For a moment, she thought he might answer, his throat working, his gaze the only thing in the room. She willed him to answer. To reveal whatever demons loomed for him. When he spoke, it was not a reply, but a declaration.
“Not me. Another. Someone worthy.” And then he said, “We shall find the painting. And we shall set you free.”
Chapter 18
SOMETHING WICKED INDEED: SCOTTISH BRUTE SPIED AT SCOTTISH PLAY
England shall be your ruin.
As a child, Alec had heard the words dozens of times. Hundreds of them. Every time he had begged his father to send him to England. To follow his mother. To honor her. To find the place she loved—a world that had promised more for her than the Scottish borderlands ever could.
England shall be your ruin, the old man would say. Just as it was mine.
And now it was true.
Like his father, he loved an Englishwoman of whom he was unworthy. Unlike his father, he was willing to do anything to save her from a future replete with disappointment.
I love you.
He should never have made her say it. Should never have allowed himself to bask in it.
But even now, those words rioted through him, making him ache. It would make everything to come that much more difficult—knowing that she would stay with him if he asked. That she would lower herself to be with him.
He had one way of protecting her from that life. One final chance that would give her the life of which she dreamed. And so he stood alone in the largest box at the Hawkins Theater—belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Duncan West, the newspaper magnate and his legendary aristocratic wife—waiting for the show to begin. He wore a coat and trousers that ostensibly fit him, but nevertheless felt as though they would strangle him, slowly, throughout the evening.
“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.”
King’s kiss moved adoringly to her bare shoulder in a display of affection that no doubt scandalized women peering through opera glasses throughout the theater. “I’m terribly wounded, love. You shall have to do something to make it all better later this evening.” Alec attempted not to hear the marchioness’s sharp intake of breath at the caress, before King turned to him and said, “Dashing indeed, Warnick. I see you saw my tailor.”
“I did,” he said, deliberately turning from the couple to survey the floor of the hall.
“For the theater?” King asked, innocently enough for Alec to know that danger approached. “Or for something else, entirely?”
“King,” his wife warned softly.
“It’s a reasonable question. One hears things about beautiful wards and their taciturn guardians.”
Alec cut him a look. “Why would I dress for her?”
“Why indeed,” King said, and Alec resisted the urge to wipe the smug look off his friend’s face.
“The goal is to get her married to another.”
Not entirely, any longer. He didn’t want her married. He wanted her free. He wanted her with a world of choices spread out before her. He wanted to give her the future she wished—whatever it might be.
I love you.
Whatever it might be, beyond him.
“I understand the stated goal,” King said. “I simply don’t understand its inception.”
Alec’s gaze narrowed on his friend. “What is that to mean?”
“Only that I do not understand forcing the girl to woo another. When she has a possibility so very close at hand.”
“King,” the marchioness said again.
King turned to his wife. “Look at him. I’ve haven’t seen Alec Stuart in a properly fitting English suit since school. It’s obvious for whom he dresses, so why not marry the . . .” He trailed off, and Alec gritted his teeth.
No. Don’t see it.
Understanding flared in King’s gaze. “You won’t marry her.”
“I will not.”
Pity chased understanding away, and Alec wanted to leap from the balcony to save himself from King’s approach. From his soft words, unable to be heard by any but the two of them. “Alec,” he said. “School was a long time ago.”
“I know that,” Alec replied curtly.
“Do you, though?” King paused. “You are a different man. A man, full stop. She would have you. All of you. She would be lucky to—”
Alec moved, stopping the words on his friend’s lips. “Don’t you dare. Don’t even suggest that she is the one who would be lucky in such a scenario.”
King’s eyes went wide, and his voice grew louder. “You’re a duke. She’s the scandalous daughter of a—”
Alec’s gaze narrowed. “Call her scandalous one more time.”
His friend was intelligent enough to remain silent.
“I am barely a duke. I was seventeenth in line. Like the setup to a goddamn farce. And so far beneath her it is obscene.” He looked away. “It does not matter. I am not her future.”
He had a chance to have her unruined. A chance for her to remain without him. To survive however she liked. To not regret. And he intended to take that chance.
And leave her with a better man than he could ever be.
He knew that in most circumstances, the most noble act would be to marry her. But in his case, nobility came with making a place for Lily to be happy and well provided for with a better man. One without shame behind him.
The previous evening had been a disastrous mistake.
He was racked with guilt over his inability to resist her. To ruin her again, with his body and his past. And his desire.
Guilt. Not regret.
He would never regret touching her.
And that would be his punishment.
A vision flashed, Lily barely clothed, surrounded by the proof of his coarseness. The broken bed, the canopy in shambles, the porcelain figurines smashed to the ground, she remained perfection incarnate. A goddess among ruins.