“It is your error in judgment,” he corrected.
She smirked. “A pretty euphemism.”
“We have all made them,” he said, wishing for some idiot reason that he could make her feel better.
She met his gaze. “You? Have you made such an error?”
More than he could count.
“I am king of them,” he said.
She watched him for a long moment. “But men don’t carry the shame forever.”
Alec did not look away from her, from the words that so many believed true. He lied. “No. We don’t.”
She nodded, and he saw the tears threaten. He resisted the urge to reach for her, knowing instinctively that touching her would change everything.
He hated himself for not reaching for her when she turned away, for the door. “And you think you shall find a man who will choose to marry me. What nonsense that is.”
“I’ve given you a dowry, Lillian.”
She paused, putting her hand to the door handle, but not turning it.
He took the stillness as indication that she was listening. “There was none attached to you. Presumably because you were so young when you became ward to the estate. Also, presumably why you’ve never been asked for. But now there is. Twenty-five thousand pounds.”
She spoke to the closed door. “That is a massive amount of money.”
More than she needed to catch a husband.
She could catch a husband with nothing.
“We shall find a man,” he said, suddenly consumed with distaste at having to buy her a future. It had seemed such an easy solution the night before. But now, in the room with her, he felt the whole thing slipping away from him. “We shall find a man,” he repeated. “A good one.”
Alec would carry him to the altar if necessary.
“We have nine days,” he said.
“To convince a man to take a risk on my scandal before all the world has truly witnessed it.”
“To convince a man that you are prize enough to ignore it.”
Lily turned, grey eyes flashing. “Prize.”
“Beauty and money. Things that make the world go round.” Not just those things, he wanted to say. More.
She nodded. “Before the painting is revealed. Not after.”
He opened his mouth to reply, but did not have a good answer. Of course before. Once she was nude in front of the world, she would be—
“Before my shame is thoroughly public,” she said, softly. With conviction. “Not after.”
He ignored the topic, instead saying, “Marriage gives you everything you wish for, lass.”
“How do you know that for which I wish?”
“I know what a woman wants out of life.” He found himself unable to meet her gaze. “It is marriage. Not money.”
She gave a little huff of laughter. “Well, any woman worth her salt wants both.”
He had her. “You’ll get both. Just as you wanted.”
“I wanted to marry for love.”
He recoiled from the very idea. Love was a ridiculous goal—one that was not only implausible but nonexistent. He knew that better than anyone. But Alec had a sister, and so he knew a thing or two about women—and knew, without question, that they believed in the great fallacy of the heart. So he lied to her. “Then we shall find you someone to love.”
She faced him then, tilting her head and watching him as though he were a creature under glass, fascinating and disgusting all at once. “That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
She lifted one shoulder and lowered it. “Because love is for the lucky among us.”
“What does that mean?” he said, her words rioting through him, unwelcome in their eerie truth.
“Only that I am not counted among the lucky. Everyone I have ever loved has left.”
He did not have time to reply, because she was through the door and gone, leaving him with his dogs, the words echoing in the empty room.
Englishwomen were supposed to be meek and biddable.
No one had told Lillian Hargrove such a thing, apparently.
When Alec had told her he was willing to give her a dowry that would get her married to any man she chose, it had occurred to him that she might embarrass him with thanks. After all, twenty-five thousand pounds was a king’s fortune. Several kings’ fortunes. Enough to buy her and the man of her choosing—whoever that was—the life she wanted. An approximation of the love she’d desired.
Granted, Lillian Hargrove was not the swooning type, but the woman would not have been out of bounds to be grateful. A tear or two would not have been unexpected.
Instead, she’d declined the offer.
He’d left her alone for the day, giving her time to change her mind—to come to terms with the idea and realize that his decision had been benevolent if nothing else. After all, she’d wanted marriage once—albeit with an utter ass—and if she considered his solution, Alec was certain she would agree it was best.
These disastrous events could end with marriage and children and the kind of security of which women dreamed.
I am not counted among the lucky.
Bollocks. Luck changed.
If the woman wanted love, she would get it, dammit. He might not believe in it, but he’d will it into being if need be.
He was her guardian and he would play the role, dammit. He would repair her reputation, and he would return to Scotland. And she would be another’s problem. And that would be that.
They had no choice. There was no way to run from the painting, unless she was willing to live life as a hermit. She certainly couldn’t spend the rest of her life rattling around number 45 Berkeley Square, a ward of the dukedom. She was too old to be a ward now—what would it look like when she was forty? Sixty?
It was ridiculous. She would no doubt see that.
Alec had arrived early to the afternoon meal with plans to read his correspondence until she arrived, preferably with an apology and sense on her lips.
After a quarter of an hour, he called for his luncheon. After a half an hour, he finished his letters, but remained with them, pretending to read, not wanting her to think he was waiting for her. After three quarters of an hour, he called for a second meal, as the first had grown cold in the waiting.
And after an hour, he’d called for Hudgins, who took another ten minutes to arrive at a virtual crawl.
“Is Miss Hargrove ill?” he asked the moment the man entered the room.