She was under the bed in seconds, with a little prayer of thanks to her maker for men’s clothing. She’d never have fit with skirts and crinoline.

She held her breath as the door opened, and she squeezed her eyes shut, holding her breath and trying with every ounce of her energy to resist the urge to move. To turn her head. To flee.

The door closed, and he was in the room with her.

It was only then that she realized she’d left the candle burning. He would know instantly that someone had been there. That someone was there.

This had been a terrible mistake.

Footsteps sounded, quiet and firm as he moved through the room.

The door to the armoire opened quickly. Closed.

She willed her breath to come easily, desperate to keep quiet.

He made his way slowly around the foot of the bed, black boots coming into view as he crossed to the table where the candle burned. The light shifted, and though she could not see, she assumed he had lifted the candle.

And then the bed shifted above her. Just barely, and her eyes widened as the boots moved. And a bare leg came into view.

Followed by a knee, and a fall of tartan.

And the candle, held by a massive bronzed hand.

And, finally, Alec’s face.

She squeaked her surprise, her heart seeming to pound worse with the reveal of his identity than it had done when she thought he was Derek. “What are you doing here?”

“You have two options,” he said, the words low and rumbling with brogue. “You may come out from under there, or I will come in and fetch you.”

She narrowed her gaze. “Now you wish to keep my company?”

His features matched her own. “What does that mean?”

You left me, she wanted to say. Alone. Wishing for you. Instead, she settled on, “I cannot come out until you move, Duke.” He raised a brow, but moved, and she followed him out, coming to her feet, already fighting. “What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you don’t get yourself caught or killed.”

“Killed,” she scoffed. “No one is going to kill me.”

“You could have fallen from the window—how were you even able to make a bedsheet rope?”

“Sesily taught me.”

He looked to the ceiling. “Of course she did. The scandalous leading the scandalous.”

“She is my friend,” she said, “And I did not fall. As you see, I am quite alive.”

“Remarkably,” he replied. “You took a hack here, dressed in . . .” He paused, and fury flashed in his eyes, “Whatever this is.”

She looked down at the ill-fitting trousers and the too-large shirt and coat. “It’s men’s clothing!”

“You look ridiculous! No one in his right mind would think you male. At best he’d think you an urchin playing fancy dress.”

“The driver didn’t seem to notice.”

“The driver also didn’t notice you were being followed, so I would not laud his powers of observation.”

Her brow furrowed. “You cannot simply follow a woman wherever she goes, you know. You nearly scared me half to death.”

“You broke into a man’s house and hid beneath his bed!” he said. “What if it had been him and not me?”

“It was not him!” she whispered, irritated. “It was you! And you shouldn’t be here!”

“Oh, but you belong here?”

“More than you!”

“I forgot,” he said, “you have a damn key! I assume this is Hawkins’s bedchamber?”

“Not that it is any of your business,” she replied, “but he never reclaimed the key.”

“That is absolutely no reason to use it,” he snapped. “Are you lying in wait for him? Planning to tempt him back to you?”

He was horrible.

Lily narrowed her gaze. “How did you guess,” she responded, unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice. “This is my special brand of seduction: ill-fitting men’s clothing and hiding beneath beds for men who have no qualms ruining me.”

His brows rose. “I do not pretend to understand the female mind.”

She snatched the candle from his hand. “Go away. You’re not welcome here.”

“And you are?”

“I’ve business to attend to. I shan’t take long.”

He paused, watching her for a long moment before he narrowed his gaze on her and said, “Why are you here?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does if you still love him.”

The words rendered her speechless. “Love him?”

It seemed impossible to imagine now, two months later, with all that had happened. The painting. The exhibition.

Alec.

Not that Alec impacted her heart. At all.

Liar.

She cleared her throat at the thought. “Why not speak your mind, Your Grace?”

He scowled at the honorific. “Do you love him? Still?”

“No,” she said, unable to keep the shock from her voice. “Of course not. He is nothing of what I thought he was. Especially not now. Especially now that I—” Especially now that I am able to compare him to you.

Alec remained scowling. “Then why are you here?”

She sighed, looking past him to the door to Derek’s studio. “If you must know, I’m here to take matters into my own hands.”

“What does that mean?”

“Only that I am tired of waiting for salvation to find me. I’ve had guardians and suitors and men who made more pretty promises than I can count. And I am tired of believing those promises. It’s time for me to make my own promise. To myself.”

He did not move. “And what promise is that?”

“The promise to save myself.” She pointed to the door. “That’s his studio. Two months ago, that’s where he painted the portrait.”

He inhaled sharply. “And?”

“And, as the subject of the painting in question, I intend to take what’s mine.”

There was a long silence as the words settled between them, before he nodded once. “Let’s do it, then.”

She shook her head. “I just told you that I don’t require a savior. I shall save myself this time.”

He turned toward the door to the studio. “I heard you. But I am here and this door is locked.”