Scotsmen Prefer Blondes (Muses of Mayfair)

by Sara Ramsey

  The temper she’d tried to restrain escaped its leash. “I have more to do with my days than being kept at your side.”

  “Keeping you where I want you will be my right in less than a week. If you are so unhappy with this match, there is still time to end it.”

  “Are you asking me to leave?”

  He laughed. “Nay. You may not like it, but I’ve made my bed, and I’m very much looking forward to lying in it with you.”

  She blushed. “That’s not a reason for marriage.”

  He seemed to catch himself when she said that. His tone sobered. “No, it’s not. I’ll need you to be a proper wife. If you can’t do that and wish to break our engagement, I won’t chase after you.”

  Amelia slumped back into her chair. Even if Malcolm would not come to fetch her, her mother would still be disappointed if Amelia ran off of her own accord. Amelia needed more of a reason than “he won’t come after me” to give to Lady Augusta — particularly when she was already compromised. By the time Lady Harcastle reached London and spread word of her behavior, she’d be truly ruined. If Malcolm jilted her, there was the slimmest chance she might be saved — but if she jilted him after being compromised, no one would ever receive her again.

  Malcolm laughed — but this laugh was warmer, almost like a caress. “You almost look disappointed, darling. Do you want me to chase after you?”

  “Hardly,” Amelia snorted. “But even a lout such as you should recognize that we are not well-matched.”

  “No, we aren’t well-matched,” Malcolm agreed. “I have been tricked into marrying an on-the-shelf harridan, and you want a man you can keep in your pocket.”

  She saw red. “Or you are an autocratic barbarian with antiquated notions of marriage and a woman’s place within it, while I have been deprived of all the freedoms I have guarded so carefully.”

  Malcolm held his hands up in mock surrender. “You know me so well. We are not suited at all. But given how much you hate me, I wonder why you waited to take tea with me tonight?”

  “If I did not take tea after dinner, I would be as ill-bred as you are.”

  “I shudder at the thought of you becoming any more ill-bred. Unless kisses in the library are now all the rage for polite young ladies’ reputations?”

  “Now that, my lord, is really too much, since you share the blame,” Amelia said.

  Malcolm grinned. “Aye, I do.” His accent, barely noticeable before, broadened as he swallowed another measure of whisky from his flask. “And I think you are still here because you want another one.”

  “Never,” she sputtered.

  “Very eloquent, darling.”

  Amelia balled up her fists and counted to ten. “I was not waiting to see you. And I am not your darling,” she finally said, icily calm.

  “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

  “Shakespeare? I would have expected you to quote a drinking song, but not the Bard.”

  “I do like to read, you know. Even autocratic barbarians need some entertainment.”

  “I would think you more likely to entertain yourself in the pub.”

  He shrugged. “When every person in that pub depends on you for their livelihood, wasting an evening getting foxed in front of them loses its appeal.”

  “I am about to depend on you for my livelihood,” she retorted. “Will you continue to get foxed in front of me?”

  He looked down at the flask in his hand. “I’ve drunk more in the last three nights than I have in the last three weeks.”

  “I don’t think it’s advisable. Look at the trouble it caused in the library,” she said primly

  He took a long, deliberate swallow from his flask. “Nagging already, darling?”

  She stood abruptly. The part of her that had softened earlier when she heard the loneliness in his voice hardened again at the reminder of what she would become. “This has been a delightful evening, but I suddenly find that I have the headache. If you will excuse me?”

  Malcolm grabbed her wrist as she walked past and pulled her across his lap. The shock of impact drew a gasp from her lips and she struggled to rise, but he held her fast.

  “Let me go, Malcolm,” she ordered.

  “Always so demanding,” Malcolm said, setting aside his flask. “Things would be so much more pleasant if you would only say, ‘Yes, Malcolm,’ like a good wench.”

  “Why should I want things to be more pleasant? The sooner you tire of our engagement, the sooner I can go home and resume my real life.”

  Malcolm’s grip relaxed, but Amelia was too mesmerized by the sudden dark look in his eyes to make her escape. “So that’s your plan, is it? You want me to tire of you?”

  She stiffened in his arms. “You will tire of me anyway when I fail to host your precious salons. I would make a better bargain if I escape before you drag me into a political game that I have no intention of playing.”

  “I may regret having you as a hostess, and I have already tired of your sharp tongue.” The words cut, even though he only mimicked hers. But his next statement snatched her breath away. “I also know how that mouth feels against mine. And I cannot promise that I will ever tire of that, or the other charms your body offers.”

  His voice lowered into the seductive growl that had been her downfall. “And I didn’t kiss you in the library because of the whisky. I kissed you because I wanted you enough to risk everything else. I was a fool — but when you’re in my arms, at least I’m a lucky fool.”

  Amelia was suddenly, painfully aware of his chest, unyielding under her hand as she tried to shove him away. The tight muscles of his arms encircled her, as strong as any knight who’d claimed a maiden in the castle before.

  None of it scared her. It wasn’t until she saw the desire turning his eyes silver that she felt a glimmer of fear. Not fear for her safety, though.

  Fear that she wouldn’t remember to leave.

  “I should go to bed, my lord,” she said shakily.

  “I will let you go if, for the next five minutes, you only say ‘Yes, Malcolm,’” he said, his voice low and tightly controlled.

  “Mal...” she started to say.

  “Either say, ‘Yes, Malcolm,’ and I let you go, or say anything else and I will lock us both up in the tower for the night. Do you understand?”

  Amelia paused. It felt like a lifetime as their gazes locked together. There would be absolutely no hope of escape if she spent an entire night with him — and as she feared, she no longer quite remembered why escape was necessary.

  “Yes, Malcolm,” she finally said.

  Malcolm smiled, then bent down to claim her mouth. His lips were firm and hot against hers as he shifted her to a more accessible position in his lap, twisted so that she was facing him. The searing jolt of connection was just as intense as that night in the library, but the undertone was darker, more dangerous — and more exciting.

  And this time she parted her lips without thinking, already mindless in his arms. She gasped as he invaded, reveled in that first moment of contact when their tongues intertwined and the heat from his mouth swept into her very core.

  He lifted his hand and swept her hair back, strewing pins across the drawing room floor. Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders. His fingers twined through her curls, gently pulling her closer as his tongue delved deeper into her mouth.

  She clasped her hands around his neck and tugged him closer. There was no room for strategy, for concern about winning or giving in — just the heat of his mouth and the need to prolong the delicious feelings building within her.

  As though he could read her thoughts, he pulled away, and she could not stop her moan of annoyance. He grinned, then pressed a line of kisses across her jaw and down her neck. She arched back, sensitive to his caresses, the momentary annoyance forgotten as he moved lower still. Just as he kissed the hollow of her collarbone, however, he pulled back. “Do you want me to untie your bodice?” he asked.

  Pride warred with desire. She open
ed her eyes, her gaze meeting his. He looked like Lucifer offering her the world, daring her to fall.

  “Yes, Malcolm,” she whispered.

  His lips claimed hers again, rewarding her obedience as his fingers found the ribbons of her bodice. He tugged quickly and the dress fell open, revealing her chemise...another tug, and she was bare before him.

  He pulled away from her mouth, staring at her breasts as though to memorize them. She flushed hotly as his head descended. He started where he had left off, kissing the hollow of her throat, then moving down, leaving a moist trail of kisses as he moved slowly, slowly across the expanse of creamy flesh. He circled her left breast, spiraling inward, getting ever closer to his goal as she arched toward him. She wouldn’t ask for what she wanted, but her body begged.

  His mouth finally closed around her nipple. She shuddered. The warmth spread, radiating from his mouth and into her core, sending delicious pulses through her belly to the sensitive areas beyond. He clasped her gently between his teeth, then sucked away the fleeting pain, swirling his tongue around the hardening nub.

  Just as every bit of her focused on that one point of connection, just as she lost herself in his mouth, he pulled away and took a shuddering breath. “Do you want more?” he asked hoarsely.

  She didn’t hesitate. “Yes, Malcolm,” she said, in a voice that was almost a sob.

  He lavished the same attention on her other breast, kissing, biting, sucking, until the sensations threatened to overwhelm her. She entwined her fingers in his hair and guided his mouth back to her lips.

  This time, she was the aggressor, the longing for something she couldn’t name fueling her as she entered his mouth and claimed his tongue. Her body throbbed, and she pressed closer to him, unsure of what she wanted but sure he could help her find it.

  Without breaking their kiss, Malcolm shifted her in his lap so that her legs were slung over the side of the chair. Through the hot, airless haze of their kiss, she felt his fingers skimming up her calf, sliding over her stocking and garter. He continued higher, tracing his fingers along the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh.

  She drew in a shocked breath. His hand rested there, branding her with his fingers. “Do you want me to continue?” he asked.

  She knew she should stop him. She could pretend she was an early Christian martyr, and risk death for maintaining her virtue against the barbarian onslaught. But the need he had stoked demanded satisfaction — and when she said, “Yes, Malcolm,” her voice was heavy with desire instead of obedience.

  Perhaps he heard her desperation. His exploration turned bolder. Reclaiming her mouth, he kissed her back into surrender — then slid his fingers higher to rest in the slick folds at the juncture of her thighs.

  The feel of him there, in her most private place, should have filled her with dread. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to remember why she should run. And then, as he grazed a knuckle against the nub hidden within her curls, her delicious shudder of response erased all thoughts of fleeing.

  He dipped a finger down to her entrance, and he chuckled against her mouth when he found the moisture there. “You’re wet for me, aren’t you darling?” he asked.

  She couldn’t respond. He didn’t seem to expect it, instead focusing on whatever torment he planned for her. He slid his finger back up to her aching clitoris, and his intentions became apparent. With her own moisture to smooth his movements, the pleasure intensified, building into a need more desperate than anything she’d experienced before.

  As his fingers intensified their strokes, her body throbbed. Her breasts were swollen, her breaths were ragged, and her skin would catch fire if he didn’t end his torture. And all the while, the pressure continued to build, driving her towards a cliff she was all too eager to leap from if she could just find the precipice.

  He held her there for an endless minute. She moaned and writhed against his hand, until she thought that he intended to keep her like that forever. Then he whispered in her ear, “Do you beg me to let you come?”

  She was too far gone to care about her pride. “Yes, Malcolm...oh, please, anything,” she said, turning incoherent as she sobbed her need into his chest.

  He stroked her harder then, sliding a finger into her wetness. His invasion was enough to push her over the edge. She screamed, and he kissed her again to swallow her cries. A shudder wracked her, so intense she thought she would break from it, and she fell limp into his arms as the dam of her need burst and the hot tide swept her away.

  When the last of the tremors faded and she could think again, she opened her eyes. Malcolm’s hand was still resting in her curls, his fingers sifting through them as though he were petting a prized cat. The sight of his strong, lean fingers contrasted so starkly against her pale thighs made her shiver again.

  She looked away from the hand that possessed her. She shifted in his lap to pull away before he could stoke her desire again. She felt the heaviness of his need against her derriere — and then she felt, rather than heard, Malcolm’s groan, just as he roughly pushed her back. His eyes were still silver, but darker, like a stormy sea, and his body was rigid with barely-suppressed need.

  “Obedience wasn’t so difficult, now was it?” he said, his voice harsh.

  Amelia stiffened, his tone and her sudden embarrassment splashing cold water on the remnants of her longing. And even though she should have been glad that he stopped before they risked a pregnancy, she felt inexplicably close to crying.

  She pushed his hand away and rolled off his lap. For one awful moment, she thought she might fall, but she managed to stand on shaking legs and smooth her skirts before attempting to retie her bodice. She couldn’t bear to look into his eyes for fear she would find mockery there — but from the way his hands clenched on his legs as she straightened her dress, he wasn’t nearly as calm as he sounded.

  There was nothing to be done about her hair, but she would rather have every single servant see her in this state than spend another moment under his silvery gaze. “I believe my five minutes have passed,” she said, stalking to the door without awaiting an answer.

  She managed to make it all the way to her chamber before the tears started to fall.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The next morning, Amelia slashed through another paragraph of drivel. The story, which was so promising when she worked on it in London, had come completely undone in Scotland.

  Perhaps that was the inevitable consequence of living a Gothic romance instead of writing it. How could she care about Veronique’s predicament when she was also trapped in a remote castle, doomed to a marriage she didn’t want?

  She was being dramatic again. She’d been at her desk in the downstairs salon since shortly after dawn, breaking only when her maid had pressed chocolate and a bit of bread upon her. Her best words usually came in the morning, but after another fitful night — and the shame of her encounter with Malcolm — it was little wonder that sunrise didn’t bring her muse with it.

  If she were forced to become the hostess Malcolm demanded, she would rarely see the dawn unless she returned to their house as the sun came up. What would her muse do then?

  The sound of laughter in the hall brought her back to the present. She laid aside her pen and pulled on her gloves, concealing the ink stains in preparation for callers. Perhaps fifteen minutes with whoever had chosen to visit would refresh her. Most social calls in London made her want to stab out her ears with a butter knife, but any distraction was welcome when it felt like the well from which her words came could produce nothing but buckets of dust.

  She pasted on her best smile and opened the door. The first face she saw didn’t belong to a stranger — it was almost as familiar as her own.

  “Madeleine!” she exclaimed, nearly toppling her cousin as she embraced her. “Whatever are you doing here?”

  Madeleine, now the Duchess of Rothwell, laughed as she returned Amelia’s affections. “I’ve never seen you so happy to be interrupted.”

  Amelia pu
lled away, holding Madeleine at arm’s length as she examined her. “Our visit hasn’t been quite the holiday I expected.”

  She didn’t mention Prudence, but she didn’t have to. Madeleine shook her head, mock reproof mingled with an undercurrent of something real. “We heard it all from Prudence yesterday. She and Alex stayed the night with us en route to Edinburgh. Ferguson made the estate sound like a tiny country house, but it’s more like a grand manor, albeit in need of decorating. You and Carnach must come for a visit after the wedding.”

  Madeleine’s chatter about her new husband’s house didn’t disguise the underlying sentiment — that Amelia’s wedding was already a fait accompli.

  “Why are you so sure we will marry?” she asked.

  Madeleine rolled her eyes, then spoke over her shoulder. “Ellie, I told you she wouldn’t be eagerly planning the nuptials.”

  Behind her, Ellie Claiborne, the widowed Marchioness of Folkestone, stepped out of the drawing room. It was her laughter Amelia had heard earlier, a fact she realized when Ellie chuckled at Madeleine’s comment. “I agreed with you, if I recall,” Ellie said. “I wouldn’t have left my bed for this visit unless I thought the story behind the engagement might be worth it.”

  Ellie pretended to stifle a yawn, but her blue eyes were bright with humor. Amelia embraced her, too. Ellie was Madeleine’s new sister-in-law, and her red hair proclaimed her relationship to Ferguson and to the Scottish clan their mother descended from. Amelia hadn’t met her until Madeleine’s involvement with Ferguson several months earlier, but Ellie had quickly become one of her favorite people.

  “Did you say Prudence stayed with you? Are they still at your house?” Amelia asked.

  Her voice was casual, but it didn’t fool her friends. “We asked them to stay, but Prudence insisted on pressing on this morning,” Madeleine said. “We hadn’t thought to impose on Lady Carnach’s hospitality until the end of the week at least, especially since we just saw you when we parted ways four days ago. But when Prudence arrived on our doorstep, then left just as suddenly...”