She counted Stanhope’s assets on her fingers. “He’s handsome, he’s charming, he’s titled, and he’s unmarried.”
Alec supposed women liked those qualities. “Not rich?”
One of Lily’s perfect brows rose. “That’s where I come in. As you well know. Isn’t that the key to your getting me married?”
The words grated. “It’s not only the wealth that I expect him to want,” he said, before he could stop himself. She was not a fool. She would ask—
“What else is there?”
He likely should not have answered. But there was something about seeing her there, Hardy at her feet, staring adoringly up at her, that made him tell her. “There is your beauty.”
Her brows went up in silent question.
It was the truth. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen with her red hair and grey eyes and a face shaped like the most perfect of hearts and a body that had developed in all the best ways.
A body he’d tried desperately not to notice until the prior evening, when it had been pressed against him and he’d had little choice but to notice it. To memorize it.
She was entirely magnificent.
And entirely not for him.
“Marred beauty at best, now that the world knows of the painting.”
“That’s rubbish,” he said, his throat was exceedingly dry. Coughing, he headed for more tea. Drank deep. “The painting doesn’t change the fact that you are perfect.”
Her words followed him. “And somehow, when you say it, Your Grace, it doesn’t sound like a compliment.”
“That’s because it’s not one.” He knew he was grumbling, but he could not stop himself. He righted the chair he’d sent crashing to the floor earlier.
When she’d referenced her experience.
As he set the furniture right, he was flooded with visions of what, precisely, that experience might have been. The visions were immediately followed by the kind of experience he might be able to give her.
And that way lay danger.
“With beauty comes trouble,” he added, a reminder to himself, more than her.
Lillian Hargrove was nothing if she was not trouble. The worst kind. The kind that made men do idiot things, like kiss her senseless in a carriage until they were both weak from the pleasure.
He ignored the thought, busying himself with drinking his tea. There would be no weakening from pleasure again. Not with her. Not ever.
She deserved a man legions better than some Scottish oaf who knocked his head on door frames and shredded his clothing while bloodying noses. She deserved a man not nearly so rough. One refined as a prince.
His opposite.
He supposed a Lord to Land—whatever that meant—was precisely such a man. And if Stanhope qualified, then he should be happy for it. Indeed a Lord to Land was what Lily needed. Someone who was so well thought of as a match that their marriage became the news. That it overshadowed the painting.
If anything could overshadow Lily nude.
Which Alec doubted. Because of her beauty.
“Perhaps the Scottish air has addled your brain, Your Grace. Most would say that beauty is a boon.”
“I’m not most. I know better. And no beauty like yours is a boon.”
Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “I don’t think I’ve ever in my life been so insulted by a compliment.”
Good. If she was insulted by him, she’d steer clear of him. “No fear, lass. We’re going to capitalize on your assets and get you married.”
“My assets.”
“Precisely.”
“Which are: Beauty.” She came toward him. Alec moved to keep the breakfast table between them, sensing her irritation and remembering her right hook from the night before. “And a dowry.”
“Correct.” At least she understood that bit.
“And what of my brain?”
Alec paused, immediately sensing that the question was a dangerous one. “It’s a fine brain.”
“Do not tax yourself with such elaborate compliments.”
He sighed and looked to the ceiling, exasperated. “My point is that your brain is unnecessary.”
She blinked.
It had apparently been the wrong answer. “Well, clearly I think your brain is essential to the plan.”
“Oh, well, excellent,” she said, and he did not miss the sarcasm in the words. “But you are Scottish.”
“I see you’re catching on.”
Her gaze narrowed. “Perhaps you should simply install me on the steps from the hours of nine to three for all to come and have a good look at the wares?”
He’d made her angry. Which was fine. Angry Lily was not for kissing. He worked to keep her riled. “While I’m not opposed to such a plan in theory, I’m aware that it might not be appropriate.”
“Might not be?”
“Definitely not.” He shook his head. “I shall send word to Stanhope. You shall meet tomorrow.”
Her eyes went wide. “Tomorrow?”
“We haven’t time to dally. You’ve seven days to catch him.”
I’ve seven days to resist you. Alec’s teeth clenched at the thought.
“And if he is otherwise occupied?”
“He shan’t be.”
She raised a perfect auburn brow. “You may not like the title, Duke, but you have most certainly mastered the superior arrogance that comes with it.”
He snapped. “You chose the damn man. I’m fetching him for you, am I not?”
Silence stretched between them until he felt like a dozen kinds a beast for yelling. He opened his mouth to say something else. To apologize.
She stopped him. “By all means, then, fetch him.”
“Lily,” he said, suddenly feeling very much like the morning was getting away from him.
She narrowed her gaze on his. “What did I tell you about calling me Lily?”
The name wasn’t for him. She’d made that clear.
“Lillian,” he tried again. “Last night—I was—it was—” This woman turned him into a blathering idiot. How was that possible? He took a breath. “Let’s chalk it up to my brutishness.”
“Stop calling yourself that. You’re not a brute.”
“I shredded a topcoat.” And more. Her bodice.
He would not think on the bodice.