“Sleep,” he said, and there was something in the soft, rough word that sent a thread of unease whispering through her, but she was too exhausted to consider it. Too consumed with him to be able to think of a time he might not be with her. Touching her. A part of her.
His hands stroked over and over, until avoiding sleep became an impossibility. Lily closed her eyes and pressed closer to him with a final, soft plea. “Be here in the morning. We shall start anew.” And then, from the edge of sleep, “Do not leave me. Be here.”
Be mine.
Not two hours later, she woke in the darkness, cold and alone beneath the covers of her Berkeley Square bed. The curtains were open, but the London night beyond was dark as soot—the darkness that came when it was nearly dawn.
She sat up to light the candle on the bedside table, knowing even before the spark turned to flame what she would find.
He was gone.
Tears came, desperate and unavoidable as she looked around the room, this room that she’d chosen because she’d once been so lonely, and now fairly breathed with the memory of him. Of his touch. Of his kiss. Of his past and the way it destroyed him even as it made him the man he was.
He’d left her.
She threw her feet over the edge of the bed and Hardy sprang awake, a yelp of surprise waking Angus, who slept at the threshold of the room.
Hope slammed through her. The dogs were here. He had not left.
And still, the thread of certainty remained.
She set one hand to Hardy’s big head, staring down into the dog’s soulful eyes. “Where is he?”
Hardy sighed longingly, and Lily understood the pathetic sound better than any she’d heard in her life.
He had left. No doubt thinking she should be without him.
No doubt thinking she could be without him.
That was when she saw the letter. On the desk, propped up next to the still-covered painting, was an envelope in familiar ecru. He’d left her a note, drafted on her own paper. Propped on a pair of baby boots—the ones with red leather soles.
He had left her.
Dreading the truth, Lily reached for the envelope, her name in bold, black scrawl across the face.
Opened it.
The dowry is yours. The money due to you today, as well. And, of course, the painting, to do with what you wish.
I am leaving you Angus and Hardy—they have loved you from the start, and will be able to protect you better than I ever could. Not that you need them. You have always been strong enough to keep yourself safe.
You are the most glorious woman I have ever known, beautiful and passionate and powerful beyond measure, and no man will ever be worthy of you, especially not me. You asked me once for freedom, Lily, and though I have been a terrible guardian, today, I can give you that. Freedom to leave this place or stay in it. To be a queen of London and the world. To have the life you wanted. The life you dreamed of. The children, the marriage, the little feet that fit these silly red boots.
Whatever you choose.
Never doubt I will think of you, Lily. Then, and now.
Happy birthday, mo chridhe.
—Alec
The words swam with tears.
He’d left her.
Lillian Hargrove had been alone for the lion’s share of her existence. Since the moment she’d lost her father, she had lived beneath the servants’ stairs of a ducal mansion, between the glittering world of the aristocracy and the more ordinary common one. She’d learned to be alone here, in this room, in this house, living a quiet half life that lacked the promise of her dreams, and then a scandal that threatened even that.
And then Alec Stuart had broken down her door and vowed to protect her.
And her life had changed. And her dreams had changed. Now, they were of him alone. And he thought himself unworthy of them.
Her whole life, she’d been terrified of loneliness. Of living out her years with no one to share them with. And now, here, she knew the truth—that she’d trade a lifetime of the loneliness that had once so threatened her for a single day with Alec. Without hesitation.
For an intelligent man, the Duke of Warnick was a proper fool.
He’d left her. Like Endymion, choosing an eternity of dreams over a lifetime with the goddess he loved. There had been a time when Lily had thought she understood the choice. After all, dreams could feel terribly real.
But now—now that she had held him in her arms, laughed with him, loved him—dreams were nothing compared to the reality of him.
Her gaze settled on the painting, wrapped in cloth, leaning against the chest where she had once kept her dreams—dreams she’d thought destroyed by scandal.
Scandal that had brought him to her.
Scandal that he had taught her to bear, unashamed.
He could not leave her. Not when she needed him so much. Not when she loved him so well.
Not when he had so thoroughly become her dreams.
If he wanted her to put those little boots to use, he could damn well fill them himself.
Chapter 22
LILY LAID BARE!
MISS MUSE OR MISUSED?
All of London had chosen to attend the final morning of the Royal Exhibition, and why would they not? The legend of Derek Hawkins’s masterwork had been broadcast throughout the city’s rags, shouted by newsboys and whispered in ballrooms.
It was not the artwork London came to see, however; it was the scandal.
Lovely Lily, revealed.
“It’s horrible, really, what he did,” Alec heard at his elbow as he pressed through the crowd. “No girl deserves that.” On the surface, the words were sympathetic, but they were injected with such salacious glee that he gritted his teeth.
“She should not have sat for it if she did not wish for it to be made public,” came an utterly disdainful reply, and he realized that attending the exhibition might have been a poor idea, for he wanted to murder every person who spoke ill of Lily.
It was easy to throw stones at scandal when one’s own tales were still secret.
He pushed himself through the throngs, into the exhibition hall.
“And there,” a woman nearby said loudly enough to be heard, but softly enough to pretend it wasn’t for his benefit. “The guardian.”
“A terrible one, it seems,” another said on a gleeful giggle. “And am I surprised? Look at the man. Clothed as a barbarian. There are ladies present. We can see his knees.”
“And what lovely knees they are,” the first replied, her words thick with innuendo.
It was not the most ladylike sentiment he’d ever heard expressed, considering these two were so angry at his mere presence, but Alec let the comment pass. He could not murder all the gossips in London, no matter how well he would like to. In less than an hour, he’d be high atop his curricle, going hell-for-leather up the Great North Road, headed home.