“He’s not. I could have made you a better suit.”

“Yes, well, considering what you are currently wearing, I shall remain with the poor tailor.”

She was affronted. “I beg your pardon. This dress did not simply fit itself to me.” She slid a hand over the seam at her side, where the bodice fit like skin. Alec could not help but follow that hand. It would have been rude not to.

More rude than what you imagine doing with that particular seam?

He did not have to respond to the thought, as Lily continued. “I am an excellent seamstress.”

The words unlocked the memory of her chamber in Berkeley Square. Of the trunk there, filled with wedding dresses and children’s clothing. And those boots.

Those damn boots, he could still smell them.

“Apologies,” he said, shifting at the thought, suddenly uncomfortable. “Your skilled craftsmanship is overshadowed by the rest of the qualities of that gown.”

She smiled at that, white teeth flashing in the dimly lit carriage, and he disliked the thread of pleasure that came with the response. “Trust me, Duke. This gown is impeccably crafted. It’s simply hideous. You require another tailor.”

The tailor had been scared to death of him. Too terrified to tell him that he was too big for the ready-made clothing that he had in stock. Too terrified to send him somewhere else.

After all, Alec was a duke. One did not turn down a duke.

Not even one who was so monstrously large and so ill-fitting in manicured, cold, perfect England.

What a beast.

Barely tamed.

Brute . . .

Discomfort shot through him, having nothing to do with the clothing, and everything to do with something that the right tailor could not repair. “I shan’t be staying long enough to need another. We shall get you betrothed and I shall return to Scotland for the summer, where summer is not filled with putrid stench and steaming cobblestones. Where we have real nature.”

“Unfettered by fences.”

“Certainly not iron ones.”

“You do not like London.”

“London should not take it personally. I don’t like England.”

“Or the English.”

“Not many of them.”

“Why not?”

Because England had given him nothing but pain.

He did not reply.

She frowned at him. “We have some lovely things.”

His brows rose. “Name three.”

“Tea.”

“That is from the Orient, but it was an excellent try.”

She sighed. “Fine. Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare has nothing on Robbie Burns.”

Lily looked to him. “You’re being ridiculous.”

He spread his hands wide. “Go on, then. Give me your best Shakespeare.”

“It’s all the best,” she said, smartly. “It’s Shakespeare.”

“It seems you cannot think of anything worthy of competition.”

She looked away, as though she could not imagine how he couldn’t see the truth of her argument. “Fine. My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.”

He raised a brow. “A children’s love story.”

She gaped at him. “It’s Romeo and Juliet.”

“Babes without any sense. Killing themselves over infatuation.”

“It’s considered one of the greatest love stories of all time.”

He lifted one shoulder. Let it drop. “Unless you know better.”

“And I suppose that your Burns is the better in question?” she scoffed.

He leaned forward in the darkness, allowing his brogue to thicken. “Infinitely so. You want romance, you ask a Scot.”

She leaned forward as well, bridging the space between them, competitive and beautiful, insane dog dress be damned. And when she spoke, she had a matching brogue. “Prove it.”

Later, he would wonder how the night would have proceeded if the carriage hadn’t taken that moment to slow, heralding their arrival at Eversley House, where half the ton waited beyond the carriage.

He would wonder if he would have made good on his instincts, and pulled this bold, brave, teasing Lillian into his lap and given her all the proof he could muster.

Luckily, he’d never know.

Because the carriage did slow. And they did arrive.

And he was reminded that kissing Lillian Hargrove was out of the question.

She had misjudged the depths of his desire to get her married.

She’d also misjudged the depths of embarrassment that would consume her if she wore the dog dress in public. Suddenly, as she stood at the base of the steps to Eversley House, windows blazing above with golden light, noise from the revelry spilling out onto Park Lane, Lily was consumed by dread.

It was not an unfamiliar emotion, considering her general nervousness when near the aristocracy—utterly out of place, not noble enough to be welcome into their ranks, and somehow too close to their world to be ignored. Even without a season.

If only she’d never met Derek, perhaps she could have been ignored.

But Derek Hawkins made a point of being seen, and the moment he’d set eyes on Lily eight months prior, as she dawdled on the banks of the Serpentine, she’d been doomed to be seen as well. She pushed the memories of that afternoon aside, and took a deep breath, as though doing so could drive her forward, with courage.

“You are certain you do not regret your sartorial choices?” Alec asked dryly in her ear.

She ignored the thread of pleasure the low whisper sent through her. “I confess, Your Grace, I am surprised you are familiar with the word sartorial. What with your own problematic clothing situation.”

He chuckled, guiding her forward, hand on her arm, and she at once loved and hated the security she felt in it. “We have books in Scotland, Miss Hargrove.”

“So you said. Better than Shakespeare.”

“Aye,” he murmured, low and private as they approached the footman standing sentry at the door.

“You still haven’t proven it,” she said, panicked at what might come when she stepped inside the house. Into this world he was forcing upon her, even as she was desperate to flee it.

This world she’d always secretly wished to be a part of.

No. She refused to give credence to the thought.

She stiffened, and he felt the movement. Must have, because he kept talking, as though they were in the sitting room in Berkeley Square. “To see her was to love her, love but her, and love for ever . . .”