A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2) - Sarah MacLean Page 0,85
earth the words had come from.
But in the moment, as they stood in the dark, her past and future colliding in disappointment and frustration and doom, she didn’t care.
He looked at her, the silence of the house cacophonous between them. He cleared his throat, and Lily heard the nervous catch there. “More worthwhile than he is.”
More compelling, as well.
She closed the wardrobe doors and turned, pressing her back to them, staring up at Alec towering above her. “Why did you leave me?”
His brow furrowed. “I’m here.”
You left me here, as well.
She shook her head. “This afternoon. With Stanhope.”
“You told me to leave you.”
Had she? She supposed she had. But then—she shook her head. “But you didn’t leave me. You saved me. And then you left me.”
He was silent for a long moment, and she would have given anything to know what he was thinking. Finally, he said, “You were well. And Stanhope was there.”
It was what she had expected—a quick, perfunctory answer. But it wasn’t true. And she knew it. She shook her head. “But why did you leave me?”
“Because . . .” He trailed off, and silence stretched between them for an eternity before he added, “Because you deserve someone like him.”
“I don’t want someone like him,” she said.
“Why the hell not? Stanhope is a damn prince among men.”
“He’s very kind,” she said.
“Is that a problem?” he sputtered. “Kind, handsome, titled, and charming. The holy trinity of qualities.”
She smiled. “That’s four qualities.”
He narrowed his gaze on her. “What is wrong with you, Lily? You could have him. He knows about the painting and doesn’t mind. Indeed, he seemed only to enjoy your company.”
She should want Frederick, Lord Stanhope. She should sink to her knees and thank the stars that he was willing to have her. And yet . . . she didn’t.
She was too busy wanting another. Impossibly so.
Not that she could tell him that. “We’ve known each other for two hours. He couldn’t possibly desire me.”
“Any man in his right mind would desire you after two minutes.”
She blinked.
He shut his mouth.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. We must go.”
“I’m a scandal.”
“You’re the very best kind of scandal,” he grumbled as he headed for the door to the room.
At least, that’s what she thought he said. “I didn’t hear you.”
“You’re the very worst kind of scandal,” he said, louder.
That wasn’t what he had said. She couldn’t keep her smile from her face. “What does that mean?”
“You’re the kind of scandal a man wants to claim for his own.”
She gaped at him. She’d never in her life heard something so romantic. And she certainly hadn’t expected it to come from the mouth of this massive, moody Scot.
“That’s very kind,” she said.
“There’s nothing kind about it,” he said.
“There is, though,” she said. “Derek didn’t want me at all. And that was before I was a scandal.”
“Hawkins was an idiot,” he said, more sound than words. He was stopped now, at the closed door to the room, one hand splayed wide against the mahogany.
She was transfixed by that hand. By its ridges and valleys. By the scar that ran an inch below his first knuckle, stark white against the brown of his skin. “What happened to your hand?”
He did not move. “I met with the jagged end of a broken bottle.”
“How?”
“My father was an angry drunk.”
Lily winced, wanting to go to him. Instead she said, “I’m sorry.”
Still he did not look at her. “Don’t be. I left the day after he did this.”
“I’m sorry no one was there to care for you.”
The fingers flexed against the wood—the only indication that he heard her. “We should leave.”
“Do you think someone will want me?” she asked that hand, knowing she shouldn’t. Knowing that the question revealed far too much of what she wanted.
He pressed his forehead to the door and spoke in low, growling Gaelic before switching to English. “Yes, Lillian. I think someone will want you.”
“Do—” She stopped herself.
She couldn’t ask him.
No matter how much she liked the idea.
“Don’t ask me,” he whispered, and the sound made her ache.
He couldn’t. He didn’t like her. He never seemed to like her, that was. He seemed to view her as nothing but trouble.
Didn’t he?
She could not bear it. “Do you? Want me?”
He did not swear in Gaelic that time. He swore in fast, wicked English.
“Don’t answer,” she said, immediately, at once terrified he might and desperate for him to.
He did not lift his head from its place against the door. “I’m to protect you. I’m to protect