A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2) - Sarah MacLean Page 0,9
a hole in the head.
She closed the door to the sitting room off the foyer, pressing her back to it and releasing a long breath, willing him gone from the house. Gone from her life. After all, it was not as though he’d taken an interest in her for the last five years.
But, of course, he was here now, literally banging down the door of her home, as though he could barge in like an avenging guardian king, as though he had ownership over her and her scandal.
Which, of course, he did.
Damn Settlesworth and his copious letter writing.
And damn the duke for turning up, uninvited. Unwanted.
Lily had a plan, and it did not require the duke. She should not have incited him. She should not have insulted him. Indeed, one did not catch flies with vinegar, and the duke was a rather fat fly.
She crossed the room to the sideboard on the far end.
Not fat.
Poured herself a glass of the amber liquid there.
He was all strength. Lily did not think she would forget the image of the great oak door bursting from its hinges, as though made of paper. And she did not think she would ever not lose her breath at the vision of the enormous man, big as a house and handsome beyond measure, standing in the wake of his destruction, framed by sunlight as though the heavens themselves had sent him down.
She stopped.
What utter rubbish. Being housebound for the past two weeks and four days, hiding from the rest of London, she must have been addled by the onset of fresh air that had arrived when the man had beat the door down.
That alone was enough to set any woman on edge.
Particularly one who had been fooled by handsome men before.
Lily had no interest in his broad shoulders or his brown eyes or his full lips that seemed at once soft and firm and terribly tempting. And she hadn’t even noticed the cheeks and nose and jaw, strong enough to have been hewn in iron by the most talented Scottish blacksmiths.
She sipped at the whisky in her glass.
No, the only interest she had in the Duke of Warnick was in getting him gone.
“Lillian.” She whirled around to find the object of her lack of interest in the now-open doorway. His brown gaze fell to the glass in her hand. “It’s half-ten in the morning.”
She drank again, purposefully. If ever there were a time for drink, it was now. “I see you are aware of how doors properly function.”
He raised a brow and watched her for a long moment before saying, “If we are imbibing, I’ll have one, as well.”
She gave him her back as she poured a second glass, and when she turned to deliver it to him, it was to find that he’d already crossed the room without sound. She resisted the urge to move away from him. He was too large. Too commanding.
Too compelling.
He took the glass. “Thank you.”
She nodded. “It’s your drink. You’re welcome to it.”
He did not drink. Instead he moved away, to the fireplace, where he inspected a large classical oil painting of a nude man, sleeping under a willow tree beneath the gaze of a beautiful woman, dawn crawling across the sky. Lily gritted her teeth as she, too, considered the painting. A nude. Unsettling in its reminder of—
“Shall we discuss the scandal?”
No.
Her cheeks burned. She didn’t like it. “Is there a scandal?”
He turned to look at her. “You tell me.”
“Well, I imagine the news that you broke down the door in broad daylight will get around.”
Something flashed in his eyes. Something like amusement. She didn’t like that, either. “Is it true, lass?”
And, in that moment, in the four, simple words, spoken in his rolling Scottish brogue, warm and rough and almost kinder than she could bear, she wished herself anywhere but there. Because it was the first time anyone had asked the question.
And it was the millionth time that she’d wished the answer were different. “I think you should go.”
He was still for a long moment, and then he said, “I’m here to help.”
She laughed at that, the sound without humor. “It is impressive, Your Grace, how well you sound the caring guardian.”
“I came as soon as I heard of your predicament.”
She was a legend, evidently. “It reached you all the way in Scotland, did it?”