“It is, as a matter of fact.”

“May I have it?”

“Do you deserve it?” she teased. He did, of course. She’d never known a man so deserving.

His gaze darkened. “Only tell me what I might do to earn it, my love, and I shall do it with pleasure.”

The words sent a thrum of desire through her as she imagined all the things he might do for her. To her. The things she might do in return. Her breath quickened, and he drew nearer still, his fingers coming to the box, removing it from her hands as he said, soft and low and liquid, “I do not require a present. I only require you.”

She shook her head to clear it of her own desire. “No,” she said. “Open it.”

He did, sliding the top from the small, square parcel and peered inside. Lily was riveted to his handsome face, made even more beautiful in the flickering golden candlelight, his perfect, tempting lips already curving in anticipation.

And then anticipation was gone, replaced with confusion.

And then surprise.

And then joy, as he reached into the box and extracted the pair of little white boots, complete with red leather soles.

Joy turned to adoration when he looked at her. “Your boots.”

Lily smiled. “No longer mine.”

Alec was on his knees, then, pulling her to him, pressing kisses across the soft, bare skin of her stomach, whispering in Gaelic to the child who grew within. “You have given me so much,” he said, finally, to Lily. “And now . . .”

Lily’s hands came to his head, reveling in her proud, strong Scot—the man who had given her everything she had ever dreamed. Holding him. Loving him.

They stayed like that for a long time, until the Duke of Warnick stood, lifted his duchess into his arms, carried her to their very sturdy bed, and loved her, quite thoroughly, in return.






Author’s Note


The inspiration for this and all Scandal & Scoundrel books is modern celebrity gossip, something that readers who—like me—have a secret love for US Weekly, TMZ, and Tatler will notice right away. While Scandal & Scoundrel is my creation, scandal sheets are not new. Nude paintings seem innocuous enough now, but one need only think of hacked cell phones and secret tapes from recent years to see that the more the world changes, the more it stays the same. I am indebted to the inspiring women who have stood tall in the face of reveals like Lily’s in recent years.

The Scandal & Scoundrel series could not be written without the vast, fascinating collections of the New York Public Library and the British Library—the gossip columns of newspapers long defunct remain in their archives. For this book, I am also grateful for the archives of the Royal Academy of Arts, now in its 248th year—which continues to exhibit contemporary British art to the public at large during its annual summer exhibition. It should be said that, while Exhibition-related people and paintings in the book are historically correct, the idea of a final, touring piece to be revealed on the last day of the exhibition is all mine.

As with all my books, this one would be a pale version of itself without Carrie Feron (who is always right), Nicole Fischer, Leora Bernstein, and the outstanding team at Avon Books, including Liate Stehlik, Shawn Nicholls, Pam Jaffee, Caroline Perny, Tobly McSmith, Carla Parker, Brian Grogan, Frank Albanese, Eileen DeWald, and Eleanor Mikucki. Special shout-out to Lucia Macro for wonderful conversations about all the best bits of romance. And, of course, many thanks to the remarkable Steve Axelrod.

Thanks to Lily Everett for extensive celebrity “research,” to Carrie Ryan and Sophie Jordan for always answering the phone, to my sister Chiara for an early read, and to Ally Carter for a late one.

To Eric, thank you for being the best of men. To V, may you always face scandal with strength, and be better for it. And to my amazing readers, thank you for always taking the journey with me—nothing without you.


As A Scot in the Dark goes to the printer, I’m hard at work on book three in the Scandal & Scoundrel series—the story of Sesily’s disappeared sister, Seraphina, and the duke she did not win. Join me (and the rest of the motley Scandal & Scoundrel crew!) in 2017 for The Day of the Duchess!



An Excerpt from The Day of the Duchess


Scandal & SCOUNDREL

Vol 3 / Iss 1 13 August 1836

DISAPPEARED DUCHESS DISCOVERED!

GOSSIP PERFUMED Parliament today, when Seraphina, the Disappeared DUCHESS OF HAVEN returned from her scandalous sojourn to scandalize society and spar with her spouse on the floor of the House of Lords.

The Long Lost Lady's parliamentary petition? DIVORCE!

By all accounts, HAUGHTY HAVEN has hied home, ceding the floor (but not the war) to his once lady love, then disdained duchess, and now unwilling wife. The lady will not be ignored, however. She follows, furious, vowing to end the marriage by any means necessary. Is there anything more salacious than a summer scandal?

MORE TO COME.

The Day of the Duchess

Scandal & Scoundrel, Book III

Coming Summer 2017



Chapter 1



August 1836

House of Lords, Parliament

She’d left him two years, seven months ago, exactly.

Malcolm Bevingstoke, Duke of Haven, looked to the tiny wooden calendar wheels inlaid into the blotter on his desk in his private office above the House of Lords.

August 20, 1836. The last day of the parliamentary session, filled with pomp and idle.

Which lead to lingering memory.

Haven spun the wheel with the six embossed upon it. Five. Four. He took a deep breath.

Get out. He heard his own words, cold and angry with betrayal and quiet menace. Don’t ever return.

August became July. May. March.

January 20, 1834. She is gone.

His fingers moved without thought, finding comfort in the familiar click of the wheels.

March 17, 1833.

The way I feel about you . . . Her words now—soft and full of temptation. I’ve never felt anything like this.

He hadn’t, either. As though light and breath and hope had flooded the room, filling all the dark spaces. Filling his lungs and heart. And all because of her.

Until he’d discovered the truth.

The clock in the corner of the office ticked and tocked, counting the seconds until Haven was due in his seat in the hallowed main chamber of the House of Lords, where men of higher purpose and passion had sat for centuries before him. His fingers played the little calendar like a virtuoso, as though they’d done this dance a hundred times before. A thousand.

And they had.

March 1, 1833. The day they met.

So, they let simply anyone become a duke, do they? No deference. Teasing and charm and pure, unadulterated beauty.

You think dukes are bad, imagine what they accept of duchesses?

That smile. As though she’d never met another man. As though she’d never wanted to. Until him. He’d been hers the moment he’d seen that smile. Before that. Imagine, indeed.

And then it had fallen apart. He’d lost everything, and then lost her.

Would there ever be a time when he stopped thinking of her? Would there be a date that did not remind him of her? Of the time that had stretched like an eternity since she’d left?

The clock struck eleven, heavy chimes sounding in the room, echoed by a dozen others sounding down the long, oaken corridor beyond, summoning men of longstanding name to the duty that had been theirs before they drew breath.

Summoning Haven from his memories.

He spun the calendar wheels with force, leaving them as they lay. November 37th 3842. A fine date—one on which he had absolutely no chance of thinking of her.

Haven stood, moving to the corner of the room where his red robes hung—a thick, heavy burden meant to echo the weight of responsibility shouldered by he who wore it. He swung the garment over his shoulders, the red velvet’s heat overwhelming him almost immediately, fairly suffocating him. All this, before he reached for his powdered wig, grimacing as he flipped it onto his head, the horsehair whipping his neck before laying flat and uncomfortable, like a punishment for past sins.

Ignoring the sensation, Haven ripped open the door to his offices and made his way through the now quiet corridors to the entrance to the main chamber of the House of Lords. Stepping inside, he inhaled deeply, immediately regretting the act. It was August and hot as hell on the floor of Parliament, the air rank with sweat and perfume. The windows were open to allow a breeze into the room—a barely-there stirring that only exacerbated the stench, adding the reek of the Thames to the already horrendous smell within.

It was time to go home for the summer.

Haven’s heart filled at the thought. At home, the river ran cool and crisp, unsullied by the filth of London. At home, the air was clean, promising summer idyll and hinting at more. At the future.