Scotsmen Prefer Blondes (Muses of Mayfair)

by Sara Ramsey

  “Good luck with that, brother,” Alastair said, in a tone that said Malcolm was beyond salvation.

  Malcolm laughed. “She’s half in love with me already. Why wouldn’t she want to go with me?”

  “That means she’s half out of love with you,” Alastair observed. “You should at least discuss this with her, don’t you think?”

  Malcolm didn’t acknowledge the point. Instead, he took his leave, ignoring Alastair’s final muttered comments about duty and marital bliss. What did Alastair know of marriage? And it was all well and good to believe that God would provide when one wasn’t the landlord responsible for half the county.

  He was still religious enough to wince at the thought, but it didn’t stop him from spurring his horse. His original intent the night before, when taking her in front of the window, was to remind himself that their marriage existed to save the land around the castle — that he needed obedience and heirs from her, not pleasure.

  But he’d lost himself in her, as he always did. The fact that his distraction with her was already so profound...

  He had to end it. He had to remind them both what their marriage was supposed to be. It had to be business, a proper, passionless union that wouldn’t distract him from all the duties he needed to fulfill.

  And if they were to be passionless, he had to make it happen now — before he was too addicted to her passion to leave her.

  * * *

  Amelia shoved her writing desk aside when her maid came in with a cup of chocolate. She’d awoken almost three hours earlier, when she’d heard Malcolm’s footsteps pass by her room without a moment’s hesitation.

  It was the first time she’d awoken alone since their wedding day. She supposed she should be grateful that she wouldn’t have to talk to Malcolm before she cleaned her teeth or brushed her hair. But she never felt the way one was supposed to feel.

  The previous night was no exception. From the whispered conversations she’d overheard when matrons thought their charges were out of earshot, she knew many women of the ton found little pleasure in their marriage beds. Imagine how a woman like Lady Harcastle would feel about being bent over a windowseat?

  “Are you feeling well, my lady? You look overwarm,” Watkins observed, handing Amelia the steaming cup from her tray.

  She didn’t feel well — she felt a little ill thinking of Lady Harcastle, and by extension Prudence’s note. But for the maid, she said, “Quite. Although perhaps a bath would be in order.”

  “I am glad we are returning to London, if you don’t mind me saying so, my lady,” Watkins said, ringing the bell to call a maid for water. “The kitchen is so far from the bedchambers here that it is difficult to keep the water hot until it arrives.”

  “What?” Amelia demanded.

  Watkins looked at her blankly. “The castle is bigger than Salford House, and the kitchens...”

  “I don’t care about that,” Amelia snapped. “What’s this about going to London?”

  Watkins’s confusion grew. “I heard it from his lordship’s valet, who said he was packing this morning. I’ll start as soon as we have you dressed. Unless you’re not going with Lord Carnach?”

  Amelia gulped her chocolate to conceal her reaction, but only succeeded in burning the roof of her mouth. “Damn him,” she muttered as she sucked in air over the burn.

  “Did I speak out of turn, my lady? I am sorry for it.”

  Amelia waved her hand. “You’re not the one who is out of turn, Watkins. Do you know if the earl is in the castle?”

  “He was in the breakfast room when I brought your chocolate from the kitchen.”

  She rolled out of bed, setting aside the half-finished cup. “No bath. I need to dress. Something black.”

  Her maid didn’t argue, even though she looked like she wanted to. Amelia went to the washbasin and poured water from the pitcher Watkins had brought with the chocolate. She stripped and washed herself ruthlessly, her fury increasing with every swipe of the washcloth across the skin Malcolm had used the night before. There were bruises the shape of his fingertips on her hips.

  If she could kill him twice — once for making her think he cared, and again for proving her wrong — she would.

  Watkins helped her into a fresh chemise, stays, a petticoat, and a black crepe gown better suited to mourning than a honeymoon. Amelia sat still as Watkins unbraided her hair, then repinned it in a strict twist. When they were done, she smoothed her skirts. She wore no jewelry but her wedding band. She didn’t want to wear it — the reminder that, by law if not by right, he owned her. He could make her go to London with no notice at all. But there was still a chance this was a misunderstanding.

  It had to be a misunderstanding.

  The maid Watkins had rung for bathwater arrived. “Does my lady need something?” she asked.

  “Not any longer,” Watkins said, coming out of the dressing room with a pair of shoes. “But she will need a footman to bring up her trunks.”

  “Don’t pack yet,” Amelia said. “I do not go anywhere just because a valet said so.”

  She saw the look that passed between Watkins and the upstairs maid, but she ignored it as she slid her feet into her shoes and stalked from the room. How dare he embarrass her like that in front of the servants?

  She walked down the stairs, trying to breathe, to calm herself. She reminded herself that she wanted a separate life from him, that being close to her publisher would make everything easier, that London was preferable to the Highlands.

  And she tried to remember a time when the only thing that heated her blood was her writing, not the caresses of an autocratic boor. If he was so selfish that he would move them to London without any discussion at all, then she had no doubt he’d put an end to her writing the moment he discovered it.

  “Stay true to yourself, Amelia,” she ordered herself as she neared the breakfast room.

  But when she walked into the sunny morning room, her resolve faltered. Malcolm sat at the table, the remnants of a large breakfast spread around him. He read a newspaper as though he was any country squire — one who’d slept perfectly by himself and was well satisfied with life.

  He stood when she entered. At least he still had some courtesy. “Did you sleep well, darling?” he asked.

  She felt the blood rising in her face. It was irrational to be angry without waiting for an explanation, but even if it was all a misunderstanding, she was still hurt that he seemed so unaffected by last night’s lovemaking.

  So when he pulled out a chair for her, she didn’t take it. “Perfectly well, my lord. My bed is preferable to yours.”

  His hand clenched the back of the chair. “Then what are you mourning?”

  “I’m not in mourning...yet.”

  “What in the devil do you mean?”

  She glanced at Graves, who hovered with a footman near the sidebar. Then she tossed propriety to the devil Malcolm had referenced. “Black seemed expedient. It won’t show blood, and when I’ve killed you, I won’t have to waste time changing into mourning.”

  He crossed his arms. “You didn’t want to kill me last night.”

  If she hadn’t wanted to kill him before, his smug tone undid her. “That was before I recognized you for the man you are,” she hissed. “How can you decide our lives without even a by-your-leave? I’m your wife, Carnach, as much as we both regret it. Not some strumpet who must do what you tell her.”

  “Wrong,” he said flatly. “A whore could leave, if she had the funds. You’re bound to me forever.”

  “As if I could forget,” she snapped. In her rage, even her ears were burning. “And you wonder why I would want to end you.”

  “Graves, count the knives tonight,” he said to the butler.

  “I always do, my lord.”

  She glared at the servants. “Out. Now.”

  The footman jumped at her tone. Graves, oddly, had the temerity to smile before he refused. “If I might be so bold, my lady, may I suggest you murder his lordship e
lsewhere? His mother has not yet come down to breakfast, and you wouldn’t want her stumbling upon your crime.”

  She wanted to scream. But she would save her breath for Malcolm. “Then you. Out. You don’t want to hear this in front of anyone else.”

  “You aren’t the one who decides when we talk,” he said.

  “I don’t want you to talk. I want you to listen. But I’ll let you express a preference after I’m done, which is more courtesy than you’ve shown me.”

  He shifted, oddly uncomfortable. “I thought you...appreciated what I decided.”

  She snorted. “If you don’t want Graves to hear what I think of you, we should adjourn to another room.”

  He scanned her face, and whatever he saw there convinced him that she would make good on her threat. He took her arm, but not as a polite escort — he grabbed her as though she was a prisoner bent on escape.

  She shook him off. “Handling me so roughly isn’t advisable in my current mood.”

  He bowed deeply, somehow turning the subservient gesture into an insult. “Then if the lady would be so kind as to follow me, I will find an appropriate place for this discussion.”

  He stalked away. She missed the feel of his hand on her arm, and as soon as she realized it, she fisted her hands until her nails dug into her palms. Where was the resolve she’d promised herself?

  She’d make do without it. She followed him silently as he strode out of the main wing, across the great hall, up a short flight of stairs to the dais, and through the long portrait gallery that connected the hall to the ancient tower. She’d seen the portraits when Lady Carnach had shown her and Prudence around the castle a lifetime ago, but they hadn’t bothered with the tower itself.

  Amelia shivered. Her blasted imagination was already thinking of dungeons. Centuries of MacCabes watched their progress, and Amelia wondered how many Carnach earls had dragged their wives through the gallery to the tower beyond.

  Malcolm moved fast, their pace set by his anger. She had wanted to insult him, to draw blood, to upset him as much as he’d upset her. But now that his anger was unleashed, she worried she may have pushed him too far.

  They reached the end of the gallery. Malcolm pulled open the thick oak door. It groaned on its hinges, revealing a circular room large enough to hold the remnants of the MacCabes’s earlier armory and several decades of abandoned furnishings. A stone staircase started to the right of the door, spiraling along the wall and disappearing through an open trapdoor to the second floor some fifteen feet above their heads.

  She walked in and Malcolm slammed the door behind them before gesturing her into the only intact chair. She sat as though she wanted to, but the effect was ruined when she sneezed as a cloud of dust flew up around her. He ignored the dirt. He watched her with those unfathomable grey eyes, like a predatory hawk waiting for the mouse to leave its hole.

  She shifted under his gaze. The chair creaked ominously. He towered over her, a brooding inquisitor prepared to force a confession. When she tried to stand, he pushed her back, leaning over her and planting his hands on the arms of her chair. “You got what you asked for — no servants can hear us. Will you explain to me why we’re here?”

  His voice was quiet and deadly, warning her to take care. Amelia was too angry to back down. She leaned up toward him, inches from his face. “You do take pleasure in lording your authority over me, don’t you?”

  “If you don’t want me to, say the word.”

  “As simple as that?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

  “As simple as that,” he agreed. But then he leaned in and kissed her. Their fury melted them together, until she sighed against his lips. When he pulled away, that smug smile was back. “Deny me all you want in the morning, though. I vow you enjoyed what I gave you last night.”

  She fell back against the chair. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  He straightened. “I should have been gentler, perhaps. If you came downstairs seeking an apology, though, I’ll only give it if you genuinely dislike our lovemaking.”

  She snorted. “Wherever did you get the idea that I wanted to discuss last night?”

  “Few women of your class would allow themselves to be used like that, at least not without a token protest. If this is your token protest, I’m all ears.”

  She blushed. The only part of last night she hadn’t enjoyed was when he left — everything before that was quite enjoyable indeed. “You think I’m too...passionate to be a proper wife?”

  His grin was wolfish. “You’re the proper wife for me, darling. If you’re to give me an heir, we may as well enjoy our duty.”

  His voice teased, but the words scorched her like a brand. “That’s all you see me as, isn’t it? A vessel to carry your heir? And a bit of sport in the meantime?”

  She came to her feet and drove her fist into his chest before he realized her intent. The air whooshed from his lungs and his arms wrapped around her, drawing her too close to allow another punch. She kicked him instead, and he winced as she hit his shin. But he didn’t relax his grip. “What the devil is the matter with you?” he yelled, his cool composure finally destroyed. “Are you breeding already?”

  She kicked him again for that. “Why didn’t you ask me whether I wanted to go to London? Why did I have to hear it from your blasted valet instead of you?”

  He let her go abruptly and stepped back, out of range of her foot. “Is that what you’re carrying on about? Not last night?”

  “I hardly call a legitimate grievance ‘carrying on,’” she muttered. “But yes, I’m upset about this, not your...forwardness in my bedchamber.”

  “I meant to tell you about London when you awoke, you know. Word traveled faster than I expected.”

  “Is that supposed to be an apology?”

  “You forget, wife,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t need to consult you. We’ve indulged ourselves since the wedding, and it has been pleasant, but I have duties I’ve neglected for too long. Apology or no, we will be leaving for London by week’s end.”

  “You are so mad for duty that you care for nothing else,” Amelia spat out. “What of your duty to me?”

  He seemed truly puzzled by that. “I haven’t mistreated you, have I? You’ll have the finest of everything in London, once we’ve settled there. Ferguson said yesterday that he has a townhouse he’ll sell us, and you can decorate it however you like.”

  The Duke of Rothwell knew they were going to London before Amelia did? “You should have your precious Ferguson choose the colors. I’m sure he’s more au courant than I am.”

  Malcolm’s lips quirked. “If we’re stealthy, we could steal the furnishings from him.”

  She grinned, then bit her lip. Malcolm’s humor was too appealing, too distracting. She found her anger again and held onto it.

  “You can’t treat me like a piece of baggage, Malcolm. I had a life before you, and I don’t want to lay it aside at your say-so.”

  “And what, pray, was that life?” he asked, crossing his arms. “Your correspondence?”

  She lifted her chin. “Among other things.”

  “I haven’t asked who you write to. But know that I could burn every scrap of paper and open every letter you receive if I have a mind to.”

  “I know,” she replied. Beneath her anger, she felt panic — and somewhere beneath that, unacknowledged tears. It turned her into a trapped animal, frenzied and violent. “At least I know duty is all you care for. When I’ve given you a son, you’ll surely let me seek my own pleasure like any other dutiful wife.”

  She had no desire to sleep with anyone but him — she just wanted to turn his attention away from her writing. But his sudden scowl was gratifying.

  “You’re not writing to other men,” he said. It almost sounded like an effort to convince himself, not a question. “You were innocent when we married. You can’t have tired of me yet.”

  “I tire of this conversation already.”

  He barked a la
ugh. “It’s your conversation, not mine.”

  “Are you really set on going to London? On doing your duty rather than indulging for another few months? I thought we wouldn’t go to town until the start of the Season next spring.”

  He sighed. “It must be done, darling. And if you’re so determined to be rid of me, I’d best take you with me so I can keep an eye on your traitorous body.”

  His tone was a jest, but as he dropped his gaze to her breasts, his longing was real. She flushed. He may have thought her body would betray him — but from the heat she felt as he inspected her bosom, she knew it was dangerously close to betraying her as well.

  She reached up and poked him in the chest. He brought his attention back to her face. “So that’s all you want?” she asked. “Duty and fidelity? Nothing else?”

  He didn’t answer. She held her breath without realizing it as his hand came up to caress her face. His thumb traced across her cheekbone, remarkably gentle, and she leaned into his touch. She thought he would kiss her, would apologize, would relent...

  But he pulled away. “Duty and fidelity,” he repeated. “Anything else for our class is a distraction.”

  A distraction. Of all the villains she’d ever written, none had been as cruel as this. She gasped, sucking in the air her lungs suddenly screamed for. Her rage flared up and flamed out, a bonfire smothered by endless cold.

  “A distraction,” she whispered. The word etched itself in the ice on her heart, like a pattern traced on frost-covered glass, one that would return again and again at every touch of cold.

  “A pleasant distraction,” he amended, looking at her oddly. “A wonderful distraction. A better distraction than I ever thought to find.”

  There was a compliment buried there, but if she reached to grasp it, she only felt the thorns. “I think we understand each other, my lord.”

  He eyed her warily. “Do we?”

  “Yes.” She nodded, trying to be as coldly cruel as he was. “I distract you. And I’ve let you distract me for far too long.”

  He hadn’t reacted yet. She smiled sweetly and aimed for his heart. “Don’t fear, though. We can set up separate households as soon as we return to London. Now that you’ve got the wife you wanted and I’m not ruined, I see no reason at all why I should stay at your side.”