Scotsmen Prefer Blondes (Muses of Mayfair)

by Sara Ramsey

  When Graves tapped on the door, Malcolm ordered him away without looking up. Graves ignored him. “His grace the Duke of Rothwell,” the butler announced, unusually stiff with formality.

  “Don’t say you won’t see me, MacCabe,” Ferguson said, striding to the desk and clasping Malcolm’s hand before Malcolm had fully risen from his chair. “I spent two hours with my sisters to reach you. The least you can offer is a drink.”

  Malcolm gestured him into a chair and walked to the cabinet for a decanter and two glasses. “Your letters sounded pleased about your reconciliation with your family. Has something changed?”

  Ferguson rolled his eyes. “You’ve only brothers — you cannot possibly understand. They can go on for thirty minutes about ribbon, of all things.”

  Malcolm eyed the man’s elaborate cravat and impeccably tailored jacket, more commonly found in the exclusive clubs of London than in any precinct of the Highlands. “You aren’t unfashionable yourself.”

  “I long ago reconciled myself to the backward fashions of the Highlands, but I don’t have to lower myself to meet them.”

  “Wouldn’t you be better occupied by something other than spending two hours tying your cravat?” Malcolm asked, handing him a glass.

  “I am such a genius that I require only one hour to tie my cravat,” Ferguson said with a sniff.

  Malcolm laughed at Ferguson’s mock conceit. “I appreciate your willingness to take a few moments out of your daily rituals to attend to me, your grace.”

  “Please, I’m still Ferguson to anyone who matters. And I wouldn’t dream of neglecting you when you’re in such a coil,” Ferguson said, sipping his brandy with an appreciative grin. “I do hope your plans to rid yourself of your fiancée will break me out of my boredom.”

  “Who says I intend to break my engagement?” Malcolm asked, leaning against the edge of his desk.

  “I’ve known you for nearly three decades and cannot think of a single time you let yourself be forced to do something. You surely have a plan.”

  Malcolm swirled the brandy in his glass. The nutty aroma slid through him as he contemplated his answer. Ferguson was right. Malcolm didn’t respond well to force.

  “Perhaps I’m not unwilling to marry her.”

  Ferguson snorted. “You would have been better off with Miss Etchingham.”

  “No. She was nice enough, but she didn’t show an ounce of spirit until the end.”

  “She had gallons of it at my house yesterday. A woman scorned is a sight to behold.”

  Malcolm sighed. “I know she feels wronged, even if an engagement was never formally discussed. But there’s something about Amelia that makes me think I could take over the world if she were at my side.”

  Ferguson arched a brow. “I never thought you would seduce an innocent for political gain. You may yet surpass my schemes, MacCabe.”

  “No, you remain the greatest schemer in the Highlands,” Malcolm said. “But my time with Amelia has complicated matters.”

  He told Ferguson about his encounter with Amelia in the library, including Alex’s threats and Amelia’s desire to break the engagement, but leaving out last night’s interlude in the drawing room. Rather than sympathizing, or even disapproving, Ferguson laughed.

  And laughed some more.

  “Really, Ferguson, I don’t see what’s so amusing about this,” Malcolm said through his teeth.

  Ferguson wiped his eyes, still chuckling. “Ever since you inherited, you’ve tried to accomplish your duties to the letter. Marrying the right woman was so important to you — and now you’ve made a cake of yourself with the one woman I told you to avoid.”

  Malcolm ran a hand through his hair. “I knew better, but she was just too damned appealing. Far more appealing than the prim Miss Etchingham. What is so wrong with Amelia that you tried to warn me off?”

  Ferguson sobered. He considered his words carefully, and when he answered, there was a reticence that Malcolm rarely heard from him. “Amelia has everything required to make a brilliant match, but she jealously guards her spinsterhood. Did you hear of The Unconquered Heiress? It came out in the spring and caused a sensation among the fashionable set.”

  Malcolm nodded. “I read it.”

  “I didn’t take you for a romantic.”

  “I’m not,” Malcolm said. “But with you in England, there was little else to do when I wasn’t working, unless I wanted to listen to the twins’ carousing and Alastair’s moralizing. And my bookseller in Edinburgh said I should read it if I plan to go to London.”

  “Do you remember the plot?”

  “Of course. It was good, if a bit overdramatic.”

  Ferguson snorted. “Of course it’s dramatic. It’s based on your fiancée.”

  Malcolm’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me she was actually kidnapped by a dastardly Italian.”

  “No. Her reputation is fine, even if I think she is a harpy. But you should ask her about the book.”

  “That ‘harpy’ is about to become my wife. I thank you for watching your tongue.

  Ferguson toasted his apology. “Forgive me. She tried her best to keep me and Mad apart, and I admit I’m biased. But the fact remains that Amelia has gone out of her way to avoid marriage until now. She is not an easy target. And she is so renowned for it that the entire ton will be gossiping about how you won her — and watching for any sign of discord.”

  Malcolm moved to the chair across from Ferguson, offering him the decanter before topping off his own glass. “If I win her, is she worth the fight?”

  Ferguson stared into his glass as though he could read the future in the depths. “From what Madeleine has told me, she isn’t conventional, MacCabe. I’ve only known Amelia a few months, but I’m confident she isn’t what you were looking for in a wife. She won’t be a china doll you can dangle from your arm at parties, then put away until you need her again.”

  He paused. Just as Malcolm thought he meant to end with that scathing indictment, Ferguson continued, quieter, almost to himself. “But if marriage has taught me anything, it’s that one unconventional woman at your side is better than the prettiest china doll at your feet.”

  They fell silent, each nursing their brandies. From the secretive smile on Ferguson’s face, Malcolm guessed there was a side to the new Duchess of Rothwell that would shock the ton.

  Amelia had secrets too, though he hadn’t learned them yet. But were her secrets worth the risk, if it gained him a partner like her?

  When they finally stirred, Ferguson drained his glass. “I’ll back you whatever you decide, MacCabe. Ask her about the book, though. You shouldn’t marry with secrets between you.”

  “I’ll ask,” Malcolm said.

  “Good. And if you want to make any last attempts to drive Amelia to jilt you, I’m your man.”

  “You are always scheming, aren’t you,” Malcolm observed.

  “My blessing and my curse,” Ferguson replied.

  “No wonder you hate Amelia — you’re two of a kind.”

  Ferguson scowled at that. “I’d call you out if I didn’t think your wedding will be a bigger punishment than my sword.”

  Malcolm laughed and tossed off the contents of his glass. As long as Amelia’s answers to his questions about The Unconquered Heiress were suitable, he didn’t want to give her up.

  He couldn’t throw her aside anyway. But he was driven by more than just his reputation. He wanted her to come apart in his arms again, as she had done the night before. He wanted to feel her under him, over him, around him — and not just in the moments when she forgot that she didn’t want to marry him.

  He had tried warning her away the day before. He’d shown her the autocrat he could be, and she’d met him eye to eye. He had compelled her obedience, if only for a few moments, and she hadn’t jilted him.

  She hadn’t admitted it yet, but she would marry him eventually — neither of them had any other choice. But if he seduced her properly, branded her with passion until she was dr
iven by the same lust that fueled him, perhaps she would go the altar willingly.

  He hadn’t planned to marry for passion, and he couldn’t let it distract him. But if he had to marry Amelia, they might as well enjoy each other.

  And he would start tonight. If a moonlit library had been enough to overcome her reserves, he knew just the activity that would set her heart racing and send her straight into his arms.

  “You’re looking rather evil, MacCabe,” Ferguson observed.

  Malcolm grinned. “That’s high praise, coming from you.” He paused a moment, thinking over his plans for Amelia’s seduction.

  Then, throwing caution to the devil, he asked for Ferguson’s help. “Do you mind if I borrow some sheep?”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Something wrong with your dessert, Lady Amelia?” Malcolm asked her as she sat next to him at dinner that night. “I know it isn’t as good as last night’s effort.”

  She was confused for a moment, not remembering anything of the previous evening’s dinner — until his slow grin reminded her of what they’d done in the drawing room afterward. She raised her chin. “I don’t particularly care for any of the desserts you’ve offered.”

  He scooped up a bit of custard with his spoon. “That sounds like a challenge. I am happy to keep looking for offerings that will pique your appetites.”

  “You will find me hard to satisfy, my lord.”

  He smiled. “I don’t doubt it. But I’m not one who will give up.”

  Down the table, Amelia heard her mother sigh. It didn’t sound like censure, though. It sounded more like nostalgia.

  Amelia watched Malcolm finish his custard. He savored the dessert, taking his time with it, finishing every last bit of it. She suspected that, if he’d been given a different life, he might have been a hedonist — driven by pleasure, rather than duty.

  More like his brothers, perhaps. Douglas and Duncan had kept the party laughing all evening with tales they’d heard in the pub the night before. It wasn’t a conversation she would have heard in her London circles, with rules that prevented talking across the table and taste levels that confined the conversation to safe, boring topics.

  But the MacCabes had fully welcomed her and her mother into their fold. Her marriage still loomed over her, but in the moments when she forgot about it, she realized that she wanted to stay in Scotland, in this castle.

  She wouldn’t go so far as to say she wanted to stay with this man.

  Malcolm leaned back in his chair, taking his wine glass with him. His fingers curled around the stem, and he looked at her over the rim of the glass as he sipped.

  There was still pleasure in his eyes. If they could have passion between them, rather than cool civility and political constraints, would marriage be so bad?

  Lady Carnach stood at the end of the table. Malcolm and his brothers stood too. Amelia set aside her napkin. Would Malcolm join her in the drawing room later, as he had the night before? Would she wait for him — or would she run, and try to think of a way to escape a marriage that she increasingly knew was inevitable?

  “By all means, dears, there’s no need for you to retire,” Lady Carnach said. “I believe I shall go to my room.”

  “Shall I escort you, Mother?” Malcolm asked.

  She nearly snorted. “I’ve lived here for nearly thirty-five years. I suppose I can find my room one more time.”

  He offered his arm to Amelia’s mother next, but she also refused. “You young people should continue to socialize,” Augusta said, pulling her gloves on after rinsing her fingers in the bowl of water at her plate. “It is unconventional, but you are practically married, after all. And you’ll be glad of these quieter hours together when you’re deep in the London season.”

  Malcolm’s brothers immediately claimed other commitments — Alastair with his sermon for the next day and the twins with some cousins at the pub. That left Amelia and Malcolm staring each other down in the medieval expanse of the MacCabe dining room.

  In any other circumstance, she would have been enchanted. Unlike the family wing, the dining room had been carved out of the original remnants of the ancient castle, and its provenance showed in the stone walls. Faded tapestries covered the walls between the narrow windows, dampening the echoes and adding a bit of color to the endless swathes of grey. The giant fire blazing in the hearth added warmth, while the iron chandelier suspended over the table cast ominous shadows on the diners.

  She ignored the appeal of the room, trying to stay focused on her thoughts, trying to find where her heart intended to guide her. At least some time alone with Malcolm might reveal his strategy. Despite everything he’d said before of obedience and duty, he’d been so solicitous at dinner.

  Almost like he was wooing her.

  “Would you prefer tea, darling? Or something stronger?” he asked, taking his chair when everyone else had left.

  Definitely like he was wooing her. Where was the autocrat he had shown her the day before?

  “I’ll drink what you drink,” she said.

  “Graves, two glasses of whisky and the teacart.”

  She was sure Graves noticed her impropriety, even if his master didn’t. He bowed stiffly, with either arthritis or apoplexy.

  “We can separate if you prefer, my lord. Perhaps everyone else had the right idea by retiring early.”

  “No, I’ve a better idea. Come to my study and I’ll show you.”

  She shook her head. “I really should write my letters rather than spend time with you unchaperoned.”

  “Daylight is for letters. Evening belongs to conversation. You will disappoint Graves if you show no interest in social engagements.”

  “It is too late, my lord,” Graves said as he brought two glasses of whisky from the sideboard. “I shall go to my eternal rest regretting that I could not prevent this union.”

  Amelia would have fired a servant who spoke like that, but Malcolm laughed as he stood and offered her his arm. “Ignore him. The man is a genius at running the staff and the wine supply, but our lack of proper entertaining has dulled his social graces.”

  More like destroyed than dulled, but Amelia held her tongue. She took Malcolm’s arm. He palmed the whisky glasses in the other hand. “Graves, send the tea to my study. No poisons, if you please.”

  “Your staff is unconventional,” Amelia remarked as they left the dining room.

  “You haven’t seen the rest of the clan. Graves was reportedly a paragon of propriety when my mother hired him from England thirty years ago. But I’m sure his service to us has ruined him for other employment.”

  “Does your clan have such a bad effect on all who join it?”

  They reached his study and Malcolm opened the door. “You can ask my mother. She doesn’t seem so bad for it. Although perhaps she would disagree — she no longer cares for London, after the freedom she’s had here.”

  He ignored the seat behind his desk and set the glasses on a small table nestled between two chairs by the fireplace. The chairs were covered in supple chestnut leather, inviting a man to lean back into their depths. The room was exactly what one would expect of a gentleman’s retreat, with hunting trophies interspersed between the books and paintings lining the walls. It didn’t have the personal effects and antiques that littered her brother’s study — but then, Malcolm had only been the earl for a year, while Alex had inherited a decade earlier.

  Malcolm gestured to the chairs. “Will you sit?”

  She remained standing. “What do you want, Lord Carnach?”

  He angled his head, the picture of innocence. “What do you suspect me of wanting?”

  “Don’t be obtuse. We’ve sparred like rival statesmen since the moment Alex found us in the library, and now you’ve suddenly stopped. Why?”

  Malcolm crossed his arms. “Do I need a reason?”

  “You should have ended this by now. Why haven’t you ended it?”

  The question hung in the air like a dangerous blizzard rollin
g down from the Grampian Mountains. It stayed suspended as Graves tapped on the doorframe, arranged the teacart near the chairs, and muttered something about shameless hoydens before closing the door.

  She made eye contact with Malcolm all the while. The answer to her question lurked in the grey depths, just barely visible under layers of nonchalance. She suspected that she knew what it was — and that there was an answering sparkle in her eyes, if Malcolm peered as deep as she had.

  But she wouldn’t name it until he did. She wouldn’t give it the space it needed to grow from a spark to a bonfire, either. Her voice was cold as she reminded him of her question. “Why haven’t you ended it?”

  He still watched her as he picked up his glass. There was something about his perusal of her over the rim that awoke the need within her — a need he could stoke with just a look.

  Her breath seized. She suddenly didn’t care for why, just whether — whether he would touch her again, whether this time she might touch him too.

  His glass clicked against the wooden table and pulled her back. “I haven’t ended it for the same reason you haven’t,” he said.

  She tilted her head up and looked down her nose. “Neither of us wants to be the one who risks ruin to break this off, but if you were a gentleman, you’d take the blow.”

  Malcolm laughed. “The ‘gentleman’ argument won’t work, darling. And that’s not why we’re still here.”

  “Then why are we here?”

  Her voice was a whisper, barely audible over the popping fire, utterly removed from the strong, demanding tones she usually used to escape suitors.

  His voice had all the confidence hers lacked. “We want each other. On some level, we need each other. Neither of us can say goodbye until it’s out of our systems.”

  She shook her head. If she were a child, she would have covered her ears. She started to, unconsciously, but he came forward and clasped her hands in his.

  “Don’t fight it, Amelia. You know it’s true.”