Why?
And, worse, why did Lily want him just the same?
Love was a hateful, horrible thing, somehow made worse in the darkness of this damn theater, this place that had brought her nothing but shame—shame she would gladly wear if she could have Alec along with it.
But she couldn’t have him. Even as he offered her choice, he refused her the only choice she wished to make.
And so she would take the rest of what he offered. Freedom.
She stood, turning for the back of the box. Sesily met her gaze, understanding, and raised a brow. Lily did not pause, making her way through the box blindly, not caring who saw. Not caring who knew where she was going.
Caring only about finding him and telling him precisely how much she loathed him. She pushed through the thick curtains and into the brightly lit hallway beyond, empty of people—all of whom were no doubt watching Derek, odious and compelling in equal measures.
There was no sign of Alec, which meant he was already headed into the bowels of the playhouse, searching for the painting. Her heart began to pound at the thought of him setting eyes upon it. Somehow, the idea of his finding it, touching it, claiming it, was worse than the idea of all of London seeing it.
She headed for the back stairwell, the one that twisted down to the wing of the stage, resolved to be there when he found it. To claim it before he could.
“Miss Hargrove.” The words stopped her and she turned back to find Lord Stanhope at the entrance to the West box.
“My lord—” she began, not knowing what to say.
He found the words for her, approaching. “Take care.”
Sesily entered the hallway as well, hanging back when Stanhope looked over her shoulder. “Do not mind me, my lord. In this play, I am merely the unskilled chaperone. Imagine me in need of spectacles and terribly hard of hearing.”
Lily could not help but smile at her friend.
Stanhope approached again, his own smile near-blinding. “You are lucky to have such friends, Miss Hargrove.”
“I am, my lord.” She hesitated, then added, “It is something of a new experience for me. As is having such a kind gentleman who sides with me.”
“I think you would not find me kind if you knew me long.”
She wondered at the words from this man who seemed so very perfect. “You are wrong,” she said. “You forget I have had my share of unkind men. And you are not one. I would wager well that you are good.”
“Heiress chasing is not the most honorable of activities.”
“I hope you will chase more worthy ones in the future, my lord.”
He shrugged one shoulder, a lock of hair falling over his brow, making him look effortlessly charming. “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.”
She thought it, too. But for some reason, he would not have her.
You will regret it. You will regret me.
He was the best gentleman. If only he would see it.
“Thank you, my lord.” And she was off, rushing down the stairs to her scandal. And to the man she would claim, if only he would allow it.
Chapter 19
THE ART OF WARNICK
It wasn’t there.
Alec stood at the center of Derek Hawkins’s offices, turning in a slow circle, seething in fury and frustration.
The painting wasn’t there.
The rest of the empty studio from Covent Garden was there, lining the walls, six canvases deep, a collection of artwork that would make the docents of the British Museum squeal with excitement. It seemed that, in addition to being a superior bastard, Hawkins was, in fact, a superior talent. Which meant Lily’s portrait was as beautiful as they said.
Allegedly.
As it was not there.
What next? How would he save her?
There was no time. He had two days to find the painting. Two days before it was revealed to the world and Lily had no choice but to marry him. And it wasn’t there, goddammit.
He resisted the urge to lower the candle to the nearest canvas and set the entire theater ablaze. Hawkins would deserve it. For threatening her. For using her. For touching her.
Alec cursed, long and wicked in the darkness.
“What does that mean?” She spoke from the doorway.
He hadn’t heard the door open. He whirled to face her, the candle in his hand casting her face into flickering golden relief as she stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “You should be upstairs.”
She approached, and he moved backward, until his trousers brushed against a large still-life of pears and he had no choice but to stop. She, however, did not stop.
Why didn’t she stop?
“Upstairs,” she said. “With Stanhope.”
“Yes.”
“Instead of down here. With you.”
“Yes.” Couldn’t she see it?
“While you risk all to save me.”
Why didn’t she understand? He would give up everything he had, everything he was, if it would keep her safe. “Yes.”
A long silence stretched between them, muffled shouts from the stage beyond somehow making the room seem smaller. More intimate. Alec wanted to climb the walls to escape it. To escape her.
And somehow, she seemed perfectly calm. “It is not here, is it?”
He exhaled. “Nae.”
“I gathered as much when I heard you cursing.” How was it that she was so calm? “And so my demise approaches.” She smirked, indicating the theater beyond the door. “Like Birnam Wood.”
“What have I told you about Shakespeare?” he snapped.
She smiled. “Last I heard, you were cursing him quite thoroughly.”
“It is my right as a Scot.” He tried not to look at her. She was so close now, close enough to smell. To touch. To ache for. And they were alone.