Lily’s head snapped up and she looked over her shoulder at him, her eyes going slightly wide—at his proximity no doubt. She was blushing, her cheeks red as though they’d been in the sun for an afternoon instead of a quarter of an hour.
He raised his brows, waiting for her to speak.
She turned back to Stanhope. “You are an expert in flattery.”
Alec huffed. Of course he was an expert in flattery. He was a poncey Brit. Trained to charm and seduce women.
Stanhope set one gloved hand upon hers, where it clutched his arm. “I do my best, of course, but it’s quite easy to flatter someone so lovely.”
The huff became a growl.
“Tell me, my lord, do you walk the Row often?”
“I do. I quite like it.” He looked down to her, his brown eyes twinkling. “Particularly when the company is of such caliber.”
Alec snorted, and Lily cut him a look over her shoulder before increasing her pace, no doubt to get away from him. The earl easily adjusted to the new speed, as did Alec. After a pause, Lily said, “I imagine you are in high demand as an escort.”
The little minx. She was flirting.
“Not nearly as much as I’d like you to think, I’m afraid,” the earl said. “I’m aging out of interest, unfortunately.”
She shook her head with a laugh. “Your humility is unnecessary, my lord. I’m certain London’s ladies are nothing but grateful that you remain eligible.”
He smiled. “And you, Miss Hargrove? Are you grateful for it?”
She damn well wasn’t, Alec wanted to roar. There was nothing about the Englishman that was worthy of her gratitude. And certainly nothing that she would be attracted to.
Certainly nothing she’d be interested in marrying.
“I am grateful for the company,” she said, and Alec’s breath caught at the words that reminded him of their conversation in the carriage two nights earlier.
I wondered if I would ever touch another person again.
He’d never in his life wanted to touch another person so much as he had in that moment, as she’d confessed her fears and her doubts and the reasons she’d turned to Hawkins. And then he had, kissing her, adoring her until he couldn’t think of anything but why he should not be touching her. Of why she deserved a better man.
A good man. A man with grace and gentility who would not defile her with coarseness and size and past. One infinitely better suited to her than he was.
One like the Earl of damn Stanhope.
Assuming that the Earl of damn Stanhope was well-suited to her. They didn’t know that he was suited to anyone. After all, he was seven and thirty, and unmarried. If that was not proof of a problem, Alec did not know what was.
The path twisted slightly, and the afternoon sun cast his shadow over Lily and Stanhope. “Why aren’t you married, Stanhope?”
Lily gasped and whirled around to Alec. “You can’t simply ask that!”
“Why not?”
Her mouth opened and closed as though she were a fish. “Because it isn’t done!”
“How do you know what is and isn’t done?” he asked. “You’ve never had a season.”
She looked to the sky in exasperation. “Because the entire universe knows this isn’t done.” She turned back to the earl. “My apologies, my lord. My chaperone”—she tossed the word over her shoulder with a glare—“is Scottish.”
Stanhope looked from Lily to Alec and back again, one sandy brown brow arched as though he had myriad questions but held them back. Finally, he chuckled. “No need to apologize. The duke simply asked a question half of London wishes they had the courage to. I imagine I remain unmarried for the same reason many do.” He paused, then added, “I am not the best of catches.”
“Or you’re a damn scoundrel,” Alec grumbled under his breath, and Lily stopped short. Releasing the earl’s arm, she smiled up at him through gritted teeth and said, “Would you excuse us, my lord?”
Stanhope’s brows shot up. “Of course.”
“Excuse who?” Alec asked.
“Us,” Lily said. “You. And me.”
“Me?” he said, pressing one hand to his chest. What on earth had he done?
She glared at him. “You.”
With that, she turned her back on the two men and made her way through the throngs to the edge of the path.
He looked to Stanhope, who grinned up at him as though he were nothing but exceedingly entertained by the afternoon. Resisting the urge to put his fist into the earl’s face, he followed Lily.
He caught up with her as she hurried through a space between horses trotting down the path and reached the green grass that edged the Row. He ignored the way his heart leapt when she turned, grey eyes flashing with anger. She was close enough to touch, and he found he wanted to do just that.
Which was very unchaperonelike.
He took a step back.
“What are you playing at?” she asked.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You think we cannot hear your grunts and grumbles? And your inappropriate questions?”
He spread his hands wide. “I’m merely doing my job.”
“Your job as what, exactly? Insulting babe on a leading string?” She pointed to the dogs, who had joined them. “Hardy has better manners than you do.”
He looked to the dog, whose tongue lolled at his name, a length of drool several inches long gleaming in the sun as though to prove Lily’s point. Comparing him to the hound was rather unfair, he thought.
“My job as chaperone. I’m keeping him honest.”
She scoffed at that. “If the goal is to get me married, Your Grace, honesty is the last thing that we want to trade in.”
She looked over his shoulder, and he followed the direction of her gaze, finding Lord Stanhope now holding court at the center of the throngs on the Row, chatting with a couple seated high on a curricle, laughing and enjoying himself.
Looking the perfect candidate for marriage.
She continued, “You are, without doubt, the worst chaperone in the long, venerable history of chaperones. Spinsters the world over are wringing their lace caps.”
He knew she was right, but he had no intention of admitting that. “I suppose you are an expert in the behavior of chaperones.”
“I know they are not supposed to loom,” she snapped.