he did this.”
“I’m sorry no one was there to care for you.”
The fingers flexed against the wood—the only indication that he heard her. “We should leave.”
“Do you think someone will want me?” she asked that hand, knowing she shouldn’t. Knowing that the question revealed far too much of what she wanted.
He pressed his forehead to the door and spoke in low, growling Gaelic before switching to English. “Yes, Lillian. I think someone will want you.”
“Do—” She stopped herself.
She couldn’t ask him.
No matter how much she liked the idea.
“Don’t ask me,” he whispered, and the sound made her ache.
He couldn’t. He didn’t like her. He never seemed to like her, that was. He seemed to view her as nothing but trouble.
Didn’t he?
She could not bear it. “Do you? Want me?”
He did not swear in Gaelic that time. He swore in fast, wicked English.
“Don’t answer,” she said, immediately, at once terrified he might and desperate for him to.
He did not lift his head from its place against the door. “I’m to protect you. I’m to protect you.” He said it like a litany, for himself. For God. Not for her. “I’m to protect you.”
“Don’t answer,” she repeated, ignoring the pang of rich desire coursing through her. It was simply that in the moment, she’d wished him to. Quite desperately.
Because, if Alec wanted her, she might have a chance at the life of which she’d once dreamed. With a man far more noble than she’d ever imagined.
I’m to protect you.
And perhaps it was that she had spent so much of her life alone, but the idea of being protected, of being partnered with someone who wished for her safety as she wished for his, was the most tempting thing she’d ever experienced.
But he’d left her, after all. Ridden away, as though they were nothing to each other.
And perhaps they weren’t.
She’d never been very good at understanding what she was to others. Or what they were to her, for that matter.
She nodded once, desperate to put the whole conversation behind her. “I understand. The answer is no. I should never have asked.”
There was a long moment, when she thought he might reply. Thought he might turn his head, look at her.
Tell me you want me, she willed him. Tell me this . . . us . . . it could be.
He didn’t. Instead, he let out a long, ragged breath and that hand that transfixed her balled into a fist. He pressed it against the door, his knuckles going stark white, the tendons in his arms straining. And then he spoke.
“No,” he said. “You shouldn’t have.”
He opened the door with a force that would have ripped it from the hinge if it were locked, as the studio door had been.
And he disappeared into the darkness.
Chapter 15
DILUTED DUKE DESERTS WOEFUL WARD
He deserved a medal.
For saying no. For not turning to her, taking her, making love to her until his hands stopped shaking with need. For not ruining her, thoroughly, there in the darkness, on the floor of Derek Hawkins’s bare bedroom.
Do you want me?
He wanted her like the Highlands wanted mist.
But he would be damned if he was going to take what he wanted and destroy the possibility of her getting what she deserved. A life with a man who was worthy of her. He’d thought it before he’d discovered her plans to steal the painting back, but once he’d committed to helping her, to finding the portrait and destroying it before it could be brought to light, his conviction was redoubled.
He would find the thing.
And he would protect her, dammit.
I’m to protect you.
How had he gathered the strength to leave her, not to turn to her. He’d heard it in her breath—the truth—the fact that she would give in to him. That she wished to. That she wanted him again. That she wanted more.
More. He’d thought he’d known what wanting felt like. What longing meant. And then he’d met Lillian Hargrove, and he’d realized the truth—that everything for which he’d ever hungered was nothing compared to her. There was nothing he would not pay. Nothing he would not do for another taste of her.
And that he was unworthy of her.
And as she’d stood in that empty house, in that empty room, where she’d once been nude for another man, he’d been willing to pay. To do. And he’d resisted.
To protect her. To give her a chance at the life she desired.
Because now, she had a chance for more than a marriage of convenience. Now, if they could find the painting, if they could steal it, she might still be ruined in the eyes of London, but she could avoid ruination in the eyes of the world.
Clever girl.
He should have thought of it himself. Would have, if he wasn’t so blinded by her beauty. By her strength. By everything about her. But he’d been too busy protecting her. From London. From her future. From her past.
From himself.
Yes. He deserved a damn medal.
When they’d left, it had begun to rain in earnest, and he’d continued to do the best thing for her, stuffing her into a hack and climbing onto the block next to the driver, for her own safety.
Or for his.
He wasn’t certain what he would do if he ended up inside the carriage with her, next to her. Sharing her space. Breathing her air. Smelling her, somehow like heather and Highlands.
The rain stung his face as the carriage careened around corners, returning her to the safety of Grosvenor Square, where they would lie in their beds, separated by walls adorned with dogs, and he would pretend to sleep, aching to go to her. To strip her bare and worship her with his hands and lips and tongue—
The thought had him growling in the cold May rain, recalling her taste. Recalling the peaks and valleys of her body and imagining how her most secret places would feel against his tongue.
“Problem, m’lord?”
Of course there was a problem.
He wanted Lily with a raging intensity. And she was not his to want.
“Stop the carriage up here,” he said, digging deep in his pocket to pay the driver. “Where are we?”
“Hanover Square.”
“I shall walk from here.”
“Sir. It rains.”
As though he hadn’t noticed. “Take your passenger to Grosvenor Square.”
His fingers brushed a piece of ecru in his coat pocket, and he extracted it, along with his purse. Looked down at it in the light bouncing about from the hack lantern. Countess Rowley. Peg’s calling card. His unknown valet must have transferred it from his shredded coat to this one.
He paid the driver his exorbitant sum, received his obsequious accolades, and climbed down from the carriage as the door opened from the inside.
Don’t let me see you, he willed her. He didn’t know that he would be able to resist her again. And, at the same time, Let me see you.
“Alec?” His name on her lips a gift in the rain.
“Clos
e the door,” he said, refusing to look. Not trusting himself to see.
A pause. Then, “It is raining. You should ride inside.”
Near her. Touching her. He could not help the huff of frustration that came at the words. He should not ride inside. He should not be near her. He had a single task. To protect her. And he was the most dangerous thing in her world right now.
“The hack will return you home.”
“What of you? Who shall return you home?” The soft question threatened to slay him. The idea of a home they shared. The impossibility of it.
“I shall walk.”
“Alec—” she began, stopping herself. “Please.”
At the word—the one she had whispered so much while in his arms, the one that promised so much and asked for so much more than he was able to give—his hands began to shake again, just as they had in Hawkins’s house. He clenched them, willing away his desire.
Would he ever not want her?
“Close the door, Lily.” She had no choice but to follow the order when he looked up to the driver. “Drive on.”
The carriage was instantly in motion.
He rubbed a hand over his face, loathing London. Wishing he were anywhere but here.
England will be your ruin.
Removing his hand, he looked down at the card. At the direction beneath the name. Hanover Square.
Come and see me, Peg had whispered when she’d slipped the card into his coat pocket.
Earlier, Lily had asked him if he believed in fate, and he’d answered truthfully. Fate did not put him here, in Hanover Square, with Peg’s calling card. A too-skilled valet and a too-frustrating ward had done it. And, as he watched the carriage disappear into the darkness, the sound of horses’ hooves and clattering wheels masked by the rain, it was not fate that sent him to the door of number 12 Hanover Square.
Come and see me.
It was his own shame.
He waited for no time before a maid arrived in the foyer to escort him into the depths of the house, up a back stairway and to a room that he identified before the door even opened.
Peg’s bedchamber.
And she, within, standing by the fireplace, blond hair glittering gold in the light—as gold as the silk nightgown she wore, low and clinging to the curves he had worshipped a lifetime ago, thinking they would be the first and last he would ever worship, thinking she would wish him to worship them forever.
“I knew you would come,” she whispered, low and secret, as though the maid weren’t there. And then the girl wasn’t there, disappeared into the hallway and closing the door behind her with a soft snick.
“I did not,” he said.
She smiled, that knowing smile from two decades earlier—the one that made promises she would never keep. “You underestimated my irresistibility. And you wore your kilt, you glorious thing.” She moved to the bed, lying back against the pillows, arranging herself in a way so casual that it could only have been practiced.
And it was. He had, after all, seen her in just such a position before. In a different place, in a different world, when he’d been young and green and desperate for her beauty. For her perfection.
And it had ended differently than tonight would.
Because then, he had been even more desperate for what she represented. For a future he would never have. For acceptance by her world. For England.
Now, he wanted none of those things. Now, all he wanted was Lily.
And he was here to remind himself that she was not for him. That every time he touched her, he soiled her with his past. And his shame.
“I am not here for you,” he said coolly.
A sleek blond brow arched. “Are you sure?”
“Thoroughly.”
She sighed and leaned back, unmoved by the pronouncement. “You waste my time then, darling. Why are you here?”
Why indeed? What did he want from this moment? When had Peg ever given him what he wanted?
She did not wait for him to arrive at his answer, instead saying, “If you are not here to play, then you should return home to your little scandal.”
He snapped his attention to her. “What does that mean?”
“Only that you made it quite clear at Eversley’s ball that you were willing to do anything for the girl. Even make a scene. And I know you learned your lesson about scene making years ago.” She paused, then said, “I confess, had I known that Alec Stuart—without family or funds—was to be a duke with a king’s fortune, I might have reconsidered your very sweet offer.”
They all would have. And he would have had a different life. One that had not included a long line of women who thought him worthy of play but not pride.
Peg smiled, cold and ugly. It occurred to him that she might imagine herself beautiful—that he had once imagined her so. Now, however, he knew what beauty could be. How it might come, with strength and pride and purpose and eyes the color of the Scottish sea.
She spoke again. “Would it help to hear that yours was my prettiest proposal? I still recall it. I shall do right by you. We shall spend the rest of our days happy.” She tutted. “Young and green and utterly unknowing of women and the world.”
For a heartbeat, he was fifteen again, an idiot boy. “I learned my lessons of women years ago.” There were those whom he deserved and those he did not. And of course, the one he wanted more than anything fell into the latter category.
Peg underscored the thought. “And we ladies learned our lessons about you, did we not?”
This was it. The reason he’d come. The reminder of his station. Of the life he could never have. And still, he resisted it. “You know nothing about me.”
One side of Peg’s mouth raised in a wry, knowing smile. “I know more than she does, I’d wager.” A pause. “Or has she already ridden the Scottish Brute?”
He narrowed his gaze before he could stop himself, unable to deny the shame and fury coursing through him. Unable to hide the truth from Peg.
Peg’s lips formed a perfect pout. “Oh, darling, still as sweet as ever. You care for the girl.”
“No,” he said.
Liar.
The tut again, followed by movement as she came off the bed, toward him, the gold silk slithering against her like skin. “You forget, Alec Stuart, I was the first woman you loved.”
“I never loved you,” he said, refusing to move as she came close, refusing to flinch as she reached up and put her cool hand to his face, erasing the lingering memory of Lily’s.
He supposed he deserved it.
“That’s not what you said then,” she said quietly. “Sweet-faced Scottish Alec, big as a house, like nothing I’d ever seen. Like nothing I’d ever felt.” She pressed herself to him and he resisted the urge to push her away, wanting the lesson. Wanting the reminder of who he’d been. Of what he’d been. She lowered her voice to a whisper, her hand reaching to the hem of his kilt, fingertips grazing his thigh, making him cringe. “Let the girl have it, darling. Let her feel it. You shan’t be her first, but neither will she be yours. Think on it. You are well-suited.”
He wanted to roar his fury at the way she said it, as though he were anything close to Lily. And then Peg added, “And when she’s had enough of you, come back to me. I would dearly love another go.”
“Never.”
She pressed close. “Not even if I remind you of my tremendous performance?”
“Odd that you describe it as such, as I find I lack interest in an encore.”
Peg’s hand flew, sharp and angry, the crack sounding an alarm in the quiet room. He did lift his hand to ease the sting of the blow, instead reveling in the sensation. In the message of it. In the reminder it delivered.
“Do not get above yourself, Alec Stuart. You may be the Diluted Duke now,” she said, “but there was a time when you existed because of my benevolence. You would not like it if the world knew the truth.”
“I don’t give a horse’s ass if this world knows the truth,” he said. “Remembe
r, Lady Rowley—my secrets belong to you as well. Be sure to tell your friends. No lady likes her underthings aired.”
She scowled. “You are an underthing.”
He had her. “At some point, our past had to be a boon, no?”
There was a long silence, and then she said, “My secrets or not, you would not like it if your Lovely Lily knew the truth about you. I would watch my tongue if I were you.”
Peg was wrong. He would be grateful for Lily to know the truth. It would make wanting her easier, because it would make having her impossible.
Nevertheless, he should not have come. Outside the house, he had wondered why he was calling on Peg, why he allowed her calling card to summon him. Now, he knew the truth.
He wanted her. The reminder she served.
The proof that Lily’s perfection was not for him.
He left the house resolved to two things: first, Lily would have happiness in the hands of the best man they could find; and second, that man would never be him.
Despite having stared into the ribbon case inside Madame Hebert’s modiste shop on Bond Street for the last quarter of an hour, Lily could not have named a single color inside. She was too consumed with the admonition that had repeated itself again and again for the nearly three days since she had last seen Alec.
She should not have asked him if he wanted her.
She should not have betrayed the insidious thought that had taken root in her mind, the product of protective actions and provocative kisses and a thread of hope that she should have known better than to allow access to her thoughts. To her heart.
And still, like a simpering imbecile, she had asked him.
Do you want me?
Her cheeks flamed at the memory. How could she have possibly imagined it would result in anything but embarrassment? She had seen him struggle with the answer, as though he hadn’t wanted to hurt her. To tell her the truth.
Despite that, he’d told her. Because he was nobler than other men. Better and nobler. He’d said no. Better and nobler and not for her. Not even as she wanted him quite desperately.
