Scotsmen Prefer Blondes (Muses of Mayfair)

by Sara Ramsey

  She had her back to the open door. The sunlight from one of the tall windows turned the blonde curls escaping from her chignon into a fuzzy halo. Her gloves were off, and her fingers were stained with ink. She was a messy writer, then, even if she usually seemed polished in public. She bowed her head over her quill, and her hand hovered above the paper. Her hesitation struck him as melancholy — a feeling he suspected she didn’t give in to often.

  Malcolm knocked on the doorframe. “May I have a word, Lady Amelia?”

  Her head snapped up. She stared ahead for a long moment, out the window to the Highlands beyond, as though gathering her reserves. It was only a moment, but it was enough to verify his suspicions.

  Amelia would not easily accept the future their kiss had doomed them to.

  She turned to greet him. “What an unexpected surprise.”

  It wasn’t an invitation. He walked in and shut the door. “You needn’t pretend with me. And you aren’t surprised to see me.”

  Her eyebrows rose as he closed off the rest of the house. “Should we be together unchaperoned, my lord?”

  “What can they do? Force us to marry?”

  She grinned, a momentary crack in her armor. “We have made a muck of things, haven’t we?”

  Malcolm wasn’t so sure. Seeing her smile and the corresponding light in her blue eyes made “muck” seem like the opposite of what had occurred. “It wasn’t in either of our plans, I’m sure.”

  “You can end it with Alex. Simply tell him you won’t have me.” She turned back to her paper, dismissing him.

  He rounded the table and stood in front of her, blocking the light and casting a shadow on her writing. She made a show of gathering the papers together and rapping them against the table to straighten them, all without looking at him, like he was a peasant awaiting her favor.

  This time, as his annoyance rose, he let it take the reins. When she finally looked up at him, he regarded her insolently, with a slow, roving perusal of her face before settling on the bounty of her breasts. “You suit my hands, if nothing else. My mouth too, if we’re being honest.”

  When he glanced back up to meet her eyes, they were widened in shock. She stared at him for a breathless moment, and his lips curved as he continued. “Now why would I tell Salford that I won’t take such a bonny lass?”

  He rarely used Scottish colloquialisms; his mother was English, as were his grandmother and most of his other female ancestors, and he didn’t feel the same affinity for the language as he did for the land. But Amelia didn’t know that, and she glared at him. “You need more than a ‘bonny lass’ as a wife,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “Never say you’ll be my mistress instead? You would be skilled, I’m sure.”

  Her voice turned to ice. “I am not that kind of woman. You do yourself no honor by saying such things.”

  She was right. But honor was what told him he needed to give her a chance to break this off, even if he wouldn’t be the one to let her go.

  Malcolm shrugged. “We have decades to learn everything about each other. I must start as I mean to go on.”

  Something flickered in her eyes. “I received that advice as well.”

  “However, if you truly think we wouldn’t suit...”

  He waited for her to say the words. She dropped her eyes from his face, in a move that seemed demure — until he realized she was examining him just as outrageously as he had done. Her gaze caressed his jaw, his throat, lingered over his shoulders, then dropped precipitously toward his groin. He felt himself stirring, and he shifted his weight onto one foot. She smiled, the same insolent grin he had given her.

  Truly, she was a devil. And he had never gotten so hard from just a look.

  “No, we wouldn’t suit, my lord,” she said, as cool as a spinster at a Bible study. “I require more than a ‘bonny lad,’ as you might say.”

  “I’m hardly a lad.” She snickered, and he realized that he’d taken offense when he should have responded to the sentiment rather than the insult. “And anyway,” he continued, “if you believe we wouldn’t suit, you should tell Salford. If you are willing to destroy your reputation to be rid of me, then our courtship is at an end.”

  “If this is a courtship, I would hate to see the wedding,” Amelia muttered. He raised an eyebrow at her, and she flushed before returning to the subject. “So you want me to cry off and leave you looking for all the world like a man who tried to do his duty?”

  “I’m not the one who wants to stay unwed.”

  She dipped her pen in the inkwell and drew a lazy curlicue on the top sheet of paper. “And if I don’t ask Alex to let me leave you?”

  Her hand continued to move across the paper, and he wondered how much of her dowry would go toward keeping her in parchment. “You know I won’t. Salford would destroy me. Even if he didn’t, a man who jilts a woman is blackballed. I would never outlive it.”

  “Are you staying engaged for my reputation? Or because you don’t want a scandal?”

  The ground shifted under him when she looked up. “I am marrying you for both our reputations.”

  Her mouth compressed.

  “And don’t mistake me,” he added quickly. “I am not unhappy with this state of affairs. I’d just as soon marry you as anyone.”

  “How romantic.”

  “What else would you have me do? In any event, Salford and I drew up the settlements this morning.”

  That made her well and truly angry. “Alex already agreed for me? You never even asked me if I would marry you.”

  “Do you want me to ask you to marry me?”

  She drew a vicious x through her curlicues. “Don’t be absurd, Lord Carnach.”

  He leaned over her table, planting his hands on either side and looking her directly in the eyes. “You are the only one who can end this. If you don’t, we will marry, whether you like it or not.”

  She didn’t back down. “You cannot force me to like you.”

  “Did I say anything about liking each other?”

  Amelia sat back at that, crossing her arms as she regarded him. “If we are forced to live together, it would be more pleasant if we enjoyed each other’s company.”

  There was something about her defiance that made him give her fair warning, even though he couldn’t break things off. “I’m not seeking a wife to enjoy,” he said. “I’m seeking a wife who will obey me, host the right parties, and provide an heir. If you prefer enjoyment, the offer of becoming my mistress still stands.”

  Her arm twitched as though she was tempted to do him violence. Instead, she stood abruptly, planting her hands on top of his and leaning in just as he had done. “If I become any man’s mistress, it won’t be yours. But I can’t cry off, not if I want to remain in society.”

  Their eyes locked together for an endless minute. With their mouths so close, and Malcolm’s manhood still painfully hard, he almost, almost dipped in to kiss her.

  And, God help him, she looked ready for him.

  But a knock on the door broke them apart, and his hands missed the warmth of hers on top of them as she jerked away. “I am not suited for obedience, so you’d best talk to Alex yourself,” she hissed, every s becoming harsh in the silence.

  Then she called out for the person to enter, not letting Malcolm get the final word. He turned toward the window. His servants were loyal, and nearly all were distant relatives, but it still wouldn’t do to be seen sporting an erection with an unwed woman, betrothed or not.

  It wasn’t a servant. It was Prudence. “Lady Amelia, my mother and I are leaving today,” she declared, wasting no time on greetings.

  “Are you sure it is safe to travel alone?”

  “I’ve nothing a highwayman would wish to steal.”

  “Do not sell your safety so lightly, Prue.”

  Malcolm finally heard a note of distress in Amelia’s voice. When Prudence responded, he flinched for both of them. “You may call me Miss Etchingham,” she said. “My mo
ther and I shall be safe enough. I found your brother in the village and he agreed to escort us as far as Edinburgh. We will take a stage coach from there.”

  “A stage coach?” Amelia asked. “Are you sure you cannot wait until we all return to England?”

  “You won’t be returning to England until your husband takes you there,” Prudence said venomously.

  Malcolm finally turned toward the women. They confronted each other like generals before a pitched battle. The ice in the room had frozen his desire. “Lady Amelia will not return to London as soon as she would like, but you are welcome to stay as long as you wish.”

  “Stay here? And watch both of you settle into connubial bliss?” Prudence laughed, but it wasn’t pleasant. “I’d sooner be run through by a highwayman. I shall return to London, where I belong. Many happy returns to both of you, I’m sure.”

  Prudence turned toward the door. Amelia’s hand reached out to stop her, but Malcolm watched it fall before it could close the distance. Her hand dropped, and he heard her sigh.

  Prudence was out the door before he called to her. “Miss Etchingham, another moment?”

  She kept walking.

  “Stay here,” he ordered Amelia, ignoring her huff of protest. He followed Prudence, catching her in a few strides.

  “What do you require now, my lord? You surely don’t need two wives.”

  The bitter twist of her mouth made him feel a kick of guilt. “I am sorry for everything, Miss Etchingham. My actions to the contrary, you are a lovely woman. You deserve better than to be treated thusly.”

  She looked over his shoulder, toward the open door of the sitting room. “Thank you, Lord Carnach, but I believe I know how to apportion the blame for this sad affair. I trust you and Lady Amelia deserve each other.”

  He thought back to their confrontation, still not sure whether he wanted to throttle Amelia or kiss her breathless. “Perhaps we do. I am still sorry, though. Would you and your mother allow me to hire a post chaise to take you from Edinburgh to London? You shouldn’t bear the cost of this trip.”

  Prudence lifted her head, as proud as any queen. “I do not accept charity, my lord.”

  He sighed. “Consider it an apology.”

  The war between pride and expediency played out on her face. In the end, the attraction of a private coach over a crowded public conveyance won. “Very well. We shall be ready to leave after luncheon.”

  He bowed to her. Prudence dropped the barest curtsey before making her escape. He frowned as he watched her go. If she had displayed this much fire when they were first introduced, would he have found Amelia so tempting?

  It was a stupid question. Even now, when Prudence felt wronged by both of them, his thoughts turned toward how Amelia would survive the loss of her friend, not how Prudence might fare without his offer of marriage.

  He heard Amelia walk up behind him. “It was good of you to offer the coach,” she said.

  There was a respect in her tone that he hadn’t heard before. Gratitude, too — and the way it softened her voice warmed him. He could drown himself in her voice if it always sounded like that.

  But losing himself to the pleasure Amelia could give him was not his plan. “I thought I told you to stay in the sitting room,” he said.

  Her voice turned from the soothing warmth of a hearth to the scalding heat of a forge. “And I told you that obedience isn’t one of my virtues.”

  “Then it seems we’re at an impasse.”

  “Indeed,” she said.

  He wanted to kiss her, to break through her shields. But he couldn’t give in to every desire to kiss her, not if he wanted to stay focused on the duties that had made him seek a wife.

  So he walked away instead. But before he left, he took the last word. “The choice is simple, darling. Break off our engagement, or I’ll see you at the altar.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Hours later, after dinner, Amelia paced up and down the drawing room. The teacart had arrived five minutes earlier, but she was the only one there to enjoy it. Augusta and Louisa had abandoned her.

  She’d nearly begged them to stay. She had thought all afternoon about how she might drive Malcolm away, and she knew she would have to do something truly scandalous to get him to break the engagement. It would be easier to do something shocking if their mothers weren’t there to watch her.

  But being alone with him carried a different risk. If his effect on her didn’t wane, it would be hard to pursue her plans and not be affected by the desires that came with their sparring.

  So when Augusta had kissed her on the cheek, Amelia grabbed her hand like a child. “Surely you aren’t leaving me unchaperoned, Mother?”

  “If he misbehaves, hit him with the fire poker,” Augusta said. Louisa smothered a laugh. “But I trust it won’t come to that.”

  “The man is debauched,” Amelia protested. She flushed when Louisa arched an eyebrow, but she didn’t relent.

  “You are already engaged, and you’ll wed as soon as Alex returns from Edinburgh. I see no harm in leaving you alone. If anything, the more time you spend together, the less likely it is either of you can cry off.”

  Amelia kept her arguments to herself. Her mother was firmly in the marriage camp, and she wouldn’t be swayed unless one of them killed the other. Even then, she’d probably prefer the murder to come after the wedding.

  Amelia knew she was being unfair, but she didn’t care. She also knew it would be safer to retire before Malcolm emerged from the dining room with his brothers, but she wouldn’t run to her room like a chastised child. “Start as you mean to go on” was the refrain of the day. She couldn’t let him grow accustomed to her retreating after every battle.

  If only Malcolm would listen to reason and agree to break their engagement. She couldn’t be the one to break it off — if Lady Harcastle wanted to ruin her for taking Prudence’s would-be husband, the only hope Amelia had was for Malcolm to take the blame.

  She sighed. It was too much to expect that he would, particularly since she knew she wasn’t perfectly innocent. He wouldn’t let himself be blackballed, unless marrying her was worse than the consequences of jilting her. And even if he did, Amelia’s reputation would still be in tatters — Lady Harcastle would surely tell everyone she knew that Amelia had been caught with Malcolm in the library.

  She halted her pacing by the teacart and refreshed her cup. If she told Malcolm about her writing, would it horrify him enough to force his hand?

  She’d mulled over it all day. Logically, a politician couldn’t have a wife writing romantic novels, particularly the satire she had written the previous spring. Malcolm was a logical man. If she told him, he would see their unsuitability instantly.

  But what if he didn’t back down? If they married, she and everything she did would become his property. By law, she would cease to exist in her own right — and he could forbid her to write, or legally destroy every page she wrote. Or he could confiscate all her income from her writing, since it wasn’t part of the pin money in her marriage settlements. She would be even more dependent on him than she was on Alex.

  And if he knew about her writing, he would watch her far more closely than Alex ever did. Any dream she ever had of being recognized for her writing would die the moment he put his ring on her finger.

  She’d never have any hope of freedom after that.

  Amelia sipped her tea, which had become more of a sweet sludge as she’d absentmindedly dumped five lumps of sugar into the cup. It was a shame she couldn’t discuss this with her mother. Augusta had uncanny insight when it came to men, and she could have helped Amelia snare any man in the ton if Amelia was so inclined. She would undoubtedly have a number of suggestions for Amelia’s current situation, but they would all be appropriate for salvaging the engagement rather than destroying it. And Augusta didn’t know about Amelia’s writing either. If Amelia did escape this marriage, she needed somewhere to go. Telling her mother might cost her the only refuge she had.

>   The door opened and Malcolm entered. He regarded her for a few seconds from the doorway before shutting it and strolling toward her.

  “Where are your brothers?” she asked. Her own brother had left for Edinburgh with Prudence and Lady Harcastle and wouldn’t return for four days, but Duncan and Douglas lived in the castle, and Alastair often took his dinner with the family.

  He shrugged. “Duncan and Douglas are doubtlessly off making some kind of mischief, and Alastair is likely praying for them. Where are our mothers?”

  “They retired for the night. I doubt they will drink ratafia again soon.”

  She offered him tea, but he refused. When she sat, awkwardly, as though it could calm her nerves, he threw himself down into the chair across from her and withdrew a flask from his jacket.

  “Do you really not care for tea?”

  Malcolm took a long drink from his flask. “I am practicing for the ton. I haven’t been to London in an age, but it wouldn’t do to fall down drunk at White’s.”

  It was true that most English gentlemen drank to excess, particularly at parties that Amelia had never been reckless enough to attend. But practicing for the ton seemed unlikely. “If you don’t desire tea, I shall take my cup and leave you to your practice.”

  “You should practice too,” he said. “If you handle your ratafia as poorly as your mother, you’ll never survive the salons I need from you.”

  Her lamentable temper perked up at his words. “I know nothing of politics, nor do I care to. All the ratafia in the world would not make me conversant in the issues you are pursuing.”

  “You are pretty enough that men won’t mind your ignorance,” he mused, almost to himself. “With you at my side, you can attract them and I’ll talk to them.”