Dukes Prefer Bluestockings

by Bianca Blythe

  The sun might have set, and they might be relying on candlelight to see, but her hair still seemed a most marvelous and vibrant red.

  His brother had always seemed more intrigued by fragile appearing blondes who looked as if they should have the same precautions bestowed upon them as the most delicate porcelain, no matter how characterless it rendered them. Those were the women who reigned London’s ballrooms. The one time Hamish had been in the capital he’d nearly expired from dullness. No matter Bonaparte’s faults, he’d at least provided a wonderful excuse to abandon the season.

  Well.

  This woman seemed most unlike the others. His gaze drifted to an open book by her bedside. The Dashing Man and the Dastardly Dragon. He smirked at the sensational title. No point musing over the evolution of Callum’s taste. The freckles on her skin made it impossible to compare her complexion to milk and rose blossoms, or whatever the fashionable comparison was these days. Callum had not skimped on the inappropriateness: her face was rounder, her mouth wider, and her lips fuller.

  The latter fact might have some merits, and Hamish smiled.

  “What are you thinking?” Suspicion filled the lass’s voice.

  “You’re not a blonde and you have many freckles.”

  She gasped, and her eyes darkened in obvious fury.

  “Not that you’re not pretty,” he said, pondering again the warmth exuded from her auburn hair and freckled skin. “Just rather less—er—conventionally so.”

  “Leave my chambers immediately.” She gripped the arms of her chair, as if half expecting him to haul her off again.

  She needn’t worry. He could resist the temptation of soft curves in his arms and a vanilla scent. He was stronger than his brother.

  Hamish reached for his purse, and the lassie’s face paled. If he hadn’t seen her moving about earlier, he might have assumed her to have been taken deathly ill. Painters would find the paleness of her skin, with its softness, an appropriate likeness for any portrayal of a death scene.

  “I’ll scream,” she said.

  He raised his eyebrow. “Then you would have screamed a long time ago.”

  Her cheeks flushed.

  She didn’t need to explain.

  They both knew her reputation would be compromised if she were found with a man in her chambers. It was the sort of thing that would cause servants to gossip, particularly if they were disturbed from the comfort of their beds or the hearth in the kitchen.

  “Well then,” she said, her voice wobbling, “I’ll hurt you.”

  She touched a silver candlestick, and in the next moment she brandished it before her like a weapon.

  He blinked, but he hadn’t conjured the image. She still brandished the candlestick at him.

  He’d never appreciated a candlestick’s function as a defense weapon before, but the long, thick silver looked decidedly threatening.

  Not that he would be harmed by it.

  Hamish prided himself on his wrestling ability and he wouldn’t be foiled by something intended as a decorative item. “Be careful, lassie. You don’t want someone to take you up on the offer for a fight.”

  “Did you come to my chamber just to argue with me?”

  He gave her a slow smile. “I can think of more pleasant things to do with you, lassie. But then, so has my brother.”

  This time her mouth dropped open, and for a strange second confusion marched over her face.

  The fact was absurd, and Hamish frowned. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten him so quickly.”

  “You’re Mr. MacTavish.” Miss Butterworth lowered the candlestick in a tentative gesture, and the movement shifted her night rail, revealing a delicious new sliver of skin.

  He forced his gaze away. “Aye, so I am.”

  “And you think I’m—” She paused abruptly and placed the candlestick back on the sideboard.

  Hamish waited, but the lassie had evidently not decided to speak any further. This time she had the gall to raise her eyebrow, and her right foot tapped against the floor.

  Her right, bare foot. The shape was narrow and accompanied by a high arch, small, delicate-appearing toes and an ankle that swept inward in a graceful manner—

  He shifted his gaze to the candlestick. Her feet didn’t matter. After tonight, he’d never see her again. “I know you’re planning to marry my brother. And I won’t permit it.”

  “Why is that, Mr. MacTavish?”

  God in heaven. The lass took particular pleasure in stressing the “Mister.” She was deliberately taunting him.

  “Because you’re not suitable.”

  “Is that so?” She tossed her hair, shifting the auburn strands. Some locks appeared dark amaretto and others cognac under the golden glow of the flickering candlelight.

  He scrutinized her. The action was no hardship.

  Now that the lass was obviously no longer reciting prayers to herself or thinking of manners in which to dismember him, Hamish could see that not only was she in the possession of a delightful abundance of freckles, she also had dimples.

  But then, this woman was not someone whom his brother had selected for companionship for a waltz or to wander with through a secluded garden; this woman was to be his wife.

  Perhaps his brother possessed more sophisticated tastes than Hamish had given him credit for. Hamish’s lips twitched. That was unlikely. Clearly, Miss Butterworth was simply cleverer than he’d initially imagined. She’d managed to trap his brother, despite the fact his brother was practically engaged to someone else.

  “I’m going to offer you money.” Hamish held out the bag of coin, and it jangled in the quiet of the room.

  The lass drew back. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Oh, but I am.”

  “How much do you plan to pay?”

  “Enough money to last your whole life.”

  She gasped.

  Hamish could have taken less money with him, but the wedding was planned. The invitations had been sent. He couldn’t ask her to back out of an engagement at this point without being conscious that her reputation would be permanently smeared, at least until some poor soul agreed to marry her.

  “That’s not as much money as I will have if I marry him,” Miss Butterworth said, her voice defiant.

  Hamish forced himself to shrug nonchalantly. This was the important part of the negotiation. He needed to appeal to what she desired. Perhaps it might be beneficial if he knew her better, but instead he launched into a now familiar speech.

  Miss Butterworth was not the first woman who’d desired to wed his brother, overlooking the man’s practical betrothal to Isla McIntyre, though she was the first woman to send out wedding invitations. The latter fact did not speak well of any future ability to manage the castle’s household budget. Everyone knew no one invited guests to a wedding. Marriages were a legal matter, something that did not require a multitude of gawkers. Large weddings were confined to royals, and though his brother might possess a castle, it was thankfully not associated with Britain’s royal family.

  “The money will give you your freedom,” Hamish said, watching the lass carefully.

  The word freedom did seem to change her expression. She seemed more thoughtful, and something sparked in her eyes.

  “You can have a cottage by the sea. Just take the money,” he said.

  “I refuse to do so.”

  “You don’t need a fancy title to be happy.”

  She smirked. “Are you saying that because you don’t have one?”

  Warmth clambered up his neck and seemed to be debating whether to extend to his cheeks. Despite Hamish’s embarrassment, he squared his shoulders. “He’s no good for you.”

  “Nonsense. And why are you speaking poorly of him? He’s your sibling.”

  Hamish had no desire to speak ill of his brother to some woman he’d only just met. He didn’t desire to criticize him at all. Callum possessed ample charm, and Hamish had spent merr
y evenings with him.

  That didn’t mean that he’d permit Callum to destroy the legacy generations of the MacTavish family had created. Their sacrifices shouldn’t be for naught. His father shouldn’t be rolling about in his grave, agonized by his elder son’s poor choices and Hamish’s inability to prevent them.

  No.

  That wouldn’t do.

  Hamish might have been born eight minutes later than Callum, but he’d be damned if he’d permit Callum to squander the MacTavish estate on some impoverished lassie from Norfolk, no matter how appealing her auburn locks might be.

  “Look,” Hamish said. “Just take the money. You don’t want to move to Scotland. It’s cold there. And if you think it rains too much in England, you don’t want to venture north.”

  She smiled. “I’ll pack my umbrella.”

  Dash it, he was being serious. Now was not the time for smiles.

  It certainly wasn’t the time for her brown eyes to sparkle.

  He was certain he wasn’t supposed to find brown a very interesting color. No royal placed brown jewels on their crowns: he was certain brown jewels didn’t even exist. Brown was a color relegated to muddy patches that the grass could not cover. And yet on Miss Butterworth, the color did not seem like something that should be dismissed in the slightest.

  “I don’t mind the rain.”

  The lass would probably enjoy wandering about the Highlands after all, undaunted by the steepness of the peaks. God in heaven. She was supposed to leap at the chance to obtain such easily accessible funds. That had been the plan.

  “And I find balls far overrated,” she continued.

  “Even Almack’s?” he asked, thinking of his brother’s habit of frequenting that establishment.

  “Especially Almack’s.”

  He stepped toward her.

  The lass’s eyes were continuing to glimmer, and he forced away images of twirling her upon the dance floor.

  She couldn’t really be so loyal to Callum. She had seemed intrigued by the possibility of freedom. Her eyes hadn’t glazed in a calf-like manner and her hand hadn’t once ventured to her chest, as if to stifle the sound of a thundering heart, when speaking about Callum. She’d been calm, collected, almost businesslike.

  An idea occurred to him, and he grasped her hands. Their unobtrusive shape did not lessen the jolt of heat, jolt of sheer energy that cascaded through him as their skin touched. His heart thumped wildly, and he pulled her closer to him.

  Her eyes widened, and for an absurd moment he contemplated simply staring into them, musing on the wonders of their umber color, undisturbed by hints of green or flecks of gold.

  “Don’t marry him.” Hamish lowered his head and brushed his mouth against hers, claiming her succulent, rose-colored lips.

  They tasted marvelous.

  They melded with his, and he was transported far from London, far from the Highlands, but to some heavenly region he’d never before experienced.

  He clutched his arms about her slender waist and delved his hands through her luscious locks. They were every bit as glossy as he’d imagined. The finest silkworms would blush at the crudity of their creations were they to ever encounter a single strand of her hair.

  It’s not supposed to feel this good.

  He pulled himself from her lips, eager to regain some control and quell the confusion raging through his body. This was a woman who’d maneuvered his brother, a man who should have known better, into a marriage.

  He raised his chin and gazed into startled, awestruck eyes. “You can’t love him.”

  Chapter Five

  She was being kissed.

  She was blissfully conscious of the sensation of his lips, of his tongue, and the manner his hands moved over her body, as if seeking to memorize it.

  She inhaled the Scotsman’s masculine scent, so different from the cologne-spurting dandies prevalent in the ton. No floral compilation distracted her.

  Lips brushed against hers in a delicious, ever-changing rhythm, more satisfying than that by any continental composer.

  His arms had appeared muscular even in the dim light cast by the flickering candles, but now that no space separated them, the sensation was stronger.

  Her sister’s intended brother-in-law had scrambled up the wall to enter her room through the balcony.

  And yet, though Georgiana knew she should pull away, knew that this was one of those situations that did deserve a slap, pulling away from him seemed impossible.

  Were they to stop kissing, they would likely have to discuss the kiss, and since Georgiana had never been kissed before, she wasn’t certain of the appropriate etiquette.

  And the worst thing was—

  It was pleasant.

  Ridiculously, gloriously pleasant.

  But then he thought she was marrying his brother. The fact soared through her mind, and she pressed her hands against his shirt, resisting the urge to contemplate the firm muscles beneath the linen, and shoved him away.

  He moved instantly, and his hair appeared more tousled than before, and she realized it was because her hands had touched it. His skin was now flushed, and his eyes appeared disoriented.

  “You kissed me,” she said, despising the confusion in her voice.

  He hardened his expression and roamed his gaze over her body. “You enjoyed it.”

  She flinched. “Why did you do it?”

  He smiled, and unlike during his kiss, there seemed nothing pleasant about the manner in which his lips curled. His expression turned stony. “You shouldn’t marry my brother.”

  “Oh,” she squeaked. “That’s—”

  Mad? Insane? A flurry of words invaded her mind. She had no intention of wedding the duke, but then she was not engaged to him.

  She considered telling him that she was merely his brother’s betrothed’s sister, but she didn’t want him to pester Charlotte. Her sister didn’t need to feel unwelcome in her new family. She must already feel overwhelmed by the duke’s impeccable status.

  Her sister was so good. If she thought marrying the duke would bring him harm, she might be convinced to break off the engagement, no matter the horrific consequences she would face.

  Formerly betrothed women could not easily find another fiancé. Everyone seemed to think chaperones were laxer after their charges had rings firmly on their fingers, and if Charlotte’s betrothment were to end, people would practically expect her to depart suddenly to Switzerland for a monthslong health cure. No other man would desire to marry her if the heritage of any resulting child would be forever questioned.

  Georgiana would not allow Charlotte to be the subject of such malicious gossip. No way would she permit Charlotte to be persuaded to abandon her engagement.

  Georgiana raised her chin to an angle that did not feel the least bit natural now and rallied her voice to evoke severity. “You need to leave.”

  “Are you certain?” he drawled. “What with all the kisses?”

  Anger inundated her, replacing all the pleasant sensations that had still fluttering through her. “You’re an abomination.”

  She studied him. The man’s likeness to his brother was relegated to similarly straight noses and defined chins. The duke’s brother’s hair was dark, and it didn’t curl in any manner, much less an angelic one.

  His shoulders seemed broader, more intimidating, though the duke had never stood as close to her as his brother did now. Once again her nostrils flared, acting against her will, as if enticed by the scent of manliness.

  She jerked her head away.

  There was nothing the least bit admirable about him, she reminded herself.

  “Do you despise your brother?” she asked.

  His blue eyes widened, and he stepped back. The floorboards creaked, and whatever strange tension had existed between them vanished. “Of course not.”

  “Then why would you deny him the woman he loves?”

  “Loves?” The man’s voice
wobbled, as if he were musing the concept. “He loves you?”

  Well. He loved Charlotte. Of that Georgiana was certain. Why else would he marry her? Even Georgiana knew Charlotte was an unlikely choice, despite her sister’s sweetness and beauty. He must have been compelled by love.

  “What greater force is there?”

  Mr. MacTavish scowled, and for a moment Georgiana thought he might begin listing scientific elements or weapons. The latter seemed particularly plausible. Wasn’t the man supposed to idealize Scotland’s medieval heritage? Scotsmen had a peculiar ability to remain in the past, despite its unpleasantness.

  Personally, Georgiana preferred the present, if not precisely this incarnation of it.

  She glanced toward the door. “My parents might hear you.”

  “Then I’ll declare you compromised, and you won’t be able to marry my brother.”

  She blinked. “But then you’ll have to marry me.”

  “Aye. Er—perhaps you’re correct.” The words came out in a much smaller sound, and Georgiana tried to not let her heart drop.

  It shouldn’t matter that the thought of marrying her brought reason to a mind so uncontrolled by it. After all she had no desire to marry him either. The man had definite impossible tendencies. No sane man should clamber up the wall of a townhome.

  It was just—

  Georgiana had thought she would be betrothed by now. Her governesses had warned her that her auburn hair was unfashionable and might remind some gentlemen of witches, but Georgiana hadn’t thought she would find herself with no prospects in sight at the close of her third season.

  Everyone had said that this was a good time to be a debutante. Men were no longer riding off to war, their epaulets fluttering and their medals gleaming under the sun. Yet the men who returned from the continent and beyond seemed disinclined to marry, favoring the chance to indulge in the pleasures they’d denied themselves in the past. The need to have an heir seemed less urgent when they were no longer dodging cannon balls, and gaming halls seemed more reliable sources of retreat from memories of the war than wedding breakfasts.

  But perhaps Georgiana had been wrong, and they’d simply found her distasteful, despite her mother’s insistence that Georgiana attend a finishing school in the hopes of making a good match. The good match never appeared, and now a man who had just been kissing her was grimacing at the prospect of spending additional time with her.