A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)

by Sarah MacLean

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.

He ached for her. He wanted her. He wished for her. It had only ever been her. And in that moment, everything he was, everything he would ever be, was hers. And tonight, perhaps, he could fool himself into believing that she was his.

“You told me once that love is a powerful promise.” And it was. “My father learned that firsthand. As did I.”

“He would take even the smallest part of her if it meant having any of her at all,”

That love was not always happiness. That it was too often sorrow.

She touched him gloriously, her fingers sliding into his hair. “Alec,” she whispered, “Please. Please choose me.” As though he could choose anything else. He lifted his head, reaching for her, taking her in hand, holding her steady. “Be certain, Lily,” he whispered. “Be certain you want me. I am coarse and unrefined and I shall never be worthy of you. But I lack the strength to deny your will.” Her eyes went wide for a moment before she spoke, the words hot and clear as the sun, “I am not a child. I know my mind. I know the consequences to my thoughts. To my actions. I know myself. I know what is to come. I wish it, Alec.” If the words had not broken him, the movement would have—the way she leaned toward him, her lips a breath away from his. “I will it.” And he was hers. For one night. For eternity.

“This isn’t my plaid. It’s the Stuart tartan, but it is too soft.” She nodded. “It is cashmere. The dressmaker gave it to me before I left this morning . . .” She paused, not wanting to think of the dressmaker. Of the reason she had been there. For a dress for the theater. For a trousseau.

“You are. You are the most perfect thing I’ve ever touched.” He pressed a kiss to the soft skin of her thigh. “You humble me with your body.” Unable to stop herself, she lifted herself to him, aching for his touch. “It is yours,” she whispered. “All of me. I am yours.” He growled at the words, turning to nip the inside of her knee before lifting her leg and settling it, shockingly, wonderfully, on his shoulder. “You have it wrong, love. It is not I who owns, but you.” He pressed a kiss to the curls that hid the heat of her. “Your lips taste like Scotland,” he whispered at the core of her. “But here, you taste like heaven.”

“You wear nothing beneath.” He lifted his head, meeting her gaze. “Nae.” “Sesily wondered.” He kissed her deep. “Sesily can find her own Scot to make the discovery. I am claimed.” Hers.

He stood, magnificent and muscled like a Greek god, and she recalled the story he’d told, suddenly understanding why Endymion might choose endless dreams of his love over the possibility of losing her for even a moment. If given the choice, Lily would sleep now, forever, if it meant having a taste of him.

“I shan’t marry a man who regrets me. I may not deserve better, but I owe myself that.”

“You look terrifying,” King said as he stepped through the curtain and into the box, his charming wife on his arm. Alec bowed low over the marchioness’s hand before standing straight and saying, “My lady, I am ever amazed by your patience and tolerance with such a fully tactless husband.” Sophie laughed at the words. “It is a great trial, as you can imagine, Your Grace.” She paused. “For what it is worth, I do not think you terrifying in the least. I think you quite dashing.” “Not as dashing as I, though, correct?” her husband interjected. She made a show of rolling her eyes, even as King pulled her tight to his side, color high on her cheeks as he pressed a kiss to her temple. “The poor Marquess of Eversley. Ever maligned by the world around him.”

“I cannot—” The words came unbidden, unwelcome, and he stopped them before they betrayed too much. Unfortunately, Sesily Talbot saw everything. “Then you should not be here,” she whispered. “If you are unable to be the man she requires, then it is only fair that you remove yourself from the playing field.”

“It shall be terribly boring, don’t you think? I find I enjoy playing the part of the other gentleman.” “You should not be the other, you know. You should be the gentleman.” “And would you have me, Miss Hargrove? As gentleman?” She would be lucky to have him. And yet, “No, my lord. I would not saddle you with my scandal.” “And if I would have it? If I would bear it?” She smiled. “Then you most certainly do not deserve it.” “It has nothing to do with the scandal, though, does it? It has to do with the gentleman.” Tears threatened at the kind words. “It does. I am afraid I have chosen poorly.” He raised a brow. “You know, I think you are wrong. I think you have chosen the best gentleman of all.”

“How could one man make me happy when I love another so well?”

“I know that I tremble from wanting you.” He bowed his head, pressing his forehead to the door. The stage beyond went quiet, as though all of London had hushed to let her be heard. And then, quiet and longing, “I know that last night, you trembled as well.”

“I will ever tremble. There will never be a time when I do not ache for you. When I do not want you with every thread of my being.” “Then have me,” she said, her breath hot at his ear. “Take me. Claim me. I am yours.”

“Goddammit, Lily! Can you not simply trust that I know? That the hero you spoke of abovestairs—he is not me? You think I do not wish to marry you and protect you and love you as you deserve? You think I do not wish my past erased and this dukedom mine in truth so I might get down on my knees and beg you to be with me? So that I may make you a duchess? You think I do not wish for those children? The ones you planned to dress in pretty little embroidered clothes? The ones who would fit those silly red boots?” Her eyes were wide, and he did not care. Still, he raged. “You think I do not wish to take you to our marriage bed and make love to you until we no longer shake? Until we no longer move, for the pleasure of it? You think I do not love you? How can you not understand it? I love you beyond reason. I think I might have loved you from the moment you closed the damn door in my face in Berkeley Square. But I am not the man you deserve.”

“I am your Scottish Curse, peacock. More terrifying than any ghost story you could imagine. But take heart. I’ve no intention of killing you. “I promised you once that I would destroy you,” Alec said, his words barely there and somehow shaking the walls. “Make no mistake—I will ruin you just as you ruined her. And when you are old and withered and no one in the world can remember your name, you will quake with the memory of mine.”

“I asked him to want me—and he refused.” “Because all men are addlepated imbeciles who deserve to be strung up by their thumbs in St. James Park and set upon by bees.” Lily blinked. “That’s terribly creative.” Sesily smirked. “I may fantasize now and then.”

“He is not my duke,” Lily said flatly. “They never are, dear, until they are,”

I am sorry that the duke is an idiot. But in my experience, all men are until they find reason. And the best of them do find reason.”

“You don’t make the girl a countess, married for money; you make her a duchess, married for love. The world enjoys nothing more than a Cinderella story.” He opened the door to the room, revealing an aging butler. Stanhope moved past the servant, turning back from the foyer to find Alec’s gaze. “I hope you will be the prince, Your Grace. She deserves all good things.”

“I suppose I cannot hope that the painting we seek is this size?” “It is not.” “Of course not.” He grumbled. “Hawkins does nothing in half measures.” “Perhaps it is my beauty that cannot be contained in such small proportions,” she said. He snapped his gaze to her. “The darkness has brought out your sharp wit.” She tilted her head, then turned away, moving toward the dais. “Perhaps it is my own panic that has done it.” Whatever it was, he did not wish it gone.

“When you are old, of whom will you think?”

“None of it matters,” she said, the words strong against his lips, “Not the past, not the women, not the scandal. None of it matters when we are here, and we have each other.”

You are the most glorious woman I have ever known, beautiful and passionate and powerful beyond measure, and no man will ever be worthy of you, especially not me.

“I choose all of it, dammit. The scandal. The Scotland. The dogs. The drafty castle. I want Burns instead of Shakespeare. But most of all, I choose you, Alec Stuart, lummox, idiot, coward, cabbageheaded duke.” She paused, then added, “Against my better judgment.”

“I am yours, my love, body and soul. When I am old, I do not wish to think of you. I wish to be with you. I wish to love you.”

“I do not require a present. I only require you.”