What utter rubbish. Being housebound for the past two weeks and four days, hiding from the rest of London, she must have been addled by the onset of fresh air that had arrived when the man had beat the door down.
That alone was enough to set any woman on edge.
Particularly one who had been fooled by handsome men before.
Lily had no interest in his broad shoulders or his brown eyes or his full lips that seemed at once soft and firm and terribly tempting. And she hadn’t even noticed the cheeks and nose and jaw, strong enough to have been hewn in iron by the most talented Scottish blacksmiths.
She sipped at the whisky in her glass.
No, the only interest she had in the Duke of Warnick was in getting him gone.
“Lillian.” She whirled around to find the object of her lack of interest in the now-open doorway. His brown gaze fell to the glass in her hand. “It’s half-ten in the morning.”
She drank again, purposefully. If ever there were a time for drink, it was now. “I see you are aware of how doors properly function.”
He raised a brow and watched her for a long moment before saying, “If we are imbibing, I’ll have one, as well.”
She gave him her back as she poured a second glass, and when she turned to deliver it to him, it was to find that he’d already crossed the room without sound. She resisted the urge to move away from him. He was too large. Too commanding.
Too compelling.
He took the glass. “Thank you.”
She nodded. “It’s your drink. You’re welcome to it.”
He did not drink. Instead he moved away, to the fireplace, where he inspected a large classical oil painting of a nude man, sleeping under a willow tree beneath the gaze of a beautiful woman, dawn crawling across the sky. Lily gritted her teeth as she, too, considered the painting. A nude. Unsettling in its reminder of—
“Shall we discuss the scandal?”
No.
Her cheeks burned. She didn’t like it. “Is there a scandal?”
He turned to look at her. “You tell me.”
“Well, I imagine the news that you broke down the door in broad daylight will get around.”
Something flashed in his eyes. Something like amusement. She didn’t like that, either. “Is it true, lass?”
And, in that moment, in the four, simple words, spoken in his rolling Scottish brogue, warm and rough and almost kinder than she could bear, she wished herself anywhere but there. Because it was the first time anyone had asked the question.
And it was the millionth time that she’d wished the answer were different. “I think you should go.”
He was still for a long moment, and then he said, “I’m here to help.”
She laughed at that, the sound without humor. “It is impressive, Your Grace, how well you sound the caring guardian.”
“I came as soon as I heard of your predicament.”
She was a legend, evidently. “It reached you all the way in Scotland, did it?”
“In my experience, rumor travels like lightning.”
“And you’ve much experience with rumors?”
“More than I would care to admit.”
Lily heard the truth in the words. “And were your rumors true?”
He was silent long enough for her to think he might not reply, so it was a particular shock when he said, simply, “Yes.”
She’d never in her life been so curious about a single word. Of course, it was nonsense. Whatever his scandal, it was not like this. It had not destroyed him.
It had not forced him to flee.
She met his gaze. “And now, what? You arrive to tend your reputation?”
“I don’t care a fig for my reputation. I am here to tend yours.”
It was a lie. No one had ever cared for Lily’s reputation—not since her father had died. She’d never had a patroness, never a friend.
Never a love.
The thought came with hot tears, stinging with the threat of their appearance, unwelcome and infuriating. She inhaled sharply and turned back to the sideboard, refusing to reveal them to him. “Why?”
His brow furrowed. “Why?”
“You don’t even know me.”
He hesitated. Then, “You are my responsibility.”
She laughed. She couldn’t help looking back. “You’ve never once taken interest in me. You did not even know I existed, did you?” She saw the guilt in his eyes. The truth there. “I suppose that is better than the alternative.”
“Which is?”
“That you’ve known about me for years and simply ignored my existence.”
He would not have been the only one.
“Had I known . . .” He trailed off.
“What? You would have returned to London years ago? Immediately taken up the banner of guardian and savior?”
He shifted on his massive feet, and she felt a twinge of regret, knowing that he did not deserve her accusations. She bit her tongue, refusing to apologize. Wishing he would leave. Wishing he had never come.
If wishes were horses.
“I am not a monster,” he answered, finally. “I did not ask for the responsibility, but I would have made certain you were provided for, without hesitation.”
’Twas always thus. A promise of funds. Of room and board. A promise of all the bits that came easily.
And a dearth of everything that had value.
She waved her hand to indicate the beautiful house. “I am perfectly provided for. Look at the beautiful cage in which I perch.” She did not wait for him to reply. “It is no matter, either way. I am afraid you are rather too late.” She pushed past him, saying, “I am in the market for neither guardian nor savior. Indeed, if the last few years have taught me anything, it is that I would do well to save myself. Play my own guardian.”
He did not reply until she reached the door to the sitting room. “You’re older than I expected.”
She stopped. Looked back. “I beg your pardon?”
He did not move. “How old are you?”
She matched the impertinent question. “How old are you?”
“I am old enough to know that you’re older than any ward should be.”
“If only you hadn’t had such a longstanding disinterest in your guardianship, you might know the answer to your question.”
“Do not take it personally.”
“Your longstanding disinterest?”
“Now that I know you exist, I find myself quite interested.”
“I suppose you would be, now that I’m a creature under glass to watch and point to as a warning to all others.”
He raised a black brow and crossed his arms over his massive chest. “Seconds ago, you were a bird in a cage.”
“It is the mixed metaphors you are interested in?” she retorted.
He did not hesitate. “No, it’s you.”
The words warmed her. Not that they should have. “A pity, that, as I am not interested in you.”
“You should be. As I understand it, guardians have quite a bit of control over wards.”
“I’m a ward of the Warnick estate. I would not get too possessive, if I were you.”
“Am I not Warnick?”
“Perhaps not for long. You dukes do have a habit of dying.”
“I suppose you’d like that?”
“A woman can dream.” His lips twitched at the words, and if she were to tell the truth, she would have admitted that she enjoyed the fact that she’d amused him. She was not interested in the truth, however.
“Well, I am not dead yet, Lillian, so you are landed with me for the time being. You’d do best to answer my questions.” He paused, then repeated himself. “You’re rather old for a ward, nae?”
Of course she was. She’d been lost in the fray. Her father had died and left her in the care of the duke, and all had been well for several years, until the duke had died. And sixteen more, as well. And then this man—this legendary Scot who had eschewed all things English and never even turned up in Parliament to receive his letters of patent—had been in charge.