by Sara Ramsey
She stayed still within his grip, as though his touch didn’t affect her at all. It was another little lie, she supposed, but it was better than giving ground. He would just take the gesture, like he took everything else — and keep taking, until she was nothing but a porcelain doll, doing his bidding. “And you may be my husband, but that doesn’t mean we have to live together. If you don’t want me, let me go.”
Malcolm fixed his steely grey eyes on her. “You will stay here until you give me an heir. You will take up your responsibilities as my countess — all of them, starting with this house you’ve neglected since arriving here. But if I catch you publishing anything ever again, I will rid myself of you.”
Like she was vermin. She narrowed her eyes. “You can’t sue for divorce unless you prove I’m an adulteress,” she scoffed. “And you will find that an impossible challenge.”
“Divorce is only one option. I could have you deemed insane and committed to an asylum. Or I could confine you to that house in the western isles — your writing would never reach the mainland if I didn’t allow you letters.”
“You wouldn’t,” she said.
His eyes were as cold as the sea and just as relentless. “You do not want to see how far I will go if you push me.”
She wanted to apologize. She wanted to make him see how she felt — to tell him that she loved him, that they could overcome this. But if he didn’t love her, did it matter? She would always come second to his estate.
And as much as she loved him, she knew she would hate herself if she made her life a footnote to his.
She stiffened her spine, straightened her shoulders, and stubbornly met his gaze. “If you trust nothing else I say, trust this. I would rather be sent to your island than stay here and serve your whims. If you intend to treat me like a prisoner, we might as well make it official.”
Malcolm held her still, scanning her face, looking for the truth in the shadows cast by the candlelight. He flinched at whatever he saw there. She burned under his touch, but she would rather flame out than melt back into him. If he could see what he had, admit what she meant to him...
He couldn’t. She saw the moment when he hardened himself again. “You’ll stay here for now. But I have as little wish to see you as you have to see me. I have business to attend to and no need for your distractions.”
She felt another hot flare of anger at that word. “Good. Leave me. I’ve enough to do without you.”
“You’ll never publish again,” he reminded her. “I’ll burn every scrap of paper in this house if I have to.”
“It will be hard for you to stop me if you’re not here,” she said.
She was baiting him, wanting to snap him out of his frozen judgment. He just smiled thinly. “The servants won’t deliver your letters. I pay their salaries, not you. And if you want to leave the house while I’m gone, you’re welcome to. But will anyone receive you?”
“You think I care about that?” she asked. “Writing was all I cared about. And you. And now you’re taking both away, for something I did before I ever knew you.”
He ignored the statement. He caressed her cheek, just once, before stepping away. “Goodbye, Amelia. I’ll ask Ferguson to check on you. Send word through him if you’re breeding so I know whether my presence is required next month.”
Amelia sucked in a breath. She would have kicked him for that, but he was already out of reach. She heard him stride away, heard him open the door and shut it behind him. She stayed still, as impassive as he had been, until she heard the answering slam of the front door.
She picked up the book he’d tossed on the desk, smoothing the pages with her fingers. She couldn’t mend the creases. And when her tears started to fall, she couldn’t save the ink.
She sank to the floor and buried her face in her skirts. How could she have fallen in love with him? And how would she go on now that everything was gone?
CHAPTER THIRTY
A week later, Amelia sat silently in one of the main drawing rooms of the house she hated, watching the afternoon rain pour down against the windows. It was easy to stare at the rain — she still hadn’t ordered drapes. The room had all the cheer of a tomb. She supposed it was fitting.
She never thought she would be reduced to the languid, fainting air of all those stupid society misses. But since Malcolm had walked out of their house and their marriage, she could barely summon the energy to get out of bed, let alone charge through her days like she usually did. What was there to charge toward? How could she fight a battle in which the enemy never showed his face?
Ferguson, drat the man, sat in the armchair opposite her, reading a copy of her book. He came every day, without fail. She’d asked him to leave her alone, but he took his loyalties to Malcolm seriously. Luckily he hadn’t asked her if she was expecting — she might have killed him for that, no matter how much her cousin loved him.
The duke had tried conversation every other time he’d visited, but he hadn’t bothered today. He had taken a seat, pulled a flask from his pocket since she wouldn’t offer him a drink, and started reading the book he’d brought with him. When she realized he held The Unconquered Heiress, the book that had ruined everything, she knew he was baiting her.
He snorted at something on the page. He looked up, and his blue eyes twinkled as he examined her. Then he looked down at the book and chuckled again.
She felt the first stirring of curiosity over anything since the afternoon Malcolm had left. “What?” she asked.
He held up a finger. “You’ve waited days to say something. At least let me finish the chapter.”
She sighed, but was startled when she realized she was more amused than angry. “You don’t have to guard me.”
He made a show of marking his page before setting aside his book. “This is quite good, you know.”
She was flattered — hugely flattered. It was the first time someone outside the Muses had acknowledged her as a writer, and it still mattered, despite the circumstances. But she didn’t let the compliment distract her. “Really, your grace. You don’t have to be here. I’m not a traitor in need of guarding.”
“I know you won’t run away. But you look morose enough to jump off a cliff if you could gather up the energy to find one.”
There was sympathy in his voice, even after their spotted history. Did she really look so forlorn? Even in the awful months after her father’s death, she’d still found the will to write, and talk to Madeleine, and try to comfort her mother. What had happened to her?
“Suicide was never my idea of a solution.”
He shrugged. “I doubt my brother wanted to end himself either. I wasn’t here to stop him, but I wouldn’t have MacCabe feel that guilt over you. Even if he likely deserves it.”
She hadn’t given Ferguson enough credit. He was probably a better man than she realized.
Then he grinned. “I do love seeing MacCabe brought low by marriage, though. I wish you both very happy.”
Her little flicker of appreciation died. “Little chance of that, is there?” she snapped.
“Well, you aren’t Mad, and he’s certainly not me,” Ferguson mused.
She rolled her eyes. “You are so astute.”
He nodded. Then he stood, picking up her book. “I must be off. Same time tomorrow, though. Perhaps I’ll win a laugh from you yet.”
“Why hasn’t Madeleine visited?” she asked abruptly. “Is the gossip so bad she can’t come?”
In her prison, she’d heard nothing about the ton’s reaction to her writing. The butler brought no papers or letters; no cards were left at the door. Only Ferguson breached the walls — and his eyes turned wary. “She was told you wouldn’t receive her.”
“What?” Amelia demanded. “Who told her that?”
“Your butler. MacCabe’s orders, of course.”
“And did he order you to come every day?”
“He asked me to come once. After seeing your sorry state, I took it upon myself to come back. But don�
��t mistake me for your ally, Amelia,” he said, displaying a sudden flash of the ducal hardness that lurked under his rakish facade. “If you’d seen Kessel accost him at White’s, you wouldn’t forgive yourself lightly either.”
She shifted in her chair, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment. But his voice softened back into its usual drawl. “But as I said, I would hate for you to do yourself violence before MacCabe comes to his senses.”
She had felt dead inside before, thinking her scandal had touched her friends so badly they couldn’t visit. But knowing she’d been left to rot under Malcolm’s orders, with only his friend and watchdog for an occasional companion, made her seethe.
“I am going to do violence to him before I ever hurt myself,” she declared.
Ferguson toasted her with his flask. “Don’t tell Mad I said this, but just this once, I’m relieved to see your spirit.”
She came to her feet. “Did my blasted husband say I can’t leave the house?”
“Why? Do you wish to kill him in front of an audience?”
“No. But if I’m to rot, I can do it somewhere more comfortable than an empty house.”
“He did ask me not to take you back to your mother,” Ferguson said, serious again. The duke may have wanted to see her in better humor, but he would still honor the letter of Malcolm’s requests.
But there was just enough of a devilish gleam in his eyes that Amelia wondered if he could be convinced to ignore the spirit of those demands.
“Not to my mother’s, then,” she said. “I have a better idea, if you’ll consider it.”
She left Ferguson cooling his heels in the drawing room while she stuffed a few dresses and her pin money in a satchel. If Malcolm wouldn’t come home, she would draw him out.
And either they would hash things out properly and forgive each other, or she would force him to let her go.
She loved him. Even now, even after everything he’d said. But if he was still as unreasonable after she explained herself as he was before he left, she would leave him and not look back. She was no longer convinced that her writing was enough to keep her happy. The idea of growing old alone with her books no longer held quite so much appeal now that she had the memory of Malcolm’s caresses.
But she would rather be moderately unhappy alone than thoroughly miserable with her husband. If she had to see that cold, awful look in his eyes every day for the rest of her life, she did not think she could bear it.
Amelia MacCabe would scheme one last time. If she succeeded, she would win him. If she failed...
She refused to consider what would happen if she failed. She walked out of her room, out of their house, and didn’t look back. Either she would return as his wife in all ways — or she would never return again.
* * *
The next morning, at dawn, Malcolm stood at the far end of Gray’s Inn Fields. He picked up a pistol from the case Ferguson held and tested the weight in his hand. Extending his arm in front of him, he squinted down the barrel. He’d never wanted to murder someone — but he had to admit that Kessel tempted him to reconsider.
“Don’t say you’ll actually shoot the man,” Ferguson said, hunched under his greatcoat against the chill. “Half the ton still thinks I’m insane. I’d rather not prove them right before I’ve had my breakfast.”
Malcolm dropped his hand, careful not to let the pistol discharge between them. “I must say I’m tempted to wound him.”
“You aren’t half the shot I am. If you pierce his heart, you will have to flee for the Continent.”
“I’d wager fifty pounds that I’m a better shot than you.”
Ferguson snorted. “Done. But we’ll test it on targets the next time we’re in Scotland, not on Kessel’s sorry hide. His second said he won’t aim for you — if you murder him, you’ll hang for it.”
“Fine,” Malcolm said ungraciously. “I won’t kill him. Taking your money might make up for it.”
He should be spending the morning preparing for Parliament. But in a cruel irony, he had discovered that the task he’d set for himself — getting into politics, saving the Highlands — was possibly the last thing on earth he really wanted to do.
He wanted to be in Amelia’s bed. He wanted to watch the sun filter through her hair. He wanted to let his hands tell her everything he couldn’t say.
But he wasn’t where he should be, or where he wanted to be. He was standing in one of the most notorious fields in England, in dying late autumn grass, ruining his second best pair of boots on ground still sopping wet from last night’s rains, waiting to fight an illegal duel that could cost him everything with a stray shot. He was supposed to be calm, sober, dutiful. He should be more like Amelia’s brother, and nothing like Ferguson.
Of course, Ferguson had agreed to be his second. The Earl of Salford was probably still abed, or, equally likely, holed up in his study reading about rocks. Perhaps there was something to be said for being a bit disreputable.
Malcolm exhaled, watching his breath float away on the chilled air. “Where is the bastard? I want to end this.”
Kessel had called Malcolm out after Malcolm punched him at White’s. To be fair, it wasn’t the punch that caused the duel, although Malcolm could understand the man being put out after his nose was broken for a second time in a year over his dealings with Amelia. It was when Malcolm had called him Lord Grandison — the thinly veiled name Amelia gave him in the book.
Ferguson pulled out his watch. “They still have five minutes. His second, Lord Beale, agreed to bring a doctor along, so perhaps they are later than expected.”
Malcolm put his pistol back in the case. “We’re too old for this, Ferguson.”
“Too old for what? Tardiness?”
“You know what I mean.” Malcolm gestured at the field. “An illegal duel, with our titles?”
Ferguson opened his mouth. Then he clamped it shut.
“What?” Malcolm asked.
His friend shook his head. “After the duel. No sense making your blood boil until you’re safe.”
Malcolm sighed, but he didn’t argue. The sound of a carriage in the distance announced Kessel’s arrival. Ferguson was right — going into a duel angry was a sure way to accidentally kill one’s opponent.
It was all more petty than Malcolm expected. Kessel stepped down from the carriage, accompanied by Lord Beale. A sleepy man riding above the coach with the driver watched the proceedings with an utter lack of interest. If either of the combatants did need the services of the doctor, Malcolm hoped he would wake up before attempting to treat them.
Ferguson and Beale had already settled the particulars of the duel. All that was left for Kessel and Malcolm was to finish it.
“Lord Kessel,” Malcolm said, nodding curtly.
“Lord Carnach,” he replied. “Ready to apologize for your wife’s behavior?”
“No. Will you apologize for speaking badly of her?”
Kessel sneered. “Never.”
Malcolm sighed. “Very well. Rothwell, if you would be so good, give us our paces.”
Ferguson nodded. Kessel chose his weapon from the case. Malcolm picked up his pistol. They strode out the appointed number of steps.
Malcolm breathed deep. The cold air seared his lungs. If everything went according to plan, this would be over in another minute. But his heart still raced. If it didn’t go according to plan, the last memory Amelia would have of him was their fight.
And his last act on earth would be dying for a woman who didn’t know he fought for her.
He steeled himself. No Carnach laird had died at the hands of an Englishman, and he wouldn’t be the first. When he heard Ferguson’s shout, he turned, took aim, and fired.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“I cannot believe you shot my hat,” Ferguson said for the fifth time as they drove back to White’s.
Malcolm sprawled on the seat opposite him. “You wouldn’t let me shoot Kessel. I didn’t want to waste the morning entirely.”
&nbs
p; Kessel had deloped, shooting his gun into the ground rather than aiming at Malcolm. The duel was enough to salvage his pride — he wouldn’t risk killing an earl with a stray shot. Malcolm should have deloped as well, but he gave in to the last-second impulse. Hearing Ferguson shriek like a girl had been worth it — although he would save that tidbit for a day when he needed a favor.
“I suppose I should be grateful,” Ferguson mused. “I’m no longer the maddest Scots laird in London.”
The story would spread. When Ferguson’s hat flew off, Kessel’s eyes had bulged out, looking particularly gruesome over the bruises from his still-healing nose. And the shot awoke the doctor — just before he fainted, no doubt at the thought of losing the Duke of Rothwell on his watch. The man almost fell off the carriage box, but Lord Beale’s driver hauled him upright before he tipped over the side.
“At least Kessel will have a different story to tell at White’s today than how my wife is a reckless hoyden.”
“What were you saying before the duel? Your claim that we were too old for this?”
Malcolm shrugged. “We’re peers of the realm, not schoolboys. We should be working, not dueling.”
Ferguson snorted. “I forget, you never come to London. Look around the next time you attend White’s. If they’re not addicted to gambling, drinking, or wenching, they’re so obsessed with Beau Brummell that they don’t have time for anything more strenuous than tying their cravats.”
“Just because other men neglect their duties does not make it right for me to do so.”
“True.” Ferguson worked his finger through the hole in his hat, then twirled it around his hand. “But why force yourself to be only the one, or only the other?”
Malcolm thought back to the moment before he turned around on the dueling field. He had thought there were two paths in front of him — either give up Amelia and be the laird he should be, or keep her and give up his ambitions. Each path had its own rewards, just as each path required its own sacrifice.
