Scotsmen Prefer Blondes (Muses of Mayfair)

by Sara Ramsey

On the path he had chosen, there were defined waymarkers: marry someone, take up his seat in the Lords, make allies, make heirs, craft speeches, gather power, use power, win, die. It was a path — but it didn’t leave any room for joy.

  But what if life wasn’t a path? What if it was an ocean, with endless tides and currents — and endless opportunities to change course?

  “Drop me off at my house instead of White’s, will you?” he asked abruptly. He’d stayed at the club since leaving his house, although he’d kept to his room most nights rather than endure the sidelong glances and whispered gossip about Amelia’s writing.

  “Of course.” Ferguson rapped on the roof and shouted up the new direction, then leaned back into the corner, still toying with his hat.

  In the silence, with the clarity that had gradually replaced his rage over the past few days, Malcolm forced himself to acknowledge what his heart had known for weeks.

  He was in love with Amelia. He loved the way she stood up to him when he was at his most insufferable. He loved that she had opinions of her own. He loved that she thrived in Scotland where other ladies would have faltered.

  He loved her secret desire for adventure. He loved how often she blushed, and especially loved how she could say and do the most outrageous things despite her own inherent modesty. He even loved her writing, not that he had confessed it to her.

  The same woman he had plotted to drive away had captured his heart. And until he’d been so awful to her, she had looked more than willing to give him hers in return.

  He groaned. He wanted to go home and tell her all of this, but he did not know what reception she would give him. She would either rage at him and throw things — or coolly, efficiently cut him from her life just as he had threatened to do with her. To keep her from leaving, he would need to apologize. Even worse, he would have to confess his feelings and hope he was right about her, that her affection for him was strong enough to withstand the fight they’d just had.

  Malcolm never thought he would be in this position, but at that moment, he had to admit he was a coward.

  “Maybe I should go to the club first,” Malcolm said. “Freshen up, have breakfast.”

  “Perhaps you should,” Ferguson said agreeably, even though the carriage was rolling to a stop in front of Malcolm’s door. “Without Amelia in residence, your cook has probably given himself a holiday.”

  Malcolm leaned forward, all his clarity swept away again by Ferguson’s nonchalant pronouncement. “Where in the bloody hell is she? I thought you visited her yesterday.”

  Ferguson put his hat back on his head, the entry hole prominently displayed right in the center. “She was there yesterday. She hadn’t said anything to me, other than to tell me to leave, every day I visited before that. But by yesterday, she was done waiting for you.”

  “When did you intend to tell me?” Malcolm asked, keeping his voice calm even as his eyes narrowed.

  “When I dropped you at your door — and here we are. I thought about telling you before the duel, but I’m glad I didn’t. You might have shot me in the face instead.”

  “I told you not to take her back to her mother.”

  “I didn’t. She’s with my sister. Anytime you want to thank me for watching over your wife when you couldn’t be bothered with her, I’ll accept your appreciation.”

  Ferguson’s voice suddenly turned cold. Malcolm glimpsed the steel he usually hid under his rakish, devil-may-care attitude. “You know I appreciate it,” Malcolm said.

  He wanted to beat down the path to Ellie’s townhouse, pound on the door, and demand to see Amelia. But his temper had already done enough damage. It wouldn’t help him now, no matter how easy or gratifying it felt in the moment to give in to it. A week of remorse was enough to keep it in check as he pondered Ferguson’s news.

  Ferguson eyed his friend’s unusual forbearance with surprise. “Are you feeling well, MacCabe? I’m prepared to defend myself if you want to go to Gentleman Jackson’s and take out your aggression with some boxing.”

  “Boxing won’t help,” Malcolm said, pretending to relax against the seat, ignoring the panic clawing at his throat. “If Amelia’s gone, it may be for the best. She was none too happy with me when we last saw each other.”

  “She seemed happy enough before you came to London.”

  Malcolm couldn’t listen to Ferguson any longer. He needed to walk, to think, to decide his own path — or decide whether to abandon the paths entirely and fight the current to get back into her arms. He grabbed his hat and flung open the door. “I’ll find my own way from here.”

  Ferguson nodded. “I wish you luck, MacCabe. Wherever it is you decide to go.”

  Malcolm stepped down onto the pavement in front of his house. Ferguson’s carriage rumbled away, melting into the noise of London coming awake. His windows, uncovered and unlit, held the ghosts of what the house could be — if anyone lived there, or loved it enough to make it a home. But it wasn’t a home, and it wasn’t what he needed right now.

  Instead, he started to walk.

  * * *

  Amelia’s day did not proceed precisely according to plan. But then, Ellie was not a woman who could be managed.

  The marchioness was ever ready to help someone in need, even if her definition of “help” was sometimes at odds with that of her beneficiaries. When Ferguson had deposited Amelia at her doorstep the day before, Ellie had sprung into action. Twenty-four hours later, Amelia dazedly suspected that if Ellie had helmed the command in the Peninsula, Britain would have destroyed the French armies years ago.

  “I really don’t think a dinner party is a good idea,” Amelia protested again as Ellie nearly dragged her to the drawing room.

  “Nonsense,” Ellie said briskly. “If you ask me, you should have gone out the night Kessel told everyone about your writing. You do have sympathizers, but it would have been easier to tip them in your favor if you’d stood up instead of hiding like you knew you’d done something wrong.”

  Ellie probably had a point. Still, Amelia tried to stand her ground. “I only want to talk to Malcolm. I moved to your house to shake him into action, not host half of London.”

  “It isn’t half of London. I haven’t invited more than thirty to dinner. Compared to the party I gave last week, this is the smallest, most intimate affair imaginable.”

  Amelia sighed. Ellie was uncompromising when she took the bit between her teeth. But Amelia no longer wanted to scheme. She wanted a quiet moment with Malcolm and a chance to tell him what was in her heart.

  But she couldn’t talk to him when the note she’d sent to his club earlier in the day went unanswered. And Ellie said she hadn’t invited him to dinner. Would he ever give her the chance to speak? Or was he really as done with her as he had seemed the day he walked out of their house?

  Sir Percival Pickett was the first to arrive. “Fair Lady Carnach!” he cried, ever dramatic as he bowed over Amelia’s hand. “If you had only told me you were an authoress, I would have redoubled my efforts to conquer your golden citadel!”

  Amelia choked back a laugh as she heard Ellie snicker beside him. “I do hope you aren’t too scandalized by my efforts, Sir Percival.”

  “Scandalized? I am enchanted! I knew there was a spark of the divine in you. I must write another poem for you now that you are no longer the Unconquered.”

  “I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” she said. In her second London Season, Sir Percival had written a horrid poem, “On the Unconquer’d’s Cornflower Orbs,” that had given her her nickname and caused Alex and Sebastian to rib her mercilessly for months. She didn’t need another of his dubious poetic efforts.

  Sir Percival could not be quelled. “You dubbed me Sir Galahad in your book. I am honored. Nay, I am humbled. Nay, I am rendered speechless. I can only hope to repay the favor. I shall consider a name immediately.”

  He wandered off in search of brandy to fuel his art. Ellie snickered again. “Sir Percival does not seem inclined to call your husb
and out for your book, does he?”

  Amelia scowled. One of Ellie’s callers earlier in the day had delighted in telling them all about Malcolm’s duel with Kessel. “Of all the stupid things men do, that must be by far the worst,” Amelia said.

  A footman ushered Ferguson and Madeleine into the drawing room. “I hope you aren’t casting aspersions on all men just because you’re plagued with poor Percy,” Ferguson drawled as he kissed her hand.

  “Sir Percy is harmless. It’s duelists I cannot abide by,” Amelia said.

  Madeleine kissed her cheek. “No need to lecture Ferguson on the matter. If I had known why he left the house before dawn today, I would have shot him myself. But I agree with him — it is nice to know that another Scottish peer is more scandalous than he is.”

  “You have my felicitations,” Amelia said drily. “And how did my dear husband acquit himself?”

  “Tolerably, although he owes me a hat,” Ferguson said. “Your honor is defended for another day, my lady.”

  His younger sisters, Kate and Maria, greeted her next. “How could you not tell us you wrote The Unconquered Heiress?” Kate squealed.

  “It is grossly unfair of all of you,” Maria complained. “First Madeleine, now you!”

  Ellie pinned her with a glare. “If you are so indiscreet, it’s little wonder the grown-ups don’t tell you their secrets, is it?”

  Maria flushed. The twins knew of Madeleine’s acting, but no one else in the ton did — and Amelia didn’t think any of them wanted to risk that scandal being unearthed. “I am sorry, Ellie,” Maria said. “It won’t happen again.”

  Kate and Maria linked arms and walked to the far side of the room, escaping the muttering Sir Percival, who was entranced by a painting of a mostly nude woman near the fireplace. Ellie’s drawing room was perfectly arranged for both large parties and surreptitious encounters. Her reputation for scandalous gatherings was borne out by the lavish oil paintings, the little alcoves lined with velvet drapes to keep sound from carrying, and the lush undercurrent of perfume from the hothouse flowers rioting in enormous urns throughout the room. It had the feel of an expensive boudoir, not a prim, prudish widow’s hermitage.

  Amelia kept a smile pasted on her face as more guests streamed in. It really was a select gathering of the cream of the aristocracy. Ellie’s influence, at least in some circles, was enough that she could fill her table with only a day’s notice.

  But then, in November, the company was thin and there weren’t as many entertainments as there would be at the height of the spring Season. Between Amelia’s writing, Malcolm’s dueling, and their mutual feuding, she was the on dit of the week. No one invited to such an event as this dinner would decline the invitation, unless they meant to blackball her.

  Ellie’s Aunt Sophronia, the Dowager Duchess of Harwich, strode imperiously into the room. “Is the Duchess of Bodlington supposed to be me?” she demanded, ignoring the pleasantries.

  Amelia blinked. “Yes, your grace.”

  “Good. The Duchess of Devonshire tried to claim her, but I said the author had more sense than to honor such a scandalous woman.”

  The duchess was a force in the ton and always spoke her opinion bluntly. The fictional Duchess of Bodlington was one of the more comical aspects of Amelia’s satire. Amelia tried to read the woman’s face, but saw the same inscrutable, vaguely displeased look in Sophronia’s eyes that she always saw. “I am sorry if the book caused you offense, your grace.”

  Sophronia laughed. “Nonsense. It was the best flattery I’ve had in an age. You may not receive vouchers to Almack’s after this, but you’ll be invited to every party I have influence over.”

  She turned away. Amelia exhaled, thinking she was safe.

  But then Sophronia turned back. “I am offended about the cane. Must you have given me a cane like I am yet another gouty old woman?”

  “If anyone could make a cane seem appealing, I’m sure it’s you,” Amelia offered.

  Sophronia nodded. “That is true. You are forgiven, Lady Carnach.”

  The duchess proceeded into the room. Ellie smiled smugly. “I told you this party was a good idea.”

  Amelia sighed. “I vow, if I ever write another satire, you will not be spared.”

  Amelia’s brothers turned up next. She hadn’t talked to either of them since her Malcolm-imposed isolation, but their greetings were warm even though the look in Alex’s eyes promised an imminent rehashing of everything that had happened. Sebastian, though, had just arrived from his plantation in Bermuda two weeks earlier, and cared more for regaling the lovely Maria and Kate with stories of his exploits than he did for Amelia’s scandal.

  Augusta came with them, accompanied by Lord Tarrier, her usual companion at these sorts of events. She was slightly cooler than her sons when she embraced Amelia. “I was surprised you wouldn’t let me call on you this past week,” she said.

  “Malcolm takes the blame for that. I didn’t know it, but he told the butler I wasn’t receiving.”

  If Augusta had been annoyed with Amelia, all her anger suddenly switched sides. “That man is a beast. I do hope you have a plan to teach him a lesson.”

  “Why do you all think I have a plan?” Amelia asked.

  “You always do,” Augusta said. “Even if you don’t share it, as you neglected to share your writing these past years.”

  Amelia winced, even though there was no anger in her mother’s voice. “I won’t scheme again. And I’m sorry...”

  Augusta cut her off. “I only wish you’d told me. I feel like a first rate fool for having discussed The Unconquered Heiress with you without realizing you’d written it. You must have laughed when I was blathering on about who I thought each character was.”

  “It was hard to keep from telling you then,” Amelia admitted.

  “Well, what’s done is done.” Then Augusta frowned. “Though I must say, you have more of a talent for attracting scandal than I ever expected. I hope your friend Prudence isn’t similarly inclined.”

  “Why do you say that?” Amelia asked, stepping back with her mother from the open doors so that Ellie could greet the next arrivals.

  “I can’t abide by what Lady Harcastle did. No matter how angry she was about your marriage, you would think her friendship with me would have held her tongue. But I’m fond of Prudence, and the daughter shouldn’t hang for her mother’s mistakes. And I may be lonely without you and Madeleine. I’ve asked her to move in with me and be my companion, if she would like.”

  Amelia’s mouth twitched. “You have less need of a companion than any woman I know.”

  “That obvious, am I?”

  “It’s a lovely gesture,” Amelia said. “Really. And it would be wonderful to know that Prudence has somewhere to stay in London, especially someplace without her mother. But you don’t need a companion.”

  “True. But with you and Madeleine both moving on, perhaps I would like another young lady in the house. And you’re not the only woman in the Staunton family who can scheme.”

  Her gaze flickered to Alex. Amelia laughed. “I wish you luck with that. Alex won’t look up from his books long enough to see Prudence.”

  Her mother smiled mysteriously. “We shall see, dear.”

  Lord Tarrier returned then with a glass of champagne for Augusta, and they went off together to examine the paintings.

  Within another fifteen minutes, the full company was assembled. Ellie was conversing in low tones with Ashby, her butler, about how to move everyone to the dining room when loud voices in the entry interrupted them.

  “Who could that be?” Ellie said.

  She didn’t sound particularly concerned. Ashby bowed. “I will attend to the matter, my lady.”

  The matter came to them instead. They heard booted feet moving quickly down the hallway toward them. Amelia took a step back from the door. Ashby moved into the gap, ready to defend his mistress.

  “Step back, Ashby,” Ellie murmured.

  The butler stayed
where he was. Ellie sighed. “At least have a care for your face — you can’t be my butler if he breaks your nose.”

  Ashby did step back then, just as Malcolm turned the corner. He stood framed in the open doorway, alone, and yet somehow as dangerous as if he had an entire army behind him.

  Behind her, Amelia heard women gasp. She couldn’t look away from him, though. He wasn’t dressed for dinner — in fact, if she had to guess, he was still wearing his clothes from the morning’s duel. His buff breeches were more suited to a morning ride than a social call, and his boots were covered in dried mud that flaked off onto Ellie’s pristine carpets.

  He looked like William the Conqueror, come to claim the woman who had tried to spurn him. At least William and Queen Matilda had ended as a love match, even if the legends said he’d whipped her for refusing him.

  Amelia drew a breath and told herself to focus on them — on what she saw on Malcolm’s face, not the stories she could make up about them. His face was more compelling than any fiction — fierce, rugged, a little wild, with sleepless, bloodshot eyes and dark stubble on his chin. His eyes were locked on her, had been since the moment he stepped into the doorway, like he knew unerringly where she was and could always find her, no matter the obstacles.

  Her heart leapt. Everything else in the drawing room fell away. Even the air disappeared — she couldn’t breathe anymore, not with him looking like he wanted to devour her.

  “Amelia,” he growled. “Let’s go home.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Home. That word meant something with him, something more than it had ever meant to her before. She used to think she could be happy anywhere, as long as she had her writing. But with him, she wanted roots. She wanted a place that was theirs. Above all, she wanted him.

  She almost ran to him. The instinct was there — to go home with him, drag him up to her chamber, and let their lovemaking stand in for all the apologies they owed each other.

  But she had to know whether there was more behind his eyes than lust.

  She sucked in a breath. Then she gestured to the butler. “Ashby, escort Lord Carnach to Lady Folkestone’s salon? We can talk after dinner, if you’re inclined to wait.”