“Don’t glare at me. I’m the only one telling you the truth.”
Alasdair didn’t answer. He stared out the window again. “Maybe it’s her stepmaither,” he said after a long pause. “That woman would lock her in a closet if she thought it would improve her chances at marriage.”
“Or throw her to the highest bidder,” Seth said darkly. “Which might be worse.”
The thought made Alasdair’s fists curl at his sides. His jaw clenched. The image of Elizabeth, his brave, blushing, beautiful Elizabeth, being trotted out like a prize mare twisted something deep in his gut.
Was she being kept from society? Or had she made the choice herself, regret sitting heavy on her shoulders?
He didn’t know. And that, more than anything, made him feel like a man adrift.
“God above,” he muttered, pushing a hand through his hair. “I ken what she sounds like when she—” He broke off. “She’s in me blood, Seth. Like a damn poison.”
“And yet here you are, still trying to pretend you’re the man with all the control.” Seth stood, walked to him, clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You’re not. Just admit you want her.”
“Wantin’ her does nae change what I am,” Alasdair said, low. “Or what she needs. She’s huntin’ for a husband. I’m huntin’ justice.”
“Well, maybe she doesn’t want a husband,” Seth said mildly. “Maybe she wants the man who sees her.”
Alasdair didn’t answer. He just stepped back from the window and reached for his coat.
“Where are you going?”
“Kittridge.”
Seth blinked. “You’re going to talk strategy with a man like Kittridge when your brain is flooded with Lady Elizabeth? Are you mad?”
“Maybe. But it needs doin’.”
Seth sighed, resigned. “Fine. But if you bite anyone, I’m not intervening this time.”
The Marquess of Kittridge’s townhouse was as smug as the man himself. The carpets were too rich, the fireplace too ornate, and the servant too polished when he led them into the drawing room.
“Your Grace,” Kittridge drawled, rising with a smile that was more calculation than courtesy. “I hear you’ve become quite the darling of the ton. Polite conversation, refined bearing, what next? You’ll be sipping Darjeeling and debating cravats?”
Alasdair gave him a look that should have turned him to stone.
“Aye, and next week I’ll be weepin’ at poetry readings and powderin’ me cheeks,” he replied dryly.
Seth choked on a laugh.
Kittridge’s smirk twitched, just enough to show irritation. “You’ve been making progress. Some of the right people have taken notice. But that brogue of yours, God help me, it’ll undo every bit of it.”
“Careful, Kittridge,” Alasdair said, his smile faint and lethal. “Mock a Scotsman’s tongue, and ye might find yerself missin’ yers.”
A beat of silence.
“You’re in London now,Your Grace,” Kittridge said, voice colder. “If you want acceptance and true power, you’ll need to speak their language.”
“I’ve no interest in beggin’ for acceptance,” Alasdair returned. “We’ll make alliances based on need, not niceties.”
Kittridge sat slowly, the heat in his gaze cooling into something more dangerous. “Still chasing ghosts, then?”
“Still wantin’ answers,” Alasdair said.
There was no agreement made. No promises. But something passed between them, something jagged and raw. A mutual recognition that neither man would play the long game without a few knives hidden in the folds of their coats.
Later, the talk shifted. Kittridge, Seth, Alasdair, and two other lords ended up seated near the hearth, sipping whiskey.