A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2) - Sarah MacLean Page 0,29

he was in this room to locate her, with or without her stockings.

He shifted at the discomfort of the thought. With. With her stockings.

He turned away from the offending garments, ignoring his body, instead looking to the rest of the room, so clearly Lillian’s sanctuary, so much so that he felt like the worst kind of criminal entering the space. A burglar with the crown jewels. A layman in a sacristy. Later, it would occur to him that even if he’d attempted to stop himself from entering that strange little room, he would not have been able to do so.

Alec stepped in, leaving the door as open as it could be left, his attention falling to the little wooden desk tucked under the low ceiling, where a pile of paper sat in organized chaos, a pen atop it, having left a blotch of ink on the pristine sheet. He ducked into the space and ran his fingers across the ecru, thinking on other letters—the ones that had summoned him south to this woman, who could drive him mad if he allowed it.

Certainly, standing in this room, she seemed the madwoman. She had a half-dozen bedchambers to choose from and a dozen more rooms in which to live, and still she chose this little hole.

There was a large hinged trunk against the wall next to the desk, left unlatched. Alec leaned down to open it. It was filled with letters, it seemed, a collection of well-worn envelopes that had obviously been opened and reopened, each with a letter that had been read and reread.

He lifted one, knowing that he shouldn’t, knowing it made him a scoundrel, but too riveted to Lily’s name and the bold, black direction scrawled across the envelope to stop himself. He opened it, his eyes immediately falling to the signature.

Hawkins.

It was remarkable how quickly one man could loathe another.

His gaze scanned the words . . . a mountain of pretty gibberish.

The loveliest lady in London.

My muse.

Someone had sketched a flower in the margins of the letter, a beautiful, bold lily, fluted and perfect. Alec supposed it was Hawkins who had done so, even as he wished the man’s talent was less than purported.

My Lily.

Alec balked at the nickname, scrawled in that bold, confident hand, and her words from the previous day echoed through him. Don’t call me that. It’s not for you.

Well, it certainly wasn’t for this Hawkins imbecile, either. And she sure as hell didn’t belong to Hawkins.

She belonged to him.

Alec shot straight up at the thought, cracking his head powerfully against the ceiling, so hard that he swore in a loud, long, utterly inappropriate string of Gaelic.

One hand to his head, Alec stood, continuing his colorful invectives. As the sting subsided, it occurred to him that he should be grateful for the blow to the head, however, as it had literally knocked sense back into him.

Lillian Hargrove did not belong to him.

Indeed, he was working quite hard to ensure that she was firmly in his past.

What if he did give her the money? Not the five thousand she was due—the twenty-five? Fifty? Enough to take herself from Britain. To the Continent, to the Americas, to somewhere else entirely. She would have a fortune large enough to secure a future as a queen anywhere she liked.

He imagined her in silks and satins in Paris, in a wig that fairly touched the sky, the world at her feet, and no one there caring a bit that she had once been in London, living beneath the servants’ stairs.

She wasn’t his sister, after all. Cate was a child, barely eighteen, with no sense of the world beyond. Lily had the knowledge that came with age and womanhood. She’d sat for a damn nude, hadn’t she?

She’d gotten herself into this particular situation, hadn’t she? And while she was old enough to know better. She had to have known what might have come of it.

The shame would still follow her.

He knew better than most how it would, burrowing beneath the skin and never leaving. Whispering in the night. She’d never escape it, even if she escaped those who would cloak her in it.

Just as he never had.

He leaned down to replace the letter, noting the place where the paper had once been, and what it had revealed. He crouched, collecting the layer of correspondence that hid a mountain of white fabric. Of white clothes.

Tiny, white, child’s clothes, all embroidered linen and lace collars, gowns and caps and blankets. Instinctively, Alec reached