of how close they’d once been.
Of the way she’d left, his heart in her hand, crushed.
Women dream of men like you, darling.
But for a night. Not a lifetime.
King hadn’t warned him that she’d be there. Alec supposed he should have expected it. The ball was one of the first of the season, and the first hosted by the future Duke and Duchess of Lyne since the birth of their first child. Even if King weren’t brother-in-law to the infamous Talbot sisters, all of London would have been in curious attendance.
But he still could have mentioned Peg would be there.
Alec pushed away the cacophonous memories of a broken heart and a broken spirit, leaving only the memory of Lillian’s righteous fury.
He should have been able to manage that fury. To temper it.
And perhaps he would have done, if not for the shock and sting of seeing Peg. Of remembering her. And then Lily had called him a brute and a beast, and he’d remembered the same words on another set of beautiful lips. Another time. Another woman. Another encounter that ended with him left alone, imperfect.
And then, Lily, hurt, lashing out. Your reputation precedes you.
Shit.
It wasn’t an excuse for his behavior. He should have protected Lily—ironically, protecting her was the only thing he seemed unable to do, despite it being the singular requirement of guardianship.
Perhaps he’d be more successful at it if she weren’t so beautiful. If those grey eyes didn’t seem to see everything, if she weren’t so willing to tell him when he was out of line. When he was behaving abominably. If she weren’t so strong and independent and willing to fight for herself.
If she weren’t so damn perfect, perhaps he could be a better man when he was with her.
She’d called him a beast, and he was. Somehow, she made him one. Or, perhaps, she simply saw the truth, and left him there, at the center of the ballroom, feeling like one.
The orchestra stopped and the couples around him—doing their best to both stare at and ignore him—began to dissipate as the musicians prepared for the next set. The movement away from the dance unstuck him, and he turned away, committed to a single goal—finding a decent drink.
Crossing the ballroom, Alec ducked through a doorway into a dimly lit corridor that he vaguely remembered led to a series of salons. If he had to guess, he’d imagine there was scotch stored somewhere nearby.
Once he’d found it, he would seek out Lillian, who was no doubt hiding in the ladies’ salon, wishing she’d donned an appropriate garment and hopefully regretting the fact that she’d left him in the middle of a ballroom as couples continued to dance around him.
Likely not regretting that at all, as it was his fault that she’d run.
He’d deserved the embarrassment.
And she deserved his apology.
She’d get it. In the form of one of the men on his list. He’d seek one out and deliver him to her—for a waltz and a refreshment. They could take a turn about the room or whatever ridiculous courtship England required.
He wouldn’t turn her about the room if he were courting her.
He’d take her into the darkness on the terrace beyond the ballroom—down into the gardens where the light from the ball was gone and the stars above were all they could see, and he’d kiss her until she wanted nothing but to marry him. Until she couldn’t remember any words but Yes.
Then he’d lay her down on the cool earth, strip her bare, and feast on her with nothing but the sky as witness.
After which, he’d take her to Scotland and marry her. Immediately.
And she would regret it. Forever.
He ran a hand over his face at the thought, the idea of his hands on her—of them soiling her perfection—making him wish he was anywhere but here.
Christ.
He had to get her married. If it killed him, he would do the right thing and get her married.
But first, he needed a drink.
He opened the first door he came to, entering a dark room, leaving the door open to allow some semblance of the already diffused light in. He squinted into the darkness, making out a sideboard at the far end of what he imagined was some kind of study, a decanter beckoning him into the night.
He headed for it, grateful for the quiet, momentary distance from the ball, the aristocracy, and London in general. Both the Marquess and the Marchioness of Eversley had spent their childhood mere miles from the