She laughed and he lifted his head. “What is it?”

“We have an audience, it seems.”

He shook his head. “No. They’re too distracted by the painting.” He growled. “How did you do it?”

She grinned. “Guess.”

He groaned. “Sesily.”

“I needed a boost,” she said simply. “But—”

He cut her off. “The two of you, together. You are trouble. You realize I’m going to have to murder half of London, now, for having seen you nude?”

She tilted her head. “Perhaps not, though, considering no one is looking at the painting.”

He turned to the room, massive and packed to the gills, come to see the legendary masterpiece of Derek Hawkins. Not one observer was turned to the front of the room, however. They all—to a person—had their backs to the painting.

Facing far more interesting gossip.

He raised a brow. “They still look at you. I don’t care for it.”

“At least this way I am clothed.” She grinned. “Still a scandal, but clothed.”

“Nonsense.” He kissed her again, long and slow and deep, until the women around them gasped their shock. “Duchesses cannot be scandals.”

“Not even if we try very hard?”

“Well,” he replied, “if anyone can do it, my love, ’tis you.”

“I shall require a partner.”

“No doubt a grueling task, but one I see no way of avoiding,” he teased.

She pressed her lips to his, soft and lingering. And then she said, “When can we marry?”

“We can be in Scotland in four days if we leave now.”

She smiled, and he caught his breath. “Then I think it is time you take me home.”

Beauty Bestowed traveled throughout Britain and across the Continent, making it as far east as St. Petersburg and as far west as New York City, exhibited in the greatest homes and museums in the world, lauded as a singular masterpiece, rivaling the Mona Lisa.

But Beauty Bestowed was different from other portraits. It was not a painting of a nameless muse. It was the portrait of Lillian Stuart, née Hargrove, twenty-first Duchess of Warnick, and the Scandal of 1834.

And whenever it was exhibited, wherever, her story was told. Their story was told. The story of Lovely Lily, and the duke who so adored her that he tossed her over his shoulder and carried her off to Scotland on the last morning of the Royal Art Exhibition, under the watchful, envious eye of all London.

It is no wonder that none can remember the name of the artist.

Epilogue

CITY CELEBRATES!

DEPARTED DUKE & DUCHESS DESCEND

Ten months later

The door to the sitting room between the master and mistress’s chambers at 45 Berkeley Square flew open, ricocheting off the wall as the Duke of Warnick pulled his duchess inside.

“Alec,” she whispered with a mix of glee and horror. “Someone will hear!”

“Don’t care,” he growled, closing the door behind them and pressing her against it. “You should be grateful I did not break it down to get you inside. Come here, wife.”

Lily wrapped her arms around his neck, loving the feel of his hands on the bodice of her dress. Wishing the dress gone. “What’s happened to you?”

“You danced with too many men tonight,” he said against her lips. “They all wanted a look at the queen of the season. I didn’t like it. Poncey Englishmen. Stanhope was the last straw.”

She laughed at that. The Earl of Stanhope was the least threatening man in England now that he’d found himself a lovely young widow who was purported to be quite wealthy. Considering the way the Earl and Countess lingered together at the edge of the ballroom, seemingly unaware of their surroundings, Lily thought he’d made a very good match, indeed.

As had she.

She pulled back to look at her husband, moonlight streaking through their bedchamber. “You once wanted me married to one of those Englishmen.”

“An error in judgment.”

“Indeed,” she said, and he kissed her, deep and thorough, pulling away only to run his lips over her jaw until she sighed her pleasure. “I needed that.”

A low laugh rumbled from him. “Am I neglecting you, love?” His hands moved to her skirts, and Lily ached for his touch as the silk rose higher and higher. “It’s only been a few hours, but I am happy to redouble my efforts.”

“You do your very best, Your Grace,” she said, gasping as his strong hands found the skin of her thighs above her stockings. “But sometimes, a woman surrounded by England needs a taste of Scotland.”

He stilled at that, his head coming up, whisky-colored eyes finding hers in the darkness. “What did you say?”

She smiled. “I know we’ve only been here a week, but I miss home.” In the ten months since they’d left London, Lily had made a home for herself at Dunworthy, learning the nuances of the estate’s distillery, glorying in the warm, Scottish summer, wrapping herself in wool from the castle’s sheep in the winter—when her husband was not keeping her warm, which was rare. She went back for another kiss before adding, “And you . . . you taste of it.”

“You like it?” he asked, and the doubt in the question surprised her. It had been months since she’d heard it last, on late nights when it would creep into his thoughts and he would offer to bring her back to England if it would make her happy.

But England did not make her happy. Not the way he did.

She kissed him again, deliberately misunderstanding. “Yes, husband. I like the way you taste. A great deal.”

Doubt was replaced with desire. “I meant Scotland, minx.”

She matched his look. “Aye, mo chridhe. I like it very much.”

He growled at the words in perfect Scottish brogue, and let out a long sigh of his own. “Well then, why in hell are we here?”

“Because you have a sister who begged for a season.”

Cate had been thrilled to receive Lily at Dunworthy when they had returned from London, excited beyond measure to have a sister, just as Lily had been. The two became fast friends and, within weeks, Alec had agreed that Cate could have the season of which she’d dreamed.

It had not occurred to him that the season would require months in London. “Let’s leave her here and go home.”