A Scot in the Dark by Sarah Maclean

Author:Sarah Maclean
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2016-08-29T21:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 12

ONE DUKE’S LOSS IS ANOTHER EARL’S GAIN

When she exited Dog House the next afternoon, dressed for a walk in Hyde Park with a gentleman she did not know, Lily was expecting a simple vehicle. Black. Possibly emblazoned with some kind of canine crest, considering her current residence. What she found, however, was a curricle beyond any conveyance Lily had ever seen.

It was not the sleek two-seated gig that young men rode proudly throughout London. Nor was it the elaborate gilded curricle in which ladies spent their Hyde Park afternoons.

It was unparalleled, and not only because Angus and Hardy sat at the center of the seating block like perfect little canine guards. Enormous and high seated, with great black wheels that reached nearly to her shoulder, the entire vehicle gleamed, pristine in the sunlight, even the wheels—which seemed to have somehow avoided the grime of the city’s cobblestone streets.

As if the vehicle and the dogs weren’t enough, the horses were remarkable. So black they shone nearly blue in the sun, and perfectly matched—precisely the same height, the same width. They took her breath away.

And all that before the driver appeared, coming around the side of the vehicle, tall and broad and tartan-clad, looking at once exceedingly wealthy and utterly wild with his bronzed legs and his wide shoulders and his eyes that seemed to see everything and his lips . . .

No. No lips.

She was not thinking of lips today.

Certainly not lips belonging to the Duke of Warnick.

She lifted her chin in the direction of the curricle as she descended the steps to Dog House. “This is beautiful.”

He grinned, turning to admire the curricle. “ ’Tis, isn’t it?”

She couldn’t help but match his smile with a shake of her head. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“That’s because there isn’t anything like it,” he said. “It’s custom made.”

Her brow furrowed. “You’ve a custom curricle? Whatever for? Do you spend a great deal of time driving about the Scottish countryside, eager to be seen?”

He laughed at the question, the sound warm like the unseasonable day. “It’s built for racing. Very light, perfectly balanced, fast as a bullet. It’s virtually unbeatable.”

She did not care for the image of him careening down a road at high speeds, putting himself in danger, but she ignored the concern. It wasn’t as though he were hers to worry about, after all. “Designed by you?”

“By Eversley, as a matter of fact.”

Confusion came once more. “So it belongs to the marquess.”

“Nae. He traded it to me.”

“For what?” She couldn’t imagine what a comparable item might have been.

“For a used saddle.”

Her mouth fell open. “Why would he do that?”

He smirked, rocking back on his heels. “Because the idiot man fell in love.”

She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I, but I was not about to turn the offer down.” He extended a hand to her. “Shall we go?”

She did not hesitate, letting him hand her up onto the seat—higher than any curricle seat in which she’d ever sat—to take her place next to Hardy, who immediately set his face in her lap for scratching.

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