And Derek, unblemished.

Lauded, even.

And here.

Alec led her through the steps of the dance for long, silent minutes as she attempted to come to terms with the idea she’d entered the lion’s den. That she would likely see him. And that she was dressed as a damn dog. Her gaze flickered to Alec’s throat, to the long column that rose above his cravat. To the knot that bobbed there as he swallowed.

She was here, beneath the prying eyes of the aristocracy, because of him.

She let her gaze rise over his straight jaw and his full lips and his long nose to his eyes, which she would have expected to be looking anywhere but at her.

She was wrong.

He was staring right at her, his knowing brown gaze capturing hers with ease, sending a thread of awareness through her. No. Not awareness.

Fury.

“You did this.” He remained silent, so she pressed on with her accusation. “You’ve put me in the same room as him. Fodder for all London, for their censure and gossip. I’m here because of you. Because of your mad plan.”

“It’s the only way to save your future.”

“To underscore my scandal in front of them all? To elaborate upon it?”

“To get you married. The list—they are good men. Eversley’s staked his reputation on such.”

“The Duke of Chapin has been left at the altar three times. And he’s a duke. That’s a virtual impossibility, unless there’s something terribly wrong with him.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know, but if three spinsters have deserted him at such a critical time, I’m guessing the answer is akin to scales.”

“Well, I’m sure it’s not scales, but I said you could cross him off the list.”

“He never should have been on the list to begin with.”

He sighed. “Then make your own list.”

“I don’t want a list!” she said, and the words came out frantic and too loud for the room, drawing attention from couples nearby. She lowered her voice. “Why do you care so much? I’m disgraced, anyway, so why not let me go? Why force me to stay for the ceremonial tar and feathering?”

He hesitated, and in that fleeting silence, Lily realized that whatever he was about to say would change everything. Because she could see in his eyes that it would be the truth.

And then he said it.

“Lily, I’ve seen your wedding dress.”

She froze, her breath unwilling to expel. “What did you say?”

He tugged at her waist, at her hand. “Do not stop dancing.”

She did not move, finding herself instead frozen to the floor, repeating herself. “What did you say?”

He narrowed his gaze on her. “I found it,” he said, softly, like the softest gunshot that had ever been fired for the damage it did in Lily’s chest. “And the pile of pretty clothes for your future babe. Those little boots, with the soft red soles. You dream of filling those boots, Lillian Hargrove. And this is your best chance at doing so.”

She gaped at him, disbelief crashing through her. She took a step away from him, removing her hand from his clasp. “How dare you go through my things?”

“You were gone. I had to find you,” he said, coming close again, his gaze darting around them, attempting to keep them from colliding with other couples twirling by.

As though Lily cared about such a thing. He’d gone through her things.

He’d found the wedding dress. The children’s clothing. The things she’d painstakingly crafted for a husband she’d never love. Children she’d never meet. A life she’d never have.

He’d found them—her most private secrets.

And, somehow, it wasn’t anger she felt. It was embarrassment.

The dress, the clothes, the tiny socks and boots—they were all the dreams of a girl younger and more innocent than Lily was now. They were the promises that she imagined whispered in the darkness as she lay beneath the servants’ stairs and thought of a future, brighter and more beautiful than the present.

A future she would never have.

They were pretty lies. She knew that now—she’d left them in the trunk for a reason.

And he’d found them.

Shame flooded through her, hotter than any embarrassment she’d ever felt. Hotter than the embarrassment she’d experienced when he’d revealed that he knew about the painting. How was it possible that she was more ashamed of a simple white dress than about no dress at all?

“So you went through my things, like a . . .” She hesitated, looking away from him, now terrified of what he’d seen. Of what he might know about her. “. . . like the great Scottish brute you are. I don’t want you here. In my life. Find another woman to manhandle. I hear you’re terribly good at it. Your reputation precedes you.”

He went stiff as a board at the words, and Lily had the sudden sense that she’d said something terribly wrong.

Not that she should care.

And then he spoke, low and dark, the angry words fairly forced from him. “You forget yourself,” he said. “As my ward, your things are my things.”

Her gaze flew to his. “You beast.”

His lips pressed into a long straight line. “And you, the most beautiful woman in London,” he said, as though being beautiful was the most ugly thing she could be. “We make a fine match, Lovely Lily.”

The nickname unstuck her. She pulled away from him and fled the room.

Chapter 9

GUARDIAN? OR GUARD-DOG?

No one in his life had ever frustrated Alec as much as Miss Lillian Hargrove.

He watched her walk away in her ridiculous dress, the bronze and gold and silver fabric flouncing around her with every step, hound and hare bobbing high above her head, and he burned with anger and embarrassment and frustration and a keen desire to leave her there in Eversley House, and return to Scotland.

A desire almost as strong as the one that urged him to chase after her.

He cursed under his breath. He’d hurt her. He shouldn’t have told her that he’d seen the dress.

He should have told her he only wanted the best for her. That he only wanted to protect her. That he would protect her, dammit. That it was all he’d wanted to do since the moment the damn letter had arrived in Scotland, summoning him to her side. He wasn’t a monster, after all. He recognized duty, and he would serve it.