A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2) - Sarah MacLean Page 0,40
his eyes were not simply brown. They were brown flecked with gold and green and grey. She’d think them beautiful if she didn’t loathe the very sight of their owner, who thought himself a hero despite presenting himself every kind of villain.
“You like your Shakespeare so much, how about this,” he said. “Sell when you can, Lillian Hargrove. You are not for all markets.”
She snapped to attention. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Only that time is of the essence.”
Shame flooded her, hot and unpleasant. Her heart threatened to pound out of her chest and, in that moment, she hated him. She pulled herself straight, pushing her shoulders back and holding herself with all the poise of a royal. “You, sir, are a bastard.”
“Sadly not, love. But I can see how you would wish it so; after all, it’s my legitimacy that’s landed us in this particular situation.”
She didn’t reply, instead pushing past him and following the throngs of people up into the ballroom, suddenly caring little for what she must look like in the ridiculous dog dress—too distracted by the blood rushing in her ears to hear the whispers around her as the ton became aware of her.
And yet, somehow, she heard him perfectly, the whispered curse as she walked away, followed by the Marquess of Eversley’s, “That was off-sides, Warnick.”
Good. Let his friend scold him. He’d acted abominably.
Lily had had enough of the man and his coarseness. He could wither and die in the doorway to Eversley House if he wished. Hang him, his offensive list, and his pretty Scottish poetry.
She was more than happy for them to part now.
Lily stepped into the Eversley ballroom, immediately drawn to the wash of bright golden light, the field of candles throughout the room, hanging from the chandeliers high above and ablaze in sconces and candelabra everywhere she turned. But it was not the candles that glittered most brightly. It was the people. All of London seemed to have turned out for the Eversley ball in bright silks and satins to match bright eyes and cheeks, the excitement of the season flooding through them.
Lily came to a stop just inside the room, stunned into panicked stillness. What was to come next? She was at a ball, dressed thoroughly inappropriately, angry and frustrated and hurt and desperate for some exit from this current, disastrous situation.
She could feel London’s eyes upon her, hot and scathing, chatter becoming silence as she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, willing herself to remain strong. As she looked out at the assembly, she saw the gazes slide away, like silk on fur, unable to stick. Fans raised, heads turned, and whispers began.
Shame surged, and Lily took a deep breath. She was here now. In the middle of a ball with no choice but to find her way.
No sooner had the decision been made than someone arrived to help.
Several someones.
Chapter 8
LONESOME LILY SNATCHED UP BY SCANDALOUS SISTERS;
BOLD BEAUTIES BEFRIEND WARNICK’S WARD
“Dear Heaven. That dress should be immediately burned.”
“Shush!” another voice admonished. “Perhaps she likes it!”
“Nonsense. No one could possibly like it.” Lily turned to face the quartet bearing down upon her. The leader met her eyes without hesitation. “You don’t like it, do you?”
Lily was so surprised by the direct question that she replied without hesitation, “No.”
The dark-haired quartet, each pretty and perfectly turned out, smiled en masse. They were quite striking as a group, if Lily were honest, each in a different brilliant silk, yellow and green and blue and the leader, in red, who said, “That means you’re wearing it for a particular effect.”
“For a man, if I had to guess,” Blue said, investigating the line of the bodice, which Lily had lowered and refitted that afternoon. “Amazing,” she whispered before leaning in. “Is it for a man?”
“Why would she wear it for a man?” Green asked. “To scare him off?”
Yellow spoke this time. “To prove that she doesn’t care for his opinion.”
“She shouldn’t,” Red replied as she stopped directly in front of Lily. “Men rarely understand their own opinions. And if you’re brave enough to wear this monstrosity, you are smart enough to know that his opinions matter very little in the long run.”
Lily shook her head. “He isn’t a him. That is, I don’t care what he thinks.”
Yellow smiled softly, and Lily realized that under other circumstances, she would think that the woman was plain. She wasn’t, however. Not when she smiled. “That means there’s absolutely a him.”