A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2) - Sarah MacLean Page 0,93

Duchess Nine tragically together—Alec had been overwhelmed by tables full of miniature animals, shelves laden with porcelain statues, and glass-doored cabinets chock full of tea sets. It occurred to him that when this particular house had been downsized to a skeleton staff, several maids had likely been kept on for the purpose of dusting the mad collection of useless items.

It also occurred to him, as he entered the house in the dead of night, greeted by Angus, the dog’s wild tail wagging, barely missing a low-lying table filled with little china bells, that he should have selected a different house. This was not a place for beasts—of the four- or two-legged variety.

He crouched to give the dog a proper greeting, “Good evening, friend.” Angus leaned in for a scratch, sighing his pleasure at Alec’s touch. “We’ve each other, at least.” He looked up, surveying the foyer. “Where is Hardy?”

He was not entirely surprised that the second dog was missing—Hardy had spent the last three days sighing and wandering the house aimlessly, as though he longed for his lost love.

As though she had not imprinted herself on every part of him in the week he’d known her, she’d also ruined his dogs.

It had been the most difficult thing he’d ever done, returning to the Dog House that night, resigned to find a new home, where he would not threaten her future. From which he could guard her from a distance.

She’d been asleep in the receiving room when he entered, the dogs at the hearth nearby.

If not for the lingering scent of Peg’s perfume on his plaid, he might not have been able to leave her. But he had. And now he had a miserable dog to show for it.

With a sigh of his own, he stood, making his way up the central staircase to the bedroom that had been prepared for him, Angus trailing him in the darkness. Hardy would survive. He would resume his ordinary life, and return to his ordinary character when they returned to Scotland.

Alec could only hope he would do the same.

Time grew short and Scotland loomed like a promise. A place where he would have no memory of Lily. Of her beauty. Of her smile. Of her strength. Of all the ways he wished to—

Love her.

He shook his head at the thought, insidious and unwavering. He did not love her. He would not love her.

He could not love her.

He simply had to stay away from her for three days.

Three days.

Three days to find the painting, to destroy it. To give Lily the life she deserved. He would return her life to her. And she would choose one of her infinite futures, and live her life, strong and beautiful and brilliant beyond measure.

Without him.

He’d spent the day with West and King, devising the most likely location for the painting prior to the exhibition. Planning his movements for the following evening, when Hawkins would take the stage for all of Society, and Alec would search the rear rooms of the theater.

And while he did it, while he protected her, Lily would remain in a box high above the stage, and fall in love with Stanhope.

He gritted his teeth at the thought.

It was what was best for her. It was the way she would survive everything—the gossip, the rumors, the truth. The earl was obviously keen on her, and willing to overlook her past. The money helped, no doubt. But he seemed a decent fellow.

One Lily deserved. One who might one day be worthy of her love.

Unlike Alec.

He exhaled harshly, turning down the hallway to what was kindly referred to as the master’s suite, ignoring the long shelves of figurines and collected useless rubbish, aching for sleep. For a night unconsumed by fits of self-loathing and the nearly unbearable desire to rise and go to Lily. And fall into her arms and make love to her until the past had fallen away and the present was all there was.

And she was all there was.

He shook his head, reaching for the handle to his rooms, desperate to put her away from his thoughts even as he knew he would not be able to. Even as he knew he would enter the room and strip himself bare and take to the bed, hard with the memories of her hands and mouth and mind.

He pressed his forehead to the great mahogany door, shame and desire flooding him, making him desperate to turn around and head for Grosvenor Square, and take her. Make