Not home.

He would never be home again. Not as long as Lily was elsewhere.

He cleared his throat at the thought. Yes, home. England had always been his ruin, and today was no different. Indeed, if the last ten days had done nothing else, they had shown him the truth of his father’s curse.

It did not matter that he left the woman he loved.

Everyone I have ever loved has left.

She’d said the words to him at the start of all this, when he’d convinced her to stay. To face London. To marry another. When he’d convinced her that he’d save her. And he’d vowed to find her a man whom she could love. A man who would not soil her with his past, and who would give her everything she’d ever dreamed.

Yes. Alec had left her. But, to a better life. One that would let her open that damn trunk and use all the things inside, if she wished it. One that would give her a perfect, gentlemanly hero and a beloved family and a happily-ever-after that he—

He stopped.

That he would give everything to be a part of.

When he’d arrived in London ten days earlier, she’d asked him for freedom. For choice. And last night, he gave it to her.

The hall was packed wall to wall like a tin of fish, everyone straining to see the dais at the front of the long, massive room, and Alec had never been more grateful for his size. He did not have to strain. He was tall enough to see Hawkins’s decimation play out from his place. And though he wished to push to the front and set his fist in the man’s face, he knew better—he would watch the reveal of Jewel and leave amid the shock and awe that would ensue.

And he would go back to Scotland. In peace.

And forget this place.

Liar.

He shifted on his feet at the thought and crossed his arms.

“Do you think he’s here to call Hawkins out?” a man said from nearby.

“For Hawkins’s sake, I hope not. Look at the man.”

“There’s a reason they call him the Scottish Brute.”

“Perhaps he will call him out.” The last was spoken on a breath of anticipation.

Alec set his jaw. Duels were for hotheaded children. He had other plans for Hawkins. As he stood there, waiting for the pompous scoundrel to arrive, Hawkins was receiving notice that his membership to The Fallen Angel had been rescinded—Duncan West most certainly had friends in powerful places.

Similarly, an announcement would soon be made that several exceedingly wealthy aristocrats—the Duke of Warnick included—were funding a new theatrical venture. It would go head to head with the Hawkins Theater, and make it very difficult for him to find patrons of his own.

But this morning would be the worst of all Hawkins’s punishments. It would strike him hard and fast, in his pompous, arrogant face. And so Alec was here to watch.

Because he might not be able to have Lily, but he could have this—her honor.

And then smug-faced Hawkins was taking the stage along with some other Englishman, and the crowd quieted, until the only sound was Alec’s beating heart.

“As you know,” the older man began, “the Royal Academy of Arts selects a single piece to be revealed on the final day of the annual exhibition—a piece that we believe is so indicative of the quality of British artistry that it moves directly from here to the entryway of the British Museum, and then tours the country. This year, the artist selected for this great honor is Derek Hawkins.”

No mention of the fact that Hawkins destroyed a reputation in the balance.

No mention of the fact that Hawkins was an ass, either.

Hawkins preened beneath the rapt attention of the crowd, and it occurred to Alec that there was never in history a man who deserved what was coming to him more.

And then Hawkins began to talk. Something about genius. About his gift to the world. About his exceeding talent. And then he said, “I only wish the model were here, so you might all compare the two and know that my talent has turned brass into gold beyond value.”

Paupering the man was not enough.

He deserved to die of something slow and painful.

“And so, adoring fans, I shall not keep you from it any longer!” He stepped back and, with a flourish, “I present, Beauty Bestowed!”

With the utterly arrogant title echoing through the exhibition hall, Alec actually found something to enjoy about that morning. Because when the curtain fell and Jewel was revealed, that smug smile would fall and Derek Hawkins would be ruined.

The curtain fell, and a dropped pin might have echoed thought the silent hall, thousands of people within so thoroughly captivated.

Not by Jewel.

By Lily.

She’d returned the painting. And it was a masterpiece.

She was draped across a settee in a dark room, light playing off her beautiful skin, the curves and peaks and valleys of her glorious body highlighted by skilled brushwork and color that seemed at once impossible and utterly perfect. But it was not her body that drew Alec’s attention. It was her face, the way she looked directly at the viewer, without timidness or shame. Without hesitation. As though the moment depicted involved two people alone—Lily and the viewer.

It was a painting that lacked regret. And it was hers, more than it would ever be Hawkins’s.

She’d returned the painting.

Of course she had. It was the act of a woman who would not be shamed. Who would not be made a scandal without her permission. And though it was stunning, the painting paled in comparison to the woman herself, magnificent and unparalleled.

He was struck deep with pride.

He would never let her go. Not after this. Not after seeing this act of supreme courage—one that would forever inspire him to match it. He wanted to spend his life by her side, attempting to be the man that this woman—this brave, strong, beautiful woman—deserved. He was too selfish to let another have her.

He wasn’t going home to Scotland. He was going home to her.

And once he was through telling her precisely what he thought of her skulking about in the London night, he was going to win her back.

Because, if the reveal of this portrait meant anything, it meant this: his Lily was exceedingly unhappy with him for leaving her.

Which made perfect sense, of course, as it had been an act of supreme stupidity.

He would make it up to her. He would convince her to choose him, as well, and he was going to marry her, and spend the rest of his life making it up to her. With pleasure.

It was only then, transfixed by the stunning painting and the keen knowledge that it paled in comparison to the woman he loved, that he remembered his vow to Lily. The promise he’d made never to look at the painting.