A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2) - Sarah MacLean Page 0,117

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.

And it slayed him, especially when she clenched her fingers, pulling his head back just enough to sigh, her lips parting on his name, a magnificent breath that could have sustained him for a lifetime. “Let me try,” she whispered again, her lips against his, teasing and tempting.

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.

Alec understood the dog’s response. He, too, was happier when they were together. After they’d given the dogs proper attention, he took her hand again and led her to her chamber—the tiny room beneath the stairs that remained just as she’d left it, filled with books and papers and silk stockings draped over the bedpost.

He set the painting down, leaned it against her trunk as she watched, confusion in her eyes. “Here?”

He nodded. “It is the only place in the house—in all the houses—that is full of you.”

“Too full of me,” she said. “There is barely room for us both.”

Precisely the point. Because once he had told her all his truths, she would not wish him there any longer. And he would have no choice but to leave, because there would be no room to stay.

She seemed to understand the reasoning without his speaking it aloud, her brow furrowing as she reached for his other hand, as though she could keep him if she held on very tightly.

But she could not keep him. Not when he—

“Tell me,” she said softly. “Whatever it is—”

He took a deep breath, knowing what the truth would do. Hating what it would do. And then he released her hands and did as she asked.

He told her everything.

Chapter 21

ALL’S FAIR IN LOVE AND WARD

“I left Scotland when I was twelve.”

Lily did not know what she expected him to say, but she did not expect that. And then, “I should say, I ran from Scotland when I was twelve.”

She desperately wished to touch him, to make sure he understood that whatever he said to her, whatever had happened in his past, she was with him. But she had learned enough about Alec Stuart in the past ten days to know that touching him would do nothing but remind him of the burden he carried. And so, instead, she clasped her hands together and sat, perched on the edge of her little bed, as though it were perfectly normal to be here.

“My mother left when I was eight.” He looked down at his hands, large and strong and perfect. “I remember very little of her, but I remember how