A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2) - Sarah MacLean Page 0,74

follow me.”

“I have better things to do than follow you.”

She nodded. “Excellent. Good-bye then.”

He nodded, growing more and more irritated by the second. “Good-bye.”

And she turned and sauntered away, the pretty pink muslin of her walking dress teased him, the play of light over the skirts making him think about all the pretty pink things that they covered. Ankles and calves and thighs and . . .

Knees.

He swore roundly in Gaelic, deliberately looking away from her as she approached the Row. Resisting the urge to watch her. To follow her. To guard her.

It worked, until Alec heard the loud “Oy!” coming from her direction.

He turned to see a massive horse, manned by a young rider. A rider who had obviously lost control of the high-strung beast, now headed in panicked terror straight for Lily.

Alec was instantly at a dead run.

Chapter 13

ABSENCE MAKES THE SCOT GROW FONDER

He was the most maddening man in Christendom.

One moment, he was making love to her, the next he was recommending she draw attention to her best features to attract another man, and the third, he was doing all he could to drive that man—who seemed to be a perfectly decent, rather excellent catch, it should be added—away.

Did he want her married? Or not?

And what of what she wanted?

She lifted her gaze to the throngs of people on the footpath, her eyes meeting those of Lord Stanhope, a half-dozen yards away. Empirically, he was perfect. He was titled and charming, handsome and mannered and—even better—seemed to enjoy her company.

He would make her a sound husband.

If only she could muster enthusiasm at the idea.

She might have been able to, Lily was certain, if not for the horrid Duke of Warnick making it so very impossible to think of any other man but him. Not that she was thinking very flattering thoughts of him at this point. She was thinking deeply unflattering thoughts, as a matter of fact.

As though to prove it to herself, she began to tick said thoughts off in her head.

First, he was far too large. Modern men had no reason to be the size of prehistoric hunters.

Second, from what she could tell, he did not own even a single pair of trousers that fit him. What kind of a man didn’t own trousers?

Third, he seemed only able to socialize with dogs. Lovely dogs, she acknowledged, but dogs nonetheless. She had yet to hear him have a sustained conversation with a human that did not end in anger or bloodshed.

Except with her.

With her, they sometimes ended in glorious carriage rides filled with remarkable pleasure.

She shook her head, stepping over the bounds of the green and into the Row. Unflattering thoughts only.

Fourth—

“Oy!” The call came loud and somewhat panicked from somewhere to her right, and Lily turned to look, only to see a furious chestnut bearing down on her. She froze, suddenly, horribly unable to move. She closed her eyes, expecting to be fully trampled.

And then it was upon her, knocking her backward, sending the breath from her lungs, cursing in furious Gaelic among a chorus of feminine screams and masculine shouts and several excited barks.

No. Wait.

She wasn’t being trampled.

And the horse wasn’t cursing in Gaelic.

She opened her eyes to find him leaning over her, his gaze searching her face as she struggled for breath.

“Lillian,” he said, and she heard the relief in his tone. “Breathe.”

She tried. Failed. Shook her head.

“Lillian.”

She couldn’t breathe.

“Lillian.” He sat her up.

She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe.

“LILY.” She looked to him, met his firm brown gaze, inches from her. “You will breathe. We’ve knocked the air from your lungs.” He ran his hands down her arms and back up as she opened her mouth to pull in air. Failed. “Stay calm.” His warm hands came to her face. Cradled it like crystal. His thumbs stroked her cheeks. “Listen to me.” She nodded. “Now. Breathe.”

Air came like he’d willed it.

She gulped it in in deep gasps, and he nodded, guiding her through it. “Good, lass. Again.” Tears came, unbidden, on a wave of relief. He pulled her tight against him, and she clung to the lapels of his coat as he spoke. “Again. Breathe, mo chridhe.”

For long moments, it seemed as though it was just the two of them, sitting in the dirt of Rotten Row, the entirety of London disappeared. She clutched him, breathing him in in great gasps, the scent of crisp linen and tobacco flower bringing strength and calm. And then London returned with a cacophony of noise. Lily