Nicola Cornick - [Scottish Brides 01]

by The Ladyand the Laird

  “You have lived too much amongst scholars,” Lady Kenton said. “Not that a man of taste and education is a bad thing, but it must be tempered by something a little more earthy, more masculine. Now, Robert Methven is very much a man. Rich, personable and intelligent and I’ll wager he is most lusty in the marriage bed. I would think he could give a woman great pleasure.”

  Lucy closed her eyes and shuddered. Lady Kenton was of a generation that was so much more outspoken in its language, but hearing her godmother’s frank assessment of the Marquis of Methven’s sexual prowess when she was looking directly at him across a tearoom was more than a little disturbing.

  “I did not look for lustiness in my marriage, Aunt Emily,” she said. “I wished for a meeting of minds, not bodies. Lord MacGillivray was sober in his conduct and intellectual in his studies.”

  Lady Kenton stifled a broad yawn. “I am well aware of that, my love,” she said, “and thought him a dead bore for it. Why, in my day we wanted so much more than that, a hero fresh from the battlefield with a sword in his hand. The youth of today have let their standards slip, I fear.”

  A hero fresh from the battlefield...

  Lucy paused. Yes, that was it. There was something primitive about Lord Methven; something disturbing that invoked the warriors of the previous century, the wild men of the northern isles who had Viking blood in their veins along with their fierce Scots heritage. A long, slow shiver brushed across her skin. That was not what she wanted. She had never wanted passion. Her life was smooth and ordered, with a calm and perfect surface, which was exactly as it should be, and that was the way it was going to stay.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ROBERT’S LECTURE ON astronomy and navigation, illustrated with anecdotes from his travels, was received rapturously. The Highland Ladies gave him a hearty round of applause and pressed him to stay for dinner. Since all he had waiting for him was a cold supper and a lumpy bed at the Durness Inn, Robert was quick to agree. His courtship of Lady Lucy MacMorlan would progress all the better through proximity.

  Robert had thought long and hard about that courtship. And come up with absolutely no plan whatsoever. His preferred course of action would have been the direct one, but to propose directly to Lady Lucy would be to invite an equally direct refusal. He had also considered the idea of abducting her. It held more than a little appeal, especially after those hot stolen moments between them at Brodrie Castle. Abduction was generally frowned upon these days, but he thought he could probably get away with it. The drawback was that it would make Lucy even less inclined to wed him, and forcing a woman to the altar would not, under normal circumstances, be the way he would behave. But these were not normal circumstances.

  The ladies had another tutorial between his lecture and dinner. There was a choice of two classes, but to these Robert was not invited. He had no idea what they were and he found his curiosity piqued. As he wandered along Durness Castle’s extravagantly furnished corridors, he could hear strains of music drifting from within one of the salons. The music was exotic and Eastern, punctuated by voices and laughter. He wandered toward the sound; immediately a burly footman barred his way.

  “May I help you, my lord?” The man’s expression belied his courteous tone. His firmly folded arms and aggressive stance made it clear to Robert that he was not going to find out what was going on behind that closed door. The activities of the Highland Ladies Bluestocking Society were indeed a closed book. It piqued Robert’s curiosity extremely.

  He strolled out onto the terrace. The air was fresh and cold, threatening snow even though it was now well into spring. The shutters of the salon were closed against prying eyes, but behind them Robert could see light and undulating shadows. He could hear someone tapping out the beat of the music, sensual music that wove its spell of temptation and promise. Not wishing to appear a Peeping Tom, he retreated from the weather and sought out the library. This door was locked, as well. A different burly footman materialized and informed him civilly that the ladies were taking an art class. What there was about such a venture that necessitated the locking of the door was anyone’s guess, but Robert took the hint and retired to his chamber.

  In the drawing room prior to dinner, the ladies all appeared to be in very high spirits. Robert was not the only gentleman present; there was a plump and jolly fellow with a luxuriant gray mustache who was introduced as Mr. Florence the art master and two very handsome young men whose precise role was left rather vague. Robert began to suspect that the reason that the Highland Ladies Bluestocking Society proceedings were veiled in secrecy was that some of their activities were considerably more risqué than others. His ideas of them reading dry intellectual tracts before dinner were clearly misplaced.

  He found Lady Lucy seated with her sister Lady Mairi MacLeod on one of the silver velvet chaise longues and asked if he might join them. Lucy looked inclined to refuse. Mairi, however, seemed very happy to see him and patted the seat beside her.

  “We did so enjoy your lecture, Lord Methven,” Mairi said, her blue eyes sparkling. “Lucy was particularly impressed. She said she would not have believed you had it in you to be so interesting.”

  Robert saw Lucy press her lips together in a very tight line. He smiled at her. “I am always glad to be able to confound your prejudices, Lady Lucy,” he said. He glanced toward the two stalwart young men who were surrounded by a positive bevy of eager ladies.

  “I do hope,” he added, “that you enjoyed the subsequent class as much as my lecture. Life drawing, was it not?”

  Lucy’s blue gaze flickered up to meet his. “I did not attend the art class,” she said. “I am very poor at drawing.”

  “All the more reason to practice,” Mairi said, “especially with such willing subjects.” She popped a sugared almond into her mouth and crunched it. “Don’t you agree, Lord Methven?”

  “I am sure that the gentlemen concerned displayed to advantage,” Robert said, “and that would be sufficient to inspire any lady.”

  Mairi giggled. Lucy looked unimpressed. “Life drawing is a serious art form,” she said. “It is an intellectual pursuit.”

  “And a lot of fun, as well,” Mairi corrected. She gave Robert a comprehensive look. “Should you ever wish to model for us, Lord Methven, we should be delighted.”

  Mairi MacLeod, Robert thought, was a flirt. She had a widow’s confidence around the masculine sex, a confidence no doubt born of experience. Lucy, in contrast, was no flirt, but neither was she a naive debutante. Robert thought of her untutored but wholly inflammatory response to his kiss. Then he wished he had not, as Mairi was looking pointedly at his pantaloons. He shifted uncomfortably.

  “I am honored that you should invite me to pose for you all,” he said. “However, I fear I might not measure up.”

  “I doubt you have any fears on that score, Lord Methven,” Mairi said, still staring. “You strike me as a very able man in all particulars.”

  Robert smiled, turning to Lucy. “If you did not attend the art class, Lady Lucy,” he said, “I assume you were learning the Eastern dancing?”

  Lucy’s eyes opened very wide. In that moment she looked every inch the startled debutante.

  “How did you know that was what we were doing?” she demanded. “Were you watching?”

  “I have not been looking through keyholes,” Robert said. “I recognized the type of music and guessed you must have been dancing. Did you enjoy it?”

  He was interested to see that she blushed. “It was...different.”

  “From the formality of the quadrille and the cotillion?”

  “Yes, and even from the energy of the Scottish reels. It felt...” Lucy paused. Her blush deepened. “I had always thought that music was mathematical in the skill it requires to write it. Yet this...” Her gaze, bright blue and very hot, met his and then slid away. “This music was strangely sensual.”

  In that moment Robert wished that Lady Mairi were not there. He wished that he and Lucy were somewhere else entirely,
preferably somewhere warm and comfortable and where they would be quite alone to pursue the conversation wherever it might lead. Lucy’s cool, crisp intellectual approach to all things passionate was both naive and intriguing. He remembered thinking at Brodrie Castle that she had a rational rather than an emotional approach to life. Now it seemed she had the same view of music: music, which could be stirring, vivid and sensual.

  It was high time Lady Lucy MacMorlan was awakened to all the intriguing possibilities that passion offered.

  Frustratingly, however, this was not the time. The room was bright and full and buzzing with people. Mairi, perhaps sensing something of his feelings, rose ostentatiously to her feet and murmured something about speaking to Lady Kenton before dinner. Robert saw Lucy put out a hand as though to stop her sister from leaving them together. Her lips parted. She seemed on the verge of objecting. She half rose from her seat, as though about to abandon him too.

  “I do hope,” Robert said, “that you will not leave me alone at the mercy of so many ladies, Lady Lucy.”

  “I am sure you would cope quite admirably,” Lucy said. “You would be fighting them off with sticks.”

  “Which is precisely what I do not wish to happen,” Robert said. “Only consider how rude that would appear. Offense would be taken.”

  Lucy almost smiled. After a moment she relaxed back into her seat. “I thought,” she said, “that you had no compunction about being very honest indeed, even if it gives offense.”

  “Even I have to draw the line somewhere,” Robert said. “I do believe,” he added, “that you are uncomfortable in my company. That is why you seek to escape me.”

  Her eyes met his. They were completely expressionless. “I assure you I am perfectly comfortable with anyone,” Lucy said coolly.

  “So there is nothing special about me? How quelling.” Robert settled himself back against the cushions and looked at her thoughtfully. “I thought that perhaps after our last encounter—”

  Her blush deepened. Her gaze slid from his. All of a sudden the layers of sophistication were stripped away and she looked stricken.

  “I really am sorry,” she said. “I profoundly regret ruining your betrothal.”

  She sounded utterly sincere. There was a vulnerable set to her mouth and a defeated slope to her shoulders that sparked a most inappropriate feeling of tenderness in him. Up until that moment Robert would have said it did not matter whether she regretted it or not, or whether he believed her or not. Whether she was sorry for her actions and whether he had forgiven her were irrelevant. But now, seeing her vulnerability, he felt quite differently. He felt protective.

  He did not care much for the feeling. It muddied the waters. He had no time for sentiment; all he wanted to do was secure his bride.

  “I’m not angry anymore.” He spoke abruptly.

  Her eyes widened. “You have every right to be.”

  “Perhaps.” He shrugged, keeping his gaze on the shifting crowd of people filling the drawing room. Anything to avoid looking at Lucy again and feeling that strange tug of emotion.

  “I thought I could help you.” She leaned forward. “Perhaps I could write some letters for you to use to woo another lady...” She stopped. Robert looked at her. That eager, appealing look was still on her face and it made him feel a scoundrel because he knew exactly how she could help him.

  “It would probably be better if you did not,” he said.

  Her face fell. “I suppose not. Tactless of me.” She bit her lip. “Well, if you think of anything...”

  “I will be sure to let you know.” Robert smiled at her, deliberately changing the subject. “Lord Brodrie was quite annoyed to discover so much of his finest claret had gone missing, by the way.” He raised an eyebrow. “I assumed you had consumed it. I apologize if my kisses drove you to drink. Not the outcome I would have desired.”

  Lucy was pulling threads out of the silver tassels on the cushions. Her fidgeting fingers were all that betrayed her discomfort.

  “Must we speak of it?” she asked.

  “That bad?” Robert queried.

  She looked up and met his eyes. “I drank the claret for the shock,” she said.

  “Worse and worse,” Robert said. “I had no idea that my technique lacked so much finesse.”

  Lucy flicked a hunted look around the room. “I would ask you not to mention it,” she said. “My reputation—”

  “Would surely suffer more if it became widely known that you attend lessons in Eastern dancing or life drawing,” Robert said. “What an interesting society the Highland Ladies must be! I can quite see why its workings are secret.”

  Two bright spots of color burned in Lucy’s cheeks. She looked charmingly annoyed. “The Highland Ladies wish to learn and broaden our experience,” she said. “Our pursuits are entirely educational.”

  “Well, that is one word for it, I suppose,” Robert said.

  “You have double standards,” Lucy said. “No one reproved Rubens for painting nudes. No one reproaches the gentlemen who frequent the Edinburgh clubs for their pursuits. People are quick to judge.”

  Robert scrutinized her thoroughly. She looked exquisite this evening in another demure debutante gown of white silk laced with silver thread, her vivid red hair piled up with diamond pins, so elegant, so discreet.

  “It is curious,” he said slowly, “that you are so determinedly proper on the outside, Lady Lucy, yet you write erotic poetry, you drink claret and you find music and dancing sensual. Is your propriety all for show?”

  Now there was no doubt that he had provoked her. He saw a flash of anger in her eyes and something else, something different. Surprise. Panic?

  “I am proper,” she said. “A perfect lady. Everyone says so.” Her fidgeting fingers were playing with the struts of her fan now. Robert heard them creak in protest.

  “Everyone thinks you are proper,” Robert corrected. “Unless, of course, you are deceiving yourself along with everyone else and you genuinely believe that you have no passion in you.” He leaned closer to her. His fingers brushed her bare arm above the edge of her glove and he felt her shiver. He smiled. He suspected that Lady Lucy was in denial of her own passionate desires and he would be very happy to point out to her what it was she truly wanted.

  “Tell me,” he said, “what it is that you would look for in the man you chose to marry?”

  She looked startled. Then her lashes swept down, veiling her expression.

  “Why do you ask?” she said.

  “I’m curious,” Robert said, recognizing evasion when he saw it. “Humor me. You have rejected many suitors. Why?”

  There was a strange expression in Lucy’s eyes. Suddenly they were a blank blue, as though she had erected a barrier to keep him from reading any emotion there. “It’s true that I am considered very particular,” she said. “I was betrothed once. Lord MacGillivray was my perfect ideal of a gentleman. I do not expect to wed as I do not expect to meet his equal.”

  She spoke smoothly, as though she had said the words many times before. Robert wondered why he did not believe her. Something did not ring quite true. It was not that he thought she lied, more that she had become so accustomed to saying the words that she had started to believe them herself.

  “A perfect ideal?” he said. He tried and failed to keep the skepticism from his voice. “Forgive me, but I never heard such rubbish in my life. There is no such thing as a perfect ideal.”

  Lucy stiffened. He saw surprise reflected in her eyes, and confusion. It was quite clear than no one had ever challenged her on the subject before. “Thank you for sharing your thoughts with me, Lord Methven,” she said, after a moment. Her voice was sharp. “I had forgotten how very abrasive you could be.”

  “Because I am honest?” Robert said.

  “Because you are rude and brusque,” Lucy corrected. “Your manner is in no way elegant or polished.”

  Robert was amused. “I imagine, then,” he said, “that I in no way fit your ideal of the
perfect husband.”

  “Certainly not,” Lucy said with crushing politeness. “You are far too frank and unrefined.”

  “And? Surely I have other faults?” Robert cocked a wicked eyebrow, tempting her to further indiscretion. He waited, watching her struggle between innate good manners and the desire to give him a resounding set-down. She fell for the provocation.

  “You are too tall,” she said. “And too wide.”

  Robert bit his lip to stifle a smile. “I agree,” he said, “that I am both tall and wide, but there is little I can do about those things.”

  “You are not a scholar,” Lucy said. Now that she had started enumerating his drawbacks, it seemed as though she had quite a list. He was interested that she had thought about him in so much detail.

  “I could only marry a man of intellectual attributes,” Lucy said, “sober, academic, more interested in the cerebral than the physical. You are too forceful.”

  “You underestimate me,” Robert said. “In so many ways. I may not be a scholar but I do read. I have read your love letters.” Keeping his gaze on her face, he recited:

  “Exquisite beauty beyond imagining, a snare to tempt man to desire...”

  He heard Lucy gasp. She shifted, as though his words were making her uncomfortable in some way. Above the neckline of her demure white silk gown, her breasts rose and fell quickly with each sharp breath she took.

  Watching her, Robert continued softly. “To steal a kiss, to dare a touch, to taste and stroke and linger over every sweet caress...”

  Lucy ran her tongue over her lower lip in a quick, nervous gesture. There was the glitter of heat in her gaze as she lifted it to his face.

  “To nip and lick and pluck and take a bite of sweetness to the core.” Robert lowered his voice, keeping his eyes fixed on her.

  “To dip deep and drink up every drop, to plunder and ravish in sensual excess...”

  Lucy made the softest sound in her throat that had his body hardening into instant arousal. He wanted to carry her upstairs, strip that demure gown from her and make love to her.