A Scot in the Dark
Page 84“Nothing,” he said, wishing only to assuage the pain he heard, keen and unsettling, in her voice. “You did nothing wrong.”
She smiled. “Society thinks differently.”
“Hang Society.”
She raised a brow. “What did you do wrong, Alec?”
That question again. Astute and direct. The question he would have to answer eventually.
But not here. Not now.
He shook his head.
She watched him carefully, candlelight flickering over her beautiful face. “If I were to tell you what you told me—that you did nothing wrong—what would you say?”
He looked away from her, unable to meet her eyes. “I would say you are wrong.”
“Because you are a man and she is a woman?”
“Because what I did is far worse than what you did.”
“You believe that.”
“And yet here we are, committing a crime for me. And not for you.”
He was not going to tell her. Not then. “Let us commit the crime, then. And be done with it.”
For a moment, he thought she might argue. Might push him. And for a moment, he worried that if she did, he would tell her everything there, in front of thousands of paintings, on the damn dais of the Royal Exhibition.
But she did not. Instead, she set her candle down and removed the parcel from his hands before ascending the platform and saying, “Turn away, please.”
He did, without hesitation. He had made her a promise, and he would honor it, even as he knew that this was his only chance to see the painting. To know just how beautiful it was. Not that he required a look at the art to know its beauty. It was a painting of Lily; of course it was glorious.
But it would pale in comparison to her in truth.
And so he stood in the silence, listening to her move—to the soft scrape of woolen trousers over her skin, to the whisper of linen as she crouched low and unwrapped the painting he had carried. To the little catch of breath that came as she lifted the painting from the wall. As she replaced it with another. And then, as she crouched again and wrapped the nude for removal.
By the time she stood, he was rabid with jealousy, wishing that he was one of the paintings—a length of canvas, the recipient of her soft, determined touch. “You may look,” she said, quietly, and he turned, drawn to her voice—which should have been filled with relief but was, instead, filled with humor. Her back was to him, arms akimbo, and she stared at the prime location on the wall where—
He laughed.
Jewel. She’d hung Jewel in her place.
He moved up the steps to get a better look at the brilliant, utterly perfect punishment for Derek Hawkins. The dog in glorious repose on her red satin pillow, the light gleaming along her spindly grey legs, her bejeweled crown tilted just so on her head.
Alec nodded. “I think it exceedingly generous. To both Hawkins and the world at large. He will no doubt be supportive of the choice—what with his desire to bring masterworks to Society.”
“For all to see,” she said.
“We really have done the world a service.”
“This particular birthday gift might make up for all the birthday gifts I have missed over the years.” She grinned at him. “Thank you.”
He moved toward her, unable to resist her in her reckless beauty, the excitement and anticipation of the evening—of their actions—summoning him to her like a hound on a leash. As he drew close, towering over her, her laughter faded, and she tilted her face up to him, even as he put his hands to her cheeks, running his thumbs over her high, perfect cheekbones.
“I love your laugh,” he said, unable to keep the soft confession from her.
She pressed his bandaged palm to her cheek. “And I, yours. I wish I could make you laugh every day.” He closed his eyes, his own wishes echoing hers. She threaded her free hand into his hair and added on a barely-there whisper, “I could try, Alec. You could let me try.”
For a moment, he let himself imagine it, her hand wrapped in his, her teasing smile, her raucous laughter, her remarkable strength. He imagined standing beside her. Honoring her. Adoring her. Kissing her.
And then his lips were on hers, and it was not imaginary.
There was nothing wild about it, and that was likely why it threatened his sanity. It was soft and without urgency, as though they had a lifetime to explore each other. As though it had come on the heels of laughter in the garden at their home, children surrounding them, like a hint of a promise for the future—for a time when they had more time.
It was perfection.
Yes.
Please. Yes.
But it wasn’t a viable answer. The answer was no.
And he was going to have to tell her everything to prove it to them both.
With a final, lingering caress, he pulled away and lifted the painting she’d carefully wrapped in cloth. Tucking it under his arm, he extended his hand to her, reveling in the way she came to him, in the ease with which she slid her hand—ungloved—into his, their palms pressing together as though it was the most natural thing in the word.
Without releasing her, he led her from the gallery in silence, pausing to allow her to collect her candle. Outside, he lifted her up into the curricle, sliding the painting against the block. When he took his place beside her and set the horses in motion, he could not resist taking her hand again, loving the feel of it, warm and strong in his grip.
Halfway to Berkeley Square, she laced her fingers through his, and he wondered how he would ever let her go. He didn’t then—not when they pulled into the mews and he climbed down from the block, not when he lifted her down, not even when he collected the painting. He released her only when the boy came out of the stables to collect the curricle, not wanting to draw attention to the figure that had returned with him.
They entered the house through the back entrance, Angus and Hardy greeting them in the quiet, dark kitchens with wagging tails and lolling tongues, Hardy happier than he’d been in recent days to have them together.