A Scot in the Dark

Chapter 11

FEMALES!

FACE FEARS WITH FLATTERING FROCKS!

Lily did not wear a dog dress the next morning.

Though there were several canine day dresses to choose from, Lily found that she did not require any additional cause of embarrassment for the day. Instead, she wore a dress that she thought was quite flattering—a green silk intended to be worn when receiving callers, but callers where rather thin on the ground at 45 Berkeley Square, and so she’d rarely worn it.

When she’d fled to this place—which she affectionately referred to as Dog House—she’d brought the dress with her in a fit of fancy. Now, however, she was rather grateful that she’d remembered the pretty frock.

After all, it was not every day that one was kissed by a handsome man in a carriage. More than kissed. Far more.

Her cheeks flamed. Not that she wanted it to happen again.

Liar.

It was true. She simply felt that it was only proper to dress nicely with one’s kisser. Kissee. She had, after all kissed him back.

More than kissed.

And somehow, despite having been kissed before—despite having kissed before—kissing Alec Stuart, Duke of Warnick, was an experience unlike anything she’d ever experienced.

And so, she put on a pretty dress, and willed it to give her the courage to face him this morning. She entered the breakfast room of Dog House and made herself a plate, noting with a pounding heart that there remained two seats set at the table, which meant that Alec had not yet eaten.

Using the tongs shaped like dachshunds to place a sausage and large piece of toast on her plate, she moved to the far end of the table and sat, doing her best to arrange herself with the casual, effortless elegance that a woman should show when meeting a gentleman with whom she’d shared an interlude like last night’s.

Which she did not wish to repeat.

Good Lord. It had been fairly glorious. And then he’d fled. Her gaze narrowed on her plate. Like a coward. After she’d touched him—found him as desperate as she had been.

I’m sorry, Lily. For everything.

What utter rubbish. As though she hadn’t been a part of the event. As though she hadn’t wanted it.

She’d most definitely wanted it. She simply did not wish to repeat it.

Not at all.

Liar.

She pressed her lips into a flat line at the nagging, repetitive thought. While on the subject of wanting, he had wanted it, too, or so it had seemed when he’d cursed Shakespeare and hauled her across the carriage to set her aflame and show her pleasure she’d never dreamed of finding. And made her want to beg him never to stop.

Cursing Shakespeare seemed unnecessary. And quite wonderful, truthfully.

Luckily, she had not resorted to begging, because she would have been more embarrassed than she was already if she had begged him not to stop and he’d stopped. Summarily. And fled.

The Scottish coward.

It was an embarrassing disaster.

Hence, the frock.

No matter. Lily had other things to think about. Things that had nothing to do with the brawny, handsome Scotsman. Things that were much more relevant to her current situation. To her future writ large.

Things like husbands.

Angus and Hardy punctuated the thought, pushing the door wide with their furry bodies, and setting Lily’s heart to racing. Because wherever the dogs were, their master could not be far behind.

Angus immediately went to investigate the contents of the sideboard as Hardy came to greet her, bowing low on his front paws before grinning up at her. Lily reached out and ran her fingers through the big dog’s wiry fur, pausing to scratch behind his ear. He tilted his head, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, and sighed in adoration.

She couldn’t help but smile.

This great beast was nothing but a kitten. A gentle giant.

“You’ll be spoiled if you are nae careful, Hardy.”

The brogue sounded from the door, rough with morning, setting Lily’s heart racing. She looked up to meet Alec’s gaze, only to find that he was already headed to the sideboard, head down, kilt swinging about his knees. Had he not spoken, she would have thought perhaps he had not seen her.

His not looking at her made it easy for her to look at him, however, and she did just that, taking in his tartan with far more care than she did the last time she saw him in plaid—when she was too embarrassed to have a good look.

For something so silly, the plaid was tremendously flattering. Though, truthfully, Lily thought that it was possibly likely that a flour sack would be flattering to Alec.

The man had empirically lovely legs.

Not that she’d given much thought to men’s legs in her life. Until Alec. Now, every time she saw him in his plaid, she thought far too much about men’s legs.

It was terribly inappropriate.

Lily swallowed, her mouth suddenly quite dry, but did her best to pretend that this morning was perfectly normal. That he hadn’t rendered her a speechless puddle of desire the night before.

Don’t think of the puddle of desire bit.

“He’s a good boy. He deserves to be spoiled.”

Alec grunted, placing a forkful of ham on his plate alongside several roasted tomatoes. Lily waited for him to say more, to no avail.

She pushed her food around her plate with her fork, pretending to be deeply invested in the morsels there, as he finished serving himself and came to the table, taking the seat at the far end.

As far from her as possible.

Granted, it was the seat that had been set for his arrival, but still. He could have come closer.

A footman came from nowhere—apparently Dog House had been staffed with speed and efficiency—and filled Alec’s cup with steaming tea.

“Thank you,” he said, and the poor servant didn’t quite know what to say.

Lily wanted to tell the liveried man that he should be grateful the duke spoke to him, as apparently she did not rate conversation. Not even after the previous evening.

Not even after he’d left her senseless in a carriage.

It was no good. She wasn’t going to be able to avoid thinking of it. Indeed, every time she looked at him, she could feel his palm against hers, his hands lifting her as though she weighed nothing. His arms around her. His lips on hers. His tongue. His fingers.

The room was suddenly uncomfortably warm.

Alec, for his part, seemed utterly comfortable, casually draped into the massive wooden chair at the head of the table, looking like lord of the manor, despite dining off plates adorned with scenes of a fox hunt, using silver etched with canine imagery. Indeed, he ate like a starving man, his appetite clearly unaffected by her presence.

Lily, on the other hand, felt as though she might cast up her accounts in the heavy silence that fell over the room.

Sensing her distaste for her food, Hardy sighed, setting his head on her lap and looking up at her with forlorn eyes, as though reminding her that he was there, and eager to help. She sneaked him a piece of sausage.

Angus noticed from his place at his master’s right hand and immediately came to her opposite side, licking his chops. She found a piece of meat for him, as well.

“They’ll never leave you alone now.” She looked up to find Alec remained riveted to his food, not looking at her.

Now, Lily found she was irritated. “At least the hounds acknowledge me.”

He stilled, fork halfway to his mouth, and Lily was rather proud of herself for speaking up. He looked to her, his brown eyes glittering like whisky in crystal. “What does that mean?”

“Only that their master appears unable to find the decency to say good morning.”

He set his fork down and turned to the trio of servants attempting to fade into the wall at the end of the room. “Leave us.”

They did not hesitate, closing the door in their wake with a quiet snick that seemed to reverberate through the room, sending Lily’s heart into her throat.

Would he kiss her again? Would he do more?

It was terribly early for it, wasn’t it?

She imagined him crossing the room to pull her from her chair, to set his large, beautiful hands to her face and to take her lips, showing her once more what he showed her last night—that lovemaking could be wild and free and mad and delicious.

Not that she cared if he did. She didn’t want it.

He watched her for a long moment in the silence before he said, “Good morning, Lillian.” There was nothing teasing or condescending in the words. Just a simple, civilized greeting.

Except something about it made Lily feel entirely uncivilized. And very petulant. “There. It wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

“It was not. I apologize. Again.”

Again.

I’m sorry, Lily. For everything.

“For what?”

He blinked. “For . . .” He trailed off.

“For forgoing a proper good morning?”

“Among other things.”

She stabbed a tomato with her fork, enjoying the way the juice of it oozed out the side. It was gruesome and macabre, if one really thought too much about it, and Lily was finding herself more and more in the mood for the gruesome and macabre.

“What other things?” She shouldn’t ask. She knew that. But still she could not resist it.

He did not hesitate to answer. “For my part in this disastrous play.”

“Which part is that?” She was rather proud of herself for holding his feet to the fire.

He looked to her, knowing immediately what she was doing. Impressively, he did not back down. “The part that threatened you with more scandal.”

“I was in scandal long before you went after him. Derek and I were not exactly clandestine in our friendship. Add you to it, and the gossip pages gave me nicknames, for heaven’s sake.”

“Add me to it?”

She waved a hand. “Lovely Lily when I was out and about with Derek, but when I was seen in Hyde Park, or on Oxford Street, or anywhere else, I was Lonesome Lily—”

He cut her off. “What do I have to do with that?”

“The Woeful Ward.”

He muttered beneath his breath, his eyes flashing with anger. “I didn’t know—”

“That I existed. I know. I wouldn’t worry so much about it, honestly.”

“Well, I do worry about it,” he grumbled. “More than Hawkins did. More than I did last night. More than you should have.”

She narrowed her gaze upon him. “I beg your pardon?”

He did not see how close he was to the precipice. Instead, he explained his words, as though she were a child. “I appreciate that you did not have a mother or a chaperone or whatever it is a woman of your age requires, Lillian, but surely even you knew that if you spent time alone with Hawkins, your reputation would be the victim.”

She watched him for a long moment. “And so it is my fault.”

He hesitated. “Of course it isn’t.”

The hesitation was all she heard. “It is, though. I was not forced. I was not drugged. I posed for the nude. For a man whom I thought I loved. For a man I thought loved me.” As the words came, so did her anger. “It was for him. Alone. Not for you. Not for them. Not for all time. But I did it, Alec. And so the fault lies at my feet.”

“No,” he fairly barked. “It’s Hawkins’s fault, dammit. If he hadn’t taken such advantage of you—if I hadn’t—”

She raised a hand to stop him from speaking. “So we get to it. I understand. I am at once responsible enough to be expected to predict my demise and cabbageheaded enough to be victim.” She paused. “I suppose you’ve convinced yourself that I was your victim last evening?”

There were few things more satisfying than seeing the Duke of Warnick, nearly seven feet tall and weighing close to three hundred pounds, blush. But he did, his cheeks awash in color at her casual reference across the breakfast table to the previous evening’s interlude. He was clearly displeased by the conversation.

Lily found she didn’t care. “There is no need for embarrassment, Your Grace. There is nothing for which to apologize.”

“There is e’rything for which tae apologize,” he said, loud and urgent, his accent thickening with his frustration. He looked to the door, as though to be certain they were alone before lowering his voice. The brogue lessened. “I should never have done it. Any of it.”

The sting of the words, the conviction in them, as though he had awoken this morning to discover he’d done something truly abhorrent, stung. Sharply.

Lily hated it. She pulled herself up straight and played her best British lady, feigning true aristocratic indifference and lying through her teeth. “How very dramatic. It is barely worth mentioning.”

He froze. “What do you mean, it is barely worth mentioning?”

Of course it was worth mentioning. It was worth remembering again and again forever. If she had the skill, she would have committed the entire event to paper so she might reread it every night for the rest of her days.

With Derek, it had never felt as though he cared much that she was there. It had always felt as though she was trying to make him see her. But Alec . . . Alec made her feel as though she was the sun, hot and bright at the center of a universe. His universe.

At least, she’d felt that way until he had apologized for making her feel that way.

She schooled her features. “I am not entirely without experience.”

He stood so quickly his chair tipped back and crashed to the floor, sending the dogs scrambling across the room. He did not seem to notice. “Another guardian would drag the man who gave you that experience to the damn altar.”

Good. He was as angry as she was. “Are you a virgin, Your Grace?”

If his eyes grew any wider, they would roll from his head. “What the hell kind of question is that?”

She resisted the urge to shout her glee at setting this enormous, arrogant man back on his heels. “It’s only that you remain unmarried, so I wonder how it is that no one ever dragged the woman who gave you your experience to the damn altar.”

His eyes narrowed to slits. “You shouldn’t curse.”

“Ah. Another rule that differs between men and women. No matter,” she added, lifting her teacup to her lips. “I politely decline your offer of marriage.”

He blinked. “My what?”

“Well, you did add to my experience last night and, by such rationale, that should result in a wedding, no?”

He stood there for a long moment, watching her, as though she were an animal behind bars in a traveling show. Finally, he said, “Lily, I’m trying to do right by you. Everything I’ve done—all of it—has been to protect you. I realize I’m doing a terrible job of it. Last night—in the carriage—it shouldn’t have happened.” He paused. “I’m your guardian, for God’s sake.”

She did not reply. What was there to say? He regretted the event that had made her feel more alive, more treasured, more desired, than anything in her life ever had. And, sadly, his regret begat hers.

It wasn’t as though she expected him to march into the breakfast room and propose. After all it was not as though they’d completed the official act.

But she hadn’t expected it to hurt quite so much.

She turned away from him, heading to the windows that lined the far end of the breakfast room. She took a deep breath, trying to ignore the familiar pang—the one that she’d felt all too often. The one that came with being passed over.

She was being silly. She hated being silly. And, somehow, that seemed to be all she ever was now.

Hardy seemed to sense her frustration, coming close and pressing his large, warm body against her thigh. There was something very comfortable about the big dog’s presence, and she immediately set her hand to his head, stroking his soft ears as she looked out the window, over the gardens of Dog House.

After a long while, she said, “There is a topiary out there in the shape of a poodle.”

Alec did not sound amused when he replied. “I would expect nothing less.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” she said, softly.

“Of course it wasn’t.” And, for a moment, she believed he meant it.

“It wasn’t Derek’s, either. Not really.”

“There, we disagree.”

She shook her head, but did not look back to him. “The rules, they are so different for men and women. Why should it matter to the world whom I am seen with? Why should it matter if I have private audience with a man? It shouldn’t be their business. It should be just that. Private.”

There was a long silence as he considered the words, and when he replied, he was closer than he had been. Just over her shoulder. “That’s not how it works.”

It wasn’t fair. Lily had been alone for so long, and finding companionship of any kind had given her such hope. She hadn’t even considered her reputation when she’d been with Derek. She’d been too desperate for companionship.

Just as she hadn’t considered her reputation last evening in the carriage with Alec. But it hadn’t been companionship she’d been desperate for then.

It had been him.

“It’s how it should work,” she said, looking down at the dog, his soulful brown eyes seeming to understand exactly how she felt.

“It should,” he said.

It shouldn’t have happened.

His words. Filled with regret. She closed her eyes.

Should was a terrible word.

She squared her shoulders and turned to face him, resolute in her decision to ignore his handsome, angled face and his brown eyes, gleaming the color of whisky. She would not notice any of it. Not his broad shoulders, or the way his hair fell in a haphazard sweep over his brow, or his lips.

She would certainly not notice his lips. They’d done far too much damage as it was.

Sadness and frustration coursed through her, a river of something that could become shame if she allowed it. But she wouldn’t. Not again. Not with another man. Not with one who suddenly seemed far more important than the first.

She pushed the emotions away, leaving room for one thing only.

Determination.

She would not feel shame. Not today. Hang the Duke of Warnick and his temptation. If he wanted to get her courted, she would be courted. It was seven days until the painting was revealed, and she wouldn’t fall in love in that time.

Couldn’t.

She shook her head, resigned to the plan, and hedged her bets. “The Earl of Stanhope,” she said, selecting the first name on his idiotic list. “He is my choice.”

It was remarkable how quickly one could go from receiving what he desired to questioning why he desired it in the first place.

When Alec had entered the breakfast room, he’d dreaded facing Lily, sure she was planning to accuse him of the worst kind of roguishness and insist that he either send her from London or marry her.

He wasn’t certain that he could have done the first, honestly. Not after she’d come apart in his arms the night before, all beauty and perfection and temptation.

And he absolutely would not marry her. She deserved infinitely better than a man who was good for sexual pleasure and little else. Better than a brute beast who, until he inherited the title of Duke of Warnick, was barely worth a second look from fine English roses. And certainly was not worth a second night.

Too coarse. Too unrefined.

Lily was worth a dozen of him. Last night had proved it, and made him resolute in his plan. He would get her married. And when that was done, he would return to Scotland. And he would never return.

He had entered the room, intent on establishing those very clear rules. He hadn’t expected her to be so very beautiful, however, clad in the prettiest green silk he’d ever seen, stroking Hardy’s massive head as though she’d raised him from a pup.

It shouldn’t matter that she liked his dogs.

It didn’t matter.

What mattered was getting the girl married.

And so he should have been relieved when she agreed and named her mark, but it wasn’t relief that had flooded through him at that. It was something much more dangerous. Something that—if he didn’t know better—seemed remarkably like jealousy.

He replied nonetheless, pretending to be unmoved by the announcement. “Stanhope. You know him?”

“Every unmarried woman in London knows of him.”

He didn’t like the way she said it, as though the man were some kind of prize. “I didn’t know of him.”

She gave him a little smile. “You do not receive Pearls & Pelisses.”

Alec was proud that he even knew what the ladies’ magazine was. “As I am a grown man, I do not.”

“He’s a Lord to Land,” Lily said, as if that meant something.

Alec could not hide his ignorance. “What on earth does that mean?”

She sighed, and when she answered, it seemed as though she was irritated with his shocking lack of knowledge. “Lord Stanhope has been at the top of the list of London’s Lords to Land for as long as I’ve been reading the scandal sheets.”

“We will return to why you are reading the scandal sheets in short order,” Alec said. “But let’s begin with why Stanhope is so very”—he grimaced at the idea of saying the idiotic word—“landable.”

She counted Stanhope’s assets on her fingers. “He’s handsome, he’s charming, he’s titled, and he’s unmarried.”

Alec supposed women liked those qualities. “Not rich?”

One of Lily’s perfect brows rose. “That’s where I come in. As you well know. Isn’t that the key to your getting me married?”

The words grated. “It’s not only the wealth that I expect him to want,” he said, before he could stop himself. She was not a fool. She would ask—

“What else is there?”

He likely should not have answered. But there was something about seeing her there, Hardy at her feet, staring adoringly up at her, that made him tell her. “There is your beauty.”

Her brows went up in silent question.

It was the truth. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen with her red hair and grey eyes and a face shaped like the most perfect of hearts and a body that had developed in all the best ways.

A body he’d tried desperately not to notice until the prior evening, when it had been pressed against him and he’d had little choice but to notice it. To memorize it.

She was entirely magnificent.

And entirely not for him.

“Marred beauty at best, now that the world knows of the painting.”

“That’s rubbish,” he said, his throat was exceedingly dry. Coughing, he headed for more tea. Drank deep. “The painting doesn’t change the fact that you are perfect.”

Her words followed him. “And somehow, when you say it, Your Grace, it doesn’t sound like a compliment.”

“That’s because it’s not one.” He knew he was grumbling, but he could not stop himself. He righted the chair he’d sent crashing to the floor earlier.

When she’d referenced her experience.

As he set the furniture right, he was flooded with visions of what, precisely, that experience might have been. The visions were immediately followed by the kind of experience he might be able to give her.

And that way lay danger.

“With beauty comes trouble,” he added, a reminder to himself, more than her.

Lillian Hargrove was nothing if she was not trouble. The worst kind. The kind that made men do idiot things, like kiss her senseless in a carriage until they were both weak from the pleasure.

He ignored the thought, busying himself with drinking his tea. There would be no weakening from pleasure again. Not with her. Not ever.

She deserved a man legions better than some Scottish oaf who knocked his head on door frames and shredded his clothing while bloodying noses. She deserved a man not nearly so rough. One refined as a prince.

His opposite.

He supposed a Lord to Land—whatever that meant—was precisely such a man. And if Stanhope qualified, then he should be happy for it. Indeed a Lord to Land was what Lily needed. Someone who was so well thought of as a match that their marriage became the news. That it overshadowed the painting.

If anything could overshadow Lily nude.

Which Alec doubted. Because of her beauty.

“Perhaps the Scottish air has addled your brain, Your Grace. Most would say that beauty is a boon.”

“I’m not most. I know better. And no beauty like yours is a boon.”

Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “I don’t think I’ve ever in my life been so insulted by a compliment.”

Good. If she was insulted by him, she’d steer clear of him. “No fear, lass. We’re going to capitalize on your assets and get you married.”

“My assets.”

“Precisely.”

“Which are: Beauty.” She came toward him. Alec moved to keep the breakfast table between them, sensing her irritation and remembering her right hook from the night before. “And a dowry.”

“Correct.” At least she understood that bit.

“And what of my brain?”

Alec paused, immediately sensing that the question was a dangerous one. “It’s a fine brain.”

“Do not tax yourself with such elaborate compliments.”

He sighed and looked to the ceiling, exasperated. “My point is that your brain is unnecessary.”

She blinked.

It had apparently been the wrong answer. “Well, clearly I think your brain is essential to the plan.”

“Oh, well, excellent,” she said, and he did not miss the sarcasm in the words. “But you are Scottish.”

“I see you’re catching on.”

Her gaze narrowed. “Perhaps you should simply install me on the steps from the hours of nine to three for all to come and have a good look at the wares?”

He’d made her angry. Which was fine. Angry Lily was not for kissing. He worked to keep her riled. “While I’m not opposed to such a plan in theory, I’m aware that it might not be appropriate.”

“Might not be?”

“Definitely not.” He shook his head. “I shall send word to Stanhope. You shall meet tomorrow.”

Her eyes went wide. “Tomorrow?”

“We haven’t time to dally. You’ve seven days to catch him.”

I’ve seven days to resist you. Alec’s teeth clenched at the thought.

“And if he is otherwise occupied?”

“He shan’t be.”

She raised a perfect auburn brow. “You may not like the title, Duke, but you have most certainly mastered the superior arrogance that comes with it.”

He snapped. “You chose the damn man. I’m fetching him for you, am I not?”

Silence stretched between them until he felt like a dozen kinds a beast for yelling. He opened his mouth to say something else. To apologize.

She stopped him. “By all means, then, fetch him.”

“Lily,” he said, suddenly feeling very much like the morning was getting away from him.

She narrowed her gaze on his. “What did I tell you about calling me Lily?”

The name wasn’t for him. She’d made that clear.

“Lillian,” he tried again. “Last night—I was—it was—” This woman turned him into a blathering idiot. How was that possible? He took a breath. “Let’s chalk it up to my brutishness.”

“Stop calling yourself that. You’re not a brute.”

“I shredded a topcoat.” And more. Her bodice.

He would not think on the bodice.

“You need a better tailor.”

She was frustrating as hell. “That doesn’t make me less of a beast.”

Lily was quiet enough that he thought she might not answer. Instead, she said the worst possible thing he could imagine. “Why do you do that?”

“What?”

She moved again, around the table, and he followed suit, keeping his distance. “Call yourself that. A beast. A brute.”

The Scottish Brute.

He hesitated. “You’ve called me that, as well, have you not?”

“In anger. You use it in truth.”

Because I will always have it in me. And it will never be good enough for you.

“What do they call me in your ladies’ magazines?”

“All sorts of things. The Diluted Duke, the Highland Devil—”

“I’m not a Highland Scot. Not anymore.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but no one seems to care about truth.”

That much, he knew and was grateful for. He did not wish to discuss the truth. “Either way,” he said, “it will never happen again.” If he vowed it to her, perhaps he would stop wanting it.

After a long moment, she nodded and said, “I shall require a chaperone.”

“No. Chaperones get in the way.”

“That’s the point of chaperones. To get in the way and maintain propriety.”

“We don’t have time for propriety.”

Hardy barked; the dogs were beginning to think that the circling of the breakfast table was a game of sorts.

Lily ignored the dog. “Then why worry about a chaperone at all? My reputation is not exactly gilded.”

Because she was every man’s dream. And a chaperone was essential. Not just a doddering old lady with poor eyesight and worse hearing. She needed a chaperone who both understood the critical, time-sensitive nature of the situation and was able to—should it be necessary—drop a man into unconsciousness if he were too forward.

There weren’t many pugilist chaperones to be had in London on short notice, Alec imagined.

But there was an ideal solution. One he had devised in the dead of night, as he forced himself to think of her as ward and not woman. He was rather proud of his success. “I’m not worried.”

She stopped, looking at him with utter disbelief. “You’re not.”

“Not in the slightest.” He rocked back on his heels, crossing his arms over his chest. “I have the ideal chaperone for you.”

That auburn brow rose again, threatening to lose itself in her hair. “And who is that?”

He smiled. He had her now. “Me.”

She laughed, the sound light and lovely and temptation incarnate. “Honestly.”

“I am being quite honest.”

Her brow furrowed, and he resisted the urge to soothe the twin wrinkles above her nose. “You are no kind of chaperone.”

“Nonsense. I’m the best possible chaperone.” He paused, ticking off the reasons on his fingers. “I have a vested interest in your finding a successful match so I can leave London and never return—”

“Something you could do this moment if you’d simply give me the funds to leave.”

He ignored the statement and continued. “I am predisposed to loathe all Englishmen, so I will be on my guard more than some aging spinster.”

She raised a brow. “You are old and unmarried as well, Your Grace. I would have a care with whom you call an aging spinster.”

He ignored the taunt. “And, as a man, I am more than able to predict any compromising situations.”

Lily pursed her lips and was silent for a long minute—long enough for Alec to conclude that he had won her over to his argument, particularly when she nodded. “It sounds as though you’ve planned the whole thing quite perfectly.”

“I have, rather.”

He’d risen early to do so, committed to getting Lily married soonest. He intended to sign her dowry papers the moment she selected a suitor, and return to Scotland.

And forget about her.

“There is only one problem with your plan.”

“What is that?” There was no problem with the plan. He’d considered the plan from all angles.

“It has to do with compromising situations.”

He did not like the phrase on her lips. Or, perhaps he liked the phrase too much on her lips.

Irrelevant.

There was no problem with the plan.

“You see, Your Grace, since you arrived in London, I’ve found myself in precisely one compromising situation.” She stood straight and leveled him with a cool, grey gaze. “Last night. With you.”

It seemed there was a problem with the plan.