A Scot in the Dark

“I am not looming.”

“You are nearly seven feet tall. All you do is loom.”

“What would you have me do? Shrink to the size of your fairy suitor?”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s taller than most men in London!”

He smirked. “Not taller than me.”

“Well, of course not. You’re virtually a tree with legs.” She sighed. “Don’t loom. Follow behind at a decent distance.”

“And what if he is inappropriate?”

She spread her hands wide. “There are ten thousand people in screaming distance. You think he is going to be inappropriate? You’re mad. I thought the goal was to get me betrothed.”

“There’s no need for hyperbole. It’s not ten thousand. And that is the goal.”

“Well then, you worry about your own business. Select one of the myriad ladies who can’t keep their eyes from your scandalous legs.”

The words took him aback. “I beg your pardon?”

She huffed a great sigh of exasperation, put her hands to her hips, and looked down the Row. “They’re all looking at your legs. Which I can only assume you like, or you’d be wearing some kind of respectable attire.”

He turned to look in the direction of her gaze, noting several women immediately redirecting their gazes from him. “It’s perfectly respectable.”

“In Scotland,” she said. “In England, we don’t show our knees.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

She moved her hands to clutch her skirts. “Oh.” She made to lift the dress. “Then I should simply show mine?”

His brows shot together. “You wouldn’t.”

“Whyever not? They are no doubt some of my best features. The rest of London will see them soon enough, and Lord Stanhope would certainly enjoy them.”

He had no doubt of that. Indeed, the very discussion of her knees made Alec want to drop to his knees, lift her skirts, and inspect the hell out of them.

He’d murder Stanhope on the spot if he saw Lily’s knees.

He pushed away the thought. “What would you have me do, Lillian?”

“Wear trousers.”

“Why?” He smirked, making a show of smiling at a nearby group of women trying to look as though they weren’t looking at him. They blushed and tittered and turned away, and Lily groaned in disgust. He raised a brow. “Are ye jealous, lass?”

She looked as though she wished to do him serious bodily harm. “Why would I be? If you went with one of these ogling women, you would be less trouble for me.” She waved at the masses beyond. “You’ve your pick of all London, Your Grace. Have at it.”

I pick you.

No. No he didn’t.

He looked down at her. “It’s you who is here for the picking, Lillian.”

“I would be infinitely more pickable if I lacked my Scottish shadow.” She paused, then added, “I am returning to Stanhope.”

Every part of him resisted the idea. “That’s fine.”

“I don’t wish you to follow me.”

“I have better things to do than follow you.”

She nodded. “Excellent. Good-bye then.”

He nodded, growing more and more irritated by the second. “Good-bye.”

And she turned and sauntered away, the pretty pink muslin of her walking dress teased him, the play of light over the skirts making him think about all the pretty pink things that they covered. Ankles and calves and thighs and . . .

Knees.

He swore roundly in Gaelic, deliberately looking away from her as she approached the Row. Resisting the urge to watch her. To follow her. To guard her.

It worked, until Alec heard the loud “Oy!” coming from her direction.

He turned to see a massive horse, manned by a young rider. A rider who had obviously lost control of the high-strung beast, now headed in panicked terror straight for Lily.

Alec was instantly at a dead run.

Chapter 13

ABSENCE MAKES THE SCOT GROW FONDER

He was the most maddening man in Christendom.

One moment, he was making love to her, the next he was recommending she draw attention to her best features to attract another man, and the third, he was doing all he could to drive that man—who seemed to be a perfectly decent, rather excellent catch, it should be added—away.

Did he want her married? Or not?

And what of what she wanted?

She lifted her gaze to the throngs of people on the footpath, her eyes meeting those of Lord Stanhope, a half-dozen yards away. Empirically, he was perfect. He was titled and charming, handsome and mannered and—even better—seemed to enjoy her company.

He would make her a sound husband.

If only she could muster enthusiasm at the idea.

She might have been able to, Lily was certain, if not for the horrid Duke of Warnick making it so very impossible to think of any other man but him. Not that she was thinking very flattering thoughts of him at this point. She was thinking deeply unflattering thoughts, as a matter of fact.

As though to prove it to herself, she began to tick said thoughts off in her head.

First, he was far too large. Modern men had no reason to be the size of prehistoric hunters.

Second, from what she could tell, he did not own even a single pair of trousers that fit him. What kind of a man didn’t own trousers?

Third, he seemed only able to socialize with dogs. Lovely dogs, she acknowledged, but dogs nonetheless. She had yet to hear him have a sustained conversation with a human that did not end in anger or bloodshed.

Except with her.

With her, they sometimes ended in glorious carriage rides filled with remarkable pleasure.

She shook her head, stepping over the bounds of the green and into the Row. Unflattering thoughts only.

Fourth—

“Oy!” The call came loud and somewhat panicked from somewhere to her right, and Lily turned to look, only to see a furious chestnut bearing down on her. She froze, suddenly, horribly unable to move. She closed her eyes, expecting to be fully trampled.

And then it was upon her, knocking her backward, sending the breath from her lungs, cursing in furious Gaelic among a chorus of feminine screams and masculine shouts and several excited barks.

No. Wait.

She wasn’t being trampled.

And the horse wasn’t cursing in Gaelic.

She opened her eyes to find him leaning over her, his gaze searching her face as she struggled for breath.