A Scot in the Dark

He should have known she would have a better plan than either escape or avoidance. Of course, her plan involved doing her best to counter his plans for the evening. It was to be a battle of wills—and her first shot was an impressive one.

He was not a man who noticed fashion, but this particular dress would not be unnoticed. It was a gold and bronze monstrosity, with skirts that filled the staircase and sleeves that dwarfed her. That would have dwarfed him, he’d wager. As though that weren’t enough, gold and bronze seed pearls were sewn into the skirts, arranged in little echoes of the canine form, and the bodice—impressively fitted despite Lily having had mere hours to adjust it to her form—was covered in ornate gold fastenings, each a different dog—spaniels and terriers and bulldogs and dachshunds.

His gaze fell to her waist, where a large gold belt accentuated her shape in a garish display—a greyhound in full, extended motion, spanning the width of her.

Jewel, no doubt.

And all this before he considered her headwear, an elaborate pile of auburn curls, fastened with an array of hound-shaped pins, and shot through with a golden rod topped with a hound on the hunt, in mid-leap, heading to catch a hare, which somehow dangled high above, on a spring of sorts.

“Good God,” Alec said, as there was no other possible response to the display.

She did not hesitate in her descent, all grace, posture that would make a queen proud. It almost made one believe that she was not aware that she wore a garment that was best described as an abomination.

She was remarkable.

She stilled on the third stair from the foyer, standing eye-to-eye with him, broad, false smile on her face. “Is there something amiss, Your Grace?”

“So many things, Miss Hargrove.”

She made a show of fluffing the massive skirts. “I realize this frock is a touch out of season, what with it having been unworn for more than five years, but you did insist I find a dress.”

“Yes. The fact that the gown is out of season is precisely the problem.” His gaze went to her reticule, a small terrier-shaped satchel dangling from her wrist. “Is that fur?”

She looked to it. “Surely not dog’s.”

“I cannot imagine Lady Thirteen was the type to wear her obsession.” She snickered a laugh and he enjoyed the sound a touch too much. He cleared his throat. “Well then. Onward, Miss Hargrove.”

She hesitated.

He had her. “You did not think a little thing like that dress would dissuade me from my plans?”

“There is nothing little about this dress,” she said.

“It will be a miracle if it fits inside the carriage,” he agreed, turning away from her, heading for the door, keenly aware of the fact that she was not following. Turning back, he met her grey gaze from across the foyer. “Come now, Lillian, surely you did not think I would give up so easily?”

“I did think that you would be smart enough to recognize that if I am seen in public in this dress, no man will ever have me.”

“You misjudged.”

“Your sense of fashion?”

He did not rise to the bait. “Your own beauty.”

The words set her back. “I—” she started, then trailed off.

“That is what they call you, nae? The most beautiful woman in London?”

“Nae,” she mocked in an extreme Scottish accent. “Not in this.”

He wished it were true. He wished there were a way to look at her and not see her beauty. But some things were empirical truths, and Lillian Hargrove’s beauty was just that. Even now, dressed as a canine clown.

Not that Alec intended to do anything about her beauty. He’d learned his lesson about beautiful women, and it was one he did not intend to learn again.

He opened the door, baiting her. “To the coach, Miss Hargrove . . . or are you too much a coward? Would you like to find a less garish ensemble?”

Her shoulders straightened. “Not at all. I am quite comfortable.”

She sailed past him, spine straight, rabbit waving to and fro above her head, and climbed up into the waiting carriage without hesitation. Alec followed, filled with curiosity and no small amount of respect.

Once he had arranged himself on the seat opposite her, avoiding her diaphanous skirts and contorting his long legs into the little free space she had left, his too-tight trousers threatening to inhibit blood flow to his legs, she said, “Are you quite comfortable?”

“Does it matter?” he asked, knowing that the repetition of the question she’d asked so often in their acquaintance would annoy her.

Enjoying the feeling of annoying her, because it made it easier to ignore the sensation of admiring her.

He did not admire her.

“I suppose not,” she said, surprising him. “But I was making polite conversation.”

He did not wish to make conversation, so he grunted a nonverbal reply and watched the buildings beyond the window as they passed.

She did not look out the window. She looked at him.

Alec felt more constricted with every moment that passed, until he did his best to get the upper hand. “I imagine you wish you’d changed gowns.”

She did not waver. “Nonsense. I’ve simply taken pity on you, my lord. We will make a fine pair, considering that coat does not fit you.”

He shifted at the mention of the clothing, the movement underscoring the truth in her statement. “No?”

She shook her head and moved forward, taking hold of the outer edge of one sleeve and giving it a little tug, as though testing its strength. “No.” He resisted the urge to move at the light brush of her gloved hand against his. For a moment, he entertained a wild thought of capturing that hand, of pressing it to his own. And then her gaze fell to his lap, and he imagined pressing her hand to the straining fabric at his thighs. Before he could embarrass himself, she added, “Nor do those trousers. You should find yourself a better tailor.” She paused, then added, teasing in her tone, “Someone English, perhaps.”

He remained transfixed by her hand, disliking the way it felt on him.

Liking the way it felt on him.

Before he could decide, she removed it from his person, and—madly—he wondered if he could convince her to return it so he could make a thoroughly informed decision on the matter.

Instead, he cleared his throat and pressed himself back against the seat. “This was an English tailor. I’m told he’s very good.”