A Scot in the Dark

“I’m not surprised by that, either,” he allowed. “It’s difficult to imagine anyone wishing for his friendship.”

She’d wished for far more than friendship from Derek Hawkins, but that was irrelevant. She watched him for a long moment and said, “You don’t.”

“You’re damn right I don’t. I don’t want that man breathing the same air as me. Ever again.”

“I mean, you don’t like to talk about yourself.”

Except to call himself a brute. A beast. What had happened to him to believe that? To think himself coarse? If she allowed herself to think on him, he was all grace and glory. Muscle and sinew and features that were the envy of grown men everywhere, she imagined. And his kisses—

No.

Thank heavens, he stopped the wayward, dangerous thoughts. “I’m Scottish,” he said, as though it explained everything.

“Scottish,” she repeated.

“We’re less arrogant than the English.”

“The English, who are worse at everything in the world than the Scots.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “That’s not arrogance. That’s fact. The point is, you should ask him questions. About himself. And let him blather at you.”

She blinked. “Blathering. How very romantic.”

He smirked, but went on. “Ask him about things Englishmen like. Horses. Hats. Umbrellas.”

She raised a brow. “Umbrellas.”

“Titled Englishmen seem to be exceedingly concerned with the weather.”

“It does not rain in Scotland?”

“It rains, lass. But we are grown men and so we do not weep with the wet.”

“Oh, no. I imagine you frolic in it,” she said, wryly. “For what better scent than that of wet woolen tartan?”

He raised a brow. “Second suggestion. You should do your best not to disagree.”

“With you?” she retorted.

“As a matter of fact, that would be helpful in the long run, but I meant with Stanhope. Men like women who are agreeable.”

“Biddable.”

“Exactly.” Alec seemed happy that she had caught on so well.

“Well, I’ve sat for a legendary nude portrait. If that isn’t biddable, then what is?”

He cut her a look. “I wouldn’t bring up the portrait.”

“You’re taxing my small female brain with all these rules, Your Grace.”

He sighed. “Do you want to marry or not?”

“Oh, yes,” she retorted. “I dream of a husband who will blather on at me.”

He sighed. “You’re being deliberately obtuse.”

“Are you certain it’s deliberate? After all, you encouraged me to leave my brain at home, did you not?”

“That brings me to the last suggestion.”

“Do my best to sound like a cabbagehead?” His lips twitched. He was amused. “It must be remarkable to be able to find this conversation amusing, Your Grace. Do go on and tell me your last brilliant suggestion.”

“Put your best features forward.”

She gaped at him. “What on earth does that mean?”

“Only that if he’s so very landable, you likely have a great deal of competition.”

They turned into Hyde Park, Rotten Row looming ahead of them. The carriage slowed to a stop, and a well-dressed man noticed them from several yards away. He smiled a warm greeting, and it occurred to Lily that, if that was indeed, Frederick, Lord Stanhope, then he was precisely what Pearls & Pelisses claimed him to be. Tall, sandy-haired, and handsome, with a wide, winning smile and kind eyes.

“Well. He’s most definitely a Lord to Land,” she said.

If only Lily could work up excitement about him, the afternoon would be off to a tremendous start. But, instead, she was taking courtship advice from a Scotsman. About her best features.

It did not bode well for the afternoon.

“If you like that sort of thing.”

She turned to him. “Handsome, titled, and unmarried? You’re right. It’s a very strange preference.”

Alec grunted, and Lily took the irritated sound as a sign that she had won their little battle. As Lord Stanhope approached, she turned to face Alec, noting his large leather-clad hands still holding the reins. “I suppose you’re going to offer an opinion as to which of my features are best enough to be put forward?”

“No,” he said.

Lily could not hide her surprise. “No?”

He shook his head. “Lead with whatever you like.” He leapt down from his seat and she watched him come around the curricle to help her to the ground.

As he clasped her waist in his hands, the touch sizzled through her, unsettling. More so when he said, softly, so only she could hear, “All your features are best.”

Alec instantly disliked the Earl of Stanhope.

It was obvious why women did like him, of course, despite his being a pauper. Lily had enumerated his positive qualities multiple times over the course of the day, had she not? Handsome, titled, and unmarried.

Charming, too. That much was clear the moment the dandy sauntered up, silver-tipped walking stick in one hand, in his perfectly tailored, somehow unwrinkled trousers and coat, bowed low over Lily’s hand and said, in perfect English boarding school inflection, “Miss Hargrove, thank you for joining me.”

Too charming.

And then the bastard kissed her.

Granted, the earl kissed her gloved knuckles, which Alec might have found a perfectly reasonable—if somewhat ridiculous—greeting when one was meeting a woman one might one day marry. Might have, of course, if he hadn’t been occupied with wanting to rip the man’s far too handsome head right from his body for putting his lips where they didn’t belong.

Instead, Alec saw to the horses, ignoring the blush on Lily’s cheeks and trying his best to forget the feel of her as he’d lifted her to the ground mere seconds earlier.

“It’s a great pleasure, Lord Stanhope,” she said, her voice lilting and lovely. “Unconventional circumstances aside.”

Alec looked to Stanhope, who was staring right into her eyes, the rude bastard. “Unconventional?” the earl prompted.

“We’ve never met,” Lily said.

“I saw you at the Eversley ball, but did not have the opportunity to ask for an introduction before you left,” Stanhope said, leaning in far too close. “Society will be terribly scandalized.”