A Scot in the Dark
Page 8He was still for a long moment, and then he said, “I’m here to help.”
She laughed at that, the sound without humor. “It is impressive, Your Grace, how well you sound the caring guardian.”
“I came as soon as I heard of your predicament.”
She was a legend, evidently. “It reached you all the way in Scotland, did it?”
“In my experience, rumor travels like lightning.”
“And you’ve much experience with rumors?”
“More than I would care to admit.”
Lily heard the truth in the words. “And were your rumors true?”
He was silent long enough for her to think he might not reply, so it was a particular shock when he said, simply, “Yes.”
She’d never in her life been so curious about a single word. Of course, it was nonsense. Whatever his scandal, it was not like this. It had not destroyed him.
It had not forced him to flee.
She met his gaze. “And now, what? You arrive to tend your reputation?”
“I don’t care a fig for my reputation. I am here to tend yours.”
It was a lie. No one had ever cared for Lily’s reputation—not since her father had died. She’d never had a patroness, never a friend.
Never a love.
The thought came with hot tears, stinging with the threat of their appearance, unwelcome and infuriating. She inhaled sharply and turned back to the sideboard, refusing to reveal them to him. “Why?”
“You don’t even know me.”
He hesitated. Then, “You are my responsibility.”
She laughed. She couldn’t help looking back. “You’ve never once taken interest in me. You did not even know I existed, did you?” She saw the guilt in his eyes. The truth there. “I suppose that is better than the alternative.”
“Which is?”
“That you’ve known about me for years and simply ignored my existence.”
He would not have been the only one.
“Had I known . . .” He trailed off.
“What? You would have returned to London years ago? Immediately taken up the banner of guardian and savior?”
He shifted on his massive feet, and she felt a twinge of regret, knowing that he did not deserve her accusations. She bit her tongue, refusing to apologize. Wishing he would leave. Wishing he had never come.
If wishes were horses.
“I am not a monster,” he answered, finally. “I did not ask for the responsibility, but I would have made certain you were provided for, without hesitation.”
’Twas always thus. A promise of funds. Of room and board. A promise of all the bits that came easily.
And a dearth of everything that had value.
She waved her hand to indicate the beautiful house. “I am perfectly provided for. Look at the beautiful cage in which I perch.” She did not wait for him to reply. “It is no matter, either way. I am afraid you are rather too late.” She pushed past him, saying, “I am in the market for neither guardian nor savior. Indeed, if the last few years have taught me anything, it is that I would do well to save myself. Play my own guardian.”
He did not reply until she reached the door to the sitting room. “You’re older than I expected.”
He did not move. “How old are you?”
She matched the impertinent question. “How old are you?”
“I am old enough to know that you’re older than any ward should be.”
“If only you hadn’t had such a longstanding disinterest in your guardianship, you might know the answer to your question.”
“Do not take it personally.”
“Your longstanding disinterest?”
“Now that I know you exist, I find myself quite interested.”
“I suppose you would be, now that I’m a creature under glass to watch and point to as a warning to all others.”
He raised a black brow and crossed his arms over his massive chest. “Seconds ago, you were a bird in a cage.”
“It is the mixed metaphors you are interested in?” she retorted.
He did not hesitate. “No, it’s you.”
The words warmed her. Not that they should have. “A pity, that, as I am not interested in you.”
“You should be. As I understand it, guardians have quite a bit of control over wards.”
“I’m a ward of the Warnick estate. I would not get too possessive, if I were you.”
“Am I not Warnick?”
“I suppose you’d like that?”
“A woman can dream.” His lips twitched at the words, and if she were to tell the truth, she would have admitted that she enjoyed the fact that she’d amused him. She was not interested in the truth, however.
“Well, I am not dead yet, Lillian, so you are landed with me for the time being. You’d do best to answer my questions.” He paused, then repeated himself. “You’re rather old for a ward, nae?”
Of course she was. She’d been lost in the fray. Her father had died and left her in the care of the duke, and all had been well for several years, until the duke had died. And sixteen more, as well. And then this man—this legendary Scot who had eschewed all things English and never even turned up in Parliament to receive his letters of patent—had been in charge.
And Lily had been forgotten.
No dowry. No season. No friends.
She looked to him, wishing there were a way to tell him all of that, to make him understand his part in the mad play of her life, without rewatching the play herself. As there wasn’t, she settled upon, “I am, rather.”
She sat in a pretty little Chippendale chair, watching him as he watched her. As he tried to understand her. As though if he looked long enough, she would unlock herself.
The irony was, if he’d done the same a year earlier, she might have unlocked herself. She might have opened to him, and answered all his questions, laid herself bare to him.
Her lips twisted in a sad smile at the thought. Laid herself bare in all ways, likely. Thankfully, he was a year too late, and she was a lifetime different.
“I am ward of the estate, until such time as I marry.”
“Why haven’t you married?”