He cut her a look. “No, I was looking at Derek Hawkins.”

Her heart stopped.

Luckily, she did not have to speak, because he continued, “I went looking for him.”

Which meant he knew. About everything. About her idiocy. About her desperation. About her willingness to do whatever a man asked of her. About her naiveté.

She went hot with shame, hating herself.

Hating him for resurrecting it.

She swallowed. “Why?”

“Believe it or not,” he said, and she could hear the surprise in his tone, “I intended to force him to marry you.”

What had he said?

She was certain she’d misheard him. Panic rose. Was he mad? “You didn’t!”

“I did not, as a matter of fact,” he said. “Once I met the man, I realized that there was no way on green earth that I would allow you to cleave yourself to him.”

Cleave. She hated the word. Hated the roughness of it. The way it seemed rife with desperation. With obsession. With unpleasant, simpering longing.

You said you loved me.

The shame came again, flooding in on the memory of the words, high and nasal and desperate. In front of all London, punctuated by their mocking laughter. With his.

And now Alec Stuart, twenty-first Duke of Warnick, the only man in London who had not known the circumstances of her shame, knew them. And worse, thought to save her.

Panic rose. “I never asked to be cleaved to him.”

“I am told you did, lass. Quite publicly.”

She closed her eyes at the words, as though if she could not see him, she could not hear the truth. He knew. Knew everything about what had happened with Derek. But somehow, he couldn’t see the truth of it. That everything she’d ever desired, everything for which she’d ever dreamed . . . it was all impossible now.

She’d made it so.

Her fists clenched at her side and she opened her eyes to find him staring at her, as though he could see right into her soul. She looked away, immediately. “You would be surprised what ruination in front of all of London will do to one’s desires.”

There was a long moment as he waited for her to look at him again.

She could not do it.

Finally, he let out a long breath and said, “For what it is worth, Lillian, Hawkins is possibly the most loathsome man I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet.”

She looked to him, willing him to believe her. “I do not wish Hawkins. Nor do I wish your help. Indeed, all I wish is to have a life that is my own. And free of—”

Scandal. Shame.

She shook her head, unwilling to say the words aloud. “All of it.”

She would run. She would start fresh. And someday, she would forget that for which she’d always dreamed. The marriage, the family, the belonging.

Thankfully, she did not have to explain it to the Duke of Warnick, who lifted the papers from the table and said, “I intend to give you that life, Lillian.”

Relief flooded, deep and nearly unbearable. He had put the idea of marrying her off from his head. She smiled, unable to contain her joy at the words. She could begin anew. She could forget Derek Hawkins and his manipulation. His pretty lies. “Alec Stuart, you are the world’s greatest guardian.”

It seemed she could catch flies, after all.

He stood then, his chair balancing on two legs before returning to the floor with a thud, punctuated by the sudden sensation of sawdust in her mouth, as she witnessed the plaid in all its glory, falling in perfect pleats to his knees, below which perfect, muscled calves, the likes she had never before seen, curved and tightened.

Good God. The man was Herculean.

No wonder the ladies adored him.

Her gaze traveled to the edge of the fabric, drinking in the curves and dips of his knees. She swallowed, the act a challenge, wondering how it was she’d never noticed the precise shape of a knee.

She shook her head. How ridiculous. She didn’t care about knees. Not when her freedom was on the table.

“My money.”

He leaned against the table and looked down at his papers. “From what I understand, you receive five thousand pounds on your twenty-fourth birthday.”

Blood rushed through her, making it difficult to think, and she let out a long breath, and laughed, relief coming light and beautiful, making her happier than she’d been in a long time.

Happier than she’d ever been.

Bless his great Scots heart.

It was enough to leave London. To buy a cottage somewhere. To start anew. “In nine days.”

“The same day the painting shall be revealed,” he said.

“At once, a welcome birthday gift and a wicked one,” she replied with a little self-deprecating laugh. “An irony, as I cannot remember the last birthday I received a present at all.”

“There is something you should know, Lily.”

And through the happiness, she heard the name he’d never called her. The name she called herself—the one she’d shared with Derek. The one he’d shared with the scandal sheets he enjoyed so much.

The one that had become Lovely Lily. Lonely Lily.

Her gaze snapped to his.

There was a catch.

“As you remain unmarried, you receive the money at my discretion.” He paused, and she loathed him in the moment, hearing the words before he said them. “And I require you to marry.”



Chapter 5



LOVELY LILY LIVID . . . DEFIES DUKE! DISAPPEARS!

“You cannot force me to marry.”

It was the sixth time she’d said it. It seemed Lily had a knack for repeating herself when she was frustrated. What was more, it seemed that she had a knack for ignoring him when she was frustrated.

Which was likely for the best, because the fury on her face when he’d presented her with the terms of his guardianship and his plan to get her married made it very clear that she would have happily knocked him to the ground if she’d thought she could.

She might still try to do just that, which was why he was keeping his distance, watching her pace the room. He’d taken enough of a beating in the ring the night before.

She hesitated at the far edge of the room, staring out the large window that opened onto the house’s handsome back gardens. Angus and Hardy had taken up watch by the fireplace, lying with their large grey heads on their paws, eyes following the hem of her skirts. Alec watched as her hand worked the fabric of those skirts before she turned back to him, her anger returned. “You—” She stopped herself. Took a deep breath.

Alec would have wagered his entire fortune that she wanted to say something utterly unladylike. In fact, he wasn’t sure if he was impressed or disappointed when she looked back to the gardens and said, “You can’t.”

He didn’t even know the woman. He shouldn’t care how this situation made her feel. Indeed, it shouldn’t matter how she felt. It should only matter that he was one step closer to being gone from England.

Damn England.

The only place in the world where this kind of idiocy mattered.

He took pity on her nonetheless. “According to Settlesworth, you’re right. I cannot make you marry.”

She spun around to look at him. “I knew it!”

She would marry, nevertheless. He crossed his arms and leaning back against the hearth. “How old were you when your parents died?”

She came toward him, as though she could force him to return to the topic at hand, but seemed to collect herself once more. “My mother died when I was barely one year of age. In childbirth with a babe who did not survive.”

He saw the sadness in her eyes. The regret. The desire for something that would never be. He was drawn to that familiar emotion like a pup on a string. He stepped toward her. “I am sorry. I know what it is to spend a childhood alone.”

“Your parents?”

He shook his head. “Barely present. Better absent.”

“I thought you had a sister?”

He could not hide his smile as he thought of Cate. “Half sister, sixteen years younger, born while I was . . .” He hesitated on the memory. Cleared his throat. “While I was at school. We did not know each other until I was eighteen and my father died and I returned home to care for her.”

“I am sorry. For your father,” she said.

He replied with the truth. “I am not.”

She blinked at the honest answer, and he immediately moved to change the topic. “Cate is as troublesome as if we shared full blood.”

Her eyes were grey as the North Sea when she replied, “I wouldn’t know how troublesome that is, as it has always been me, alone.” Before he could find a reply, she said, “At least, since I lost my father. I was eleven.”

The words reminded him of the purpose of his question. He nodded. “Well, he took good care of you.”

Better care of her than his father had cared for him. He’d always been a memory of his mother. And, for his mother, he’d always been a reminder of what she might have had.

She laughed, the sound void of humor. “He left me in the care of a family that was not my own. That was so far above me in station that . . .”

She trailed off, but Alec did not need to hear the words. “How did he know the duke?”

“He worked for him. As land steward. Apparently he was quite good at it, as the then duke agreed to assume my care. A pity that the now duke does not feel similarly.” She looked away, the grey morning casting her in ethereal light. Christ, she was beautiful. Alec had no doubt that Hawkins’s painting was the masterpiece he claimed it to be.