She stilled on the top step, the words shocking her. She turned to look at him. “What did you say?”

He continued. “Had we never lov’d sae kindly, had we never lov’d sae blindly . . .” he recited, and the low burr, its wicked rumble, loud enough for her ears alone, made her forget where they were, and what she was wearing, and what awaited them inside. “Never met—or never parted . . .”

She shook her head as if to clear it. They did not even know each other. She was simply drawn to the poetry. This Robbie Burns was exceedingly talented.

“We had ne’er been broken-hearted.”

He fairly whispered the last, low and dark and wonderful, and the promise of a broken heart filled her with aching sorrow. Without warning, her eyes filled with tears, and she looked away from him, to those dancing nearby, a whirlwind of enormous sleeves and vibrant silks.

“Lass?” His hand tightened at her elbow, strong and steel, meant to comfort but only reminding her that comfort was fleeting. That sorrow was the most honest of all the emotions. Sorrow and regret.

Thankfully, they were inside the house then, and she was able to pull away from his touch, relinquishing her cloak to a footman who could barely hide his shock at her horrible dress. She took the moment to dash a rogue tear from her cheek before turning back to the duke and saying, “Perhaps your Burns isn’t terrible.”

He did not reply, searching her face for an answer she’d never be willing to give him. “Lily . . .” he said, and for a moment, she wondered what he might say if they were alone. What he might do.

“The Highland Devil graces us with his presence!”

And then the Marquess of Eversley was there, and she was saved, if one could be saved in this situation.

“I don’t even live in the Highlands,” Alec grumbled.

The marquess clapped his shoulder with a strong hand and said, “The first rule of London, friend. No one cares about the truth. You’ve a distillery there, and so Highland Devil it is. Good God, that eye is ghastly.” He turned to Lily with a smile, his dark brows rising high with surprise as he took in her clothing. She had to give the marquess his due, however; he masked his shock nearly instantly and bowed low over her hand. “Miss Hargrove. The truth, in your case, is precisely what they say. As lovely as your legend suggests.”

“You needn’t lay it on so thick,” Alec growled from behind her. “She’s wearing a dog dress.”

“I think it’s perfect,” Eversley said, not looking away from Lily. “I’d like to purchase one of the same for my wife.”

She couldn’t help but match his winning smile. The scandal sheets called the Marquess of Eversley the Royal Rogue, and Lily could easily see why. He could charm any woman present. Of course, he’d traded the moniker for a new one—the Harnessed Husband—and he was now known throughout London as being thoroughly smitten with his marchioness.

“Only because you don’t want anyone noticing that your wife is as beautiful as Miss Hargrove.”

Lily attempted to ignore the qualifier and its casual reference to his opinion of her. Of course, she’d heard it before, that she was beautiful. She’d read it in the gossip pages. She had eyes and a looking glass. But when Alec acknowledged her beauty, it seemed somehow different.

Somehow both more true and less important than ever before.

Eversley was growling at him now. “You’d do best to remember that I don’t want anyone noticing her beauty, Duke. Especially not you.”

Alec rolled his eyes, extracting a piece of paper from his coat pocket. “Can we get this done?”

“Christ, Warnick, you brought the damn list?”

Lily’s brow furrowed. “What list?”

The men spoke at the same time.

“It’s nothing,” Eversley said.

“No list,” from Alec, even as he looked down at the paper.

“You’re both terrible liars.” Two sets of wide, handsome eyes met hers. Lily reached for the paper, and Alec held it out of reach, the fabric of his coat pulling tighter across his muscled frame. She pulled her hand back. “You are behaving like a small child.”

He lowered his arm. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s most certainly not nothing. Not if you’re playing games with me while at a ball.”

His gaze slid to the hound and hare protruding from her coif. “I’m not the only one playing games tonight, lass.”

She took advantage of his moment of distraction to snatch the list from his grasp, turning her back on him instantly to look at it. There were five names scrawled on it. An earl, two viscounts, a baron, and a duke.

She looked to him. “What is this?”

Alec did not reply, but his cheeks went slightly ruddy, as though he had been caught in a particularly damning act. And perhaps he had. She scanned the list again, looking for the unifying theme of the names.

They were all titled. All with extensive lands.

All decent men, if gossip was to be believed.

And all poor as church mice.

They were potential suitors. Lily looked up at Alec. “Why does the Duke of Chapin have a question mark next to his name?”

Alec looked to Eversley, who was suddenly riveted by the carpet beneath his feet.

Lily would not be ignored. “Your Grace?” she prompted, enjoying the way his jaw set at the honorific.

He returned his attention to her. “We are not certain that he is interested in marriage.”

She narrowed her gaze. “You intend to sell me like cattle in the marketplace.”

“Don’t be dramatic, Lillian. This is how it’s done.”

He hadn’t even begun to see dramatic. “How you marry off your scandalous ward, you mean?”

He did look at her then. “Well, it’s not as though you’ve made it easy. Name the man you want, and I’ll get him for you.”

“I told you, I don’t want to marry.”

“Then the list it is.”

She looked down at the list. “I certainly won’t marry the Duke of Chapin.”

“Cross the damn duke off the list. Replace it with a butcher, a baker, or a goddamn candlestick maker. But you’re going to marry if it kills me.”

“Warnick,” Eversley warned. “Language.”

Lily didn’t hesitate. “Killing you might be the only benefit to marrying.”