Scotsmen Prefer Blondes (Muses of Mayfair) Page 16

  She was incoherent. Amelia Staunton was never incoherent. Perhaps as Lady Carnach she would never have the right words again. That thought made the panic bubble up again.

  His hand was gentle as he smoothed a bit of hair away from her face. “It will be all right, darling. I will always make it right for you.”

  She nodded just the tiniest bit against his hand. “I am ready,” she said.

  It was only a partial lie.

  The smile she glimpsed before he kissed her again was joy overlaid with barely concealed need. She forced herself through her fear, let her body take over, gave herself permission to wrap an arm around his neck. She pulled him deeper, welcomed him into her mouth as her other hand stroked his cheek.

  His hands were already lifting her up to fumble with the buttons of her dress. He couldn’t undo them all, though, not in their current position. She swallowed his sigh as he pulled away from her mouth.

  “Should I call my maid?”

  “I doubt my esteemed ancestor called a maid.” His grin was devious. “Turn over.”

  She hesitated.

  “Trust me,” he said.

  Amelia did trust him, at least with this. She turned over, lying flat on her stomach. Her dress tangled around her legs and she pillowed her head on her crossed arms. Being unable to see him and unaware of his intentions should have scared her.

  Instead, it added a new dimension to her need.

  She felt him slide closer, until the muscled flesh of his hip and thigh pressed against her side. Her hair was still up, but he made quick work of that, tugging out her pins until he was able to sift her hair through his fingers.

  “Are you an angel or a devil?” he asked, whispering the question through her golden curls.

  She shivered. He brushed her hair away from her neck, revealing the buttons he’d already undone.

  Then he slipped the next one free. It only revealed her chemise, but he kissed her there anyway. Then the next button — and another kiss.

  Her dress had forty buttons.

  She counted as he moved lower. She never knew how many buttons there were, but as he pressed a kiss into the curve of her back, just above her derriere, she didn’t think she would ever ignore how her dresses fastened again.

  Eventually her dress was fully opened. She felt the fabric gaping to bare her to him. But her stays and chemise still thwarted them. He unlaced her quickly, flicking the stays apart.

  Then he whispered another question against her ear. “Do you care about your chemise?”

  She shook her head. The beginning of that gesture was enough. He impatiently brushed away the curls that had fallen against her neck as she’d trembled under his kisses. Then he ripped open her chemise.

  The sound was barbaric, echoing through the room. Her elation matched it.

  “God, Amelia,” he breathed as he slid his hand down her spine. He kissed the hollow of her back again, right where his hand caressed her whenever they walked together. The curious mix of seduction and possession made her writhe against the covers.

  “Please,” she gasped, clawing into the sheets as he nipped her with his teeth, then sucked against her skin.

  The languorous exploration turned into ravenous hunger. She wanted to touch him, was desperate to kiss him. She turned over without prompting, then sat up and slid her arms out of her dress. Her stays fell around her and she tossed them aside.

  Her ruined chemise still offered some protection. She stopped, hugging an arm around her chest. “Are you not going to undress?” she asked.

  He was half-reclined against her. Instead of moving to disrobe, he hooked a finger under the hem of her sleeve. “You’ve already bade me to undress before you once. It’s time to repay the favor.”

  She was maddeningly aware of all the layers between them — chemise, dress, stockings, and slippers, not to mention everything from his cravat to his buckled shoes. She was eager to see him, to feel whatever he had promised to make her feel.

  Theoretically, they didn’t have to rush. They were married now. They could stay in this bed as long as they liked.

  Amelia didn’t want to think in terms of decades. She wanted him fast, before her logic overruled her. And she knew just how to spur his seduction.

  She rolled away from him, off the bed before he reached for her. When she stood, she let her dress pool at her feet. She kicked off her shoes next, then reached up under her chemise and untied her garters, giving him a generous view of her bosom as she bent down to pull the stockings free.

  She stepped to the side, leaving her clothes huddled on the floor. Malcolm leaned up on his elbow, stretched out on the bed. His eyes were intent on her fingers as she bent to grasp the lower hem of her chemise. She could have stepped out of it, too, but the hoyden hiding within her urged a different tack.

  She lifted her chemise, closing her eyes as she felt the cloth clear her legs, then her belly, then her breasts. His breath turned sharp, and she heard him shift on the bed. As her chemise slid over her face, she grinned.

  Her grin turned into a laugh as his arm suddenly wrapped around her waist.

  He kissed her, stealing away her laughter. She tugged at his cravat. He unbuttoned his jacket, then his waistcoat, pulling away from her only to shed the tight garments and leave them on the growing mound of clothes. His shirt was next, jerked out of his trousers and pulled over his head, leaving his chest as bare as hers.

  Amelia grazed her fingers across his torso, feeling the planes of his muscles and the odd dip over his pelvic bone that was so different from her own soft flesh. He groaned but didn’t stop her as she fumbled with the fastenings of his trousers, suddenly clumsy. He held his hands on his hips, daring her to continue.

  He was nearly as chiseled as any ancient statue, but he wasn’t cold — he was heat, and velvet, with a surprising amount of dark hair leading down his belly toward the opening she worked to unfasten. And when she finally succeeded, when his trousers fell open and the bulge she’d felt but never seen finally sprang free, she realized she’d been misled by all those statues.

  He was enormous, far larger than anything she’d seen erect in marble. He jutted up toward her, the purpose obvious, but she didn’t see how he could possibly fit.

  “This will never work,” she said, stepping back until her knees hit the bed.

  Malcolm laughed as he discarded his shoes, trousers and small clothes. “My pride thanks you. But it will work.”

  He tipped her onto the bed. She scooted back toward the pillows and he grabbed her ankle. “We will fit,” he said again, “but only when you’re ready.”

  “I thought I was ready, but now...”

  He kissed her thigh, then moved lower, kissing her knee before moving toward her foot. “You’re still too composed, darling. I want you to need me so badly that you can’t think about anything else. Then you’ll be ready.”

  It didn’t take long. Her thoughts were already fleeing before his onslaught, her defenses shattering with every advance of his clever tongue. He murmured compliments against her skin. Every word felt like a charm binding her to the bed, tying her to him.

  With him, she believed the words. In his gravelly voice, layered with lust and awe, she heard how desirable she was. When her legs opened for him and he grinned up at her with his dark hair falling into his eyes, her last thought was that here, now, she finally wasn’t alone.

  Some endless time later, he found her mouth again. She quivered under him, had been quivering for what felt like hours, and she moaned as his hand fondled her breast. “What are you thinking of?” he whispered.

  “You,” she said, pulling him back against her lips.

  His hand slipped between her legs and found the slick moisture there. “Now you’re ready,” he said.

  “Are you?” she asked.

  His laugh, short and pained, was answer enough. His fingers stroked, teased, until her breath turned ragged and her back ached from arching so high to meet his touch.

  “Malc
olm — please, Malcolm,” she moaned as he pulled just out of reach.

  He moved over her and positioned himself so that his manroot grazed her sex. He was slow and careful, and she felt his control as he pressed forward an inch, then another. The pain was sharp at first, but it dulled as she stretched around him. She felt deliciously full, just short of discomfort, like he was a feast and she had gorged herself on him.

  He shifted within her. The movement stroked some hidden part of her she’d never known of before. She gasped as he retreated, then gasped again as he plunged into her. He filled her completely, and with every stroke she craved the next one, absolutely desperate for the one that would hurl her over the edge.

  When it finally came, her mouth opened in a silent scream as her body disintegrated. There was nothing left of her but the place where their bodies joined, no feeling but the fire that consumed her, no breath to say his name.

  She shuddered. She felt him stiffen, heard him grunt as his seed spilled into her womb. He collapsed onto her, his breath hot and harsh against her ear.

  When the bits and pieces of her body came back together, she realized she was holding his hand. His fingers pressed her wedding band against her skin, just as his body held her firm against the bed.

  When he rolled off her, she didn’t think — she curled into his arms, stroked a hand across his chest, and fell asleep. Her ring and his muscled chest were the last things she saw.

  And in the haze of her midday dream, she saw castles and coronets instead of cottages and quills.

  So when she awoke later to find Malcolm ready for her again, she obliged — if only so she wouldn’t have to think of what her dream meant until her logic returned to save her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  14 October 1812

  It had been two weeks since her wedding day, and Amelia still felt illogical. She knew what it felt like to live in a dream — the feeling came over her whenever her writing flowed through her fingers like blood onto the page, wrung out of her with every breath.

  But in her old life, the dreams used to fade when she stopped writing and spent time with her family. With Malcolm, she always felt on the verge of some dream world, tumbling headlong into his eyes when he gave her one of his heated looks, abandoning all thought to fall into his arms.

  It was most disconcerting. Amelia Staunton never behaved like this. Apparently as the new Lady Carnach, her behavior had changed as irrevocably as her name.

  Malcolm sat next to her now, whipping a two-seat curricle up the drive toward Ferguson and Madeleine’s estate. At least beside him, she couldn’t look into his eyes. She could pretend that she was still capable of feelings beyond arousal, or contemplating events beyond the next day.

  When she did think of the future, the path that presented itself — hostess, mother, widow, dowager — scared her. She wouldn’t dwell on it today, not when the weather was so perfect. They’d chosen a sunny day for their visit, warmer than usual, with just a hint of clouds in the distance. It was safer to embrace the moment and ignore the rest. As long as she and Malcolm stayed in Scotland, she could pretend that this was a blissful holiday rather than the first part of a life she hadn’t planned for.

  “Ferguson’s manor is ahead,” Malcolm said, loosely gripping the reins.

  She shaded her eyes with her hand. “But it’s so...”

  “Small?” Malcolm suggested. “Not all clans have castles, darling.”

  “Its size is adequate, but it’s so much plainer than I expected,” Amelia said. The house, still half a mile away, had none of the ornate, imposing dominance of Ferguson’s London townhouse.

  “Don’t let Ferguson hear you calling his estate plain,” Malcolm said. “It may be small compared to his English holdings, but he’s utterly besotted with it.”

  “I’m sure I won’t insult the duke’s house.”

  Malcolm glanced at her. “I still don’t understand why you despise each other so thoroughly.”

  “I don’t despise him,” she said.

  “Really?”

  Ferguson had been perfectly civil at their wedding. And Amelia had to admit he and Madeleine were happy together.

  She said as much to Malcolm. “Ferguson is my cousin by marriage and your closest friend. I will gladly steal his sheep, but I won’t insult him in his own house.”

  Even over the breeze, his laugh rumbled in her ear. “Say the word, darling, and we will toss it all aside to become reivers. We could be the most feared partners in the Highlands within the year.”

  She laughed with him. But his words squeezed her heart. “Would you really stay here? Abandon London?”

  She glanced at him. His profile hardened into a frown. “If I could, I would. But...”

  He trailed off. If he finished the thought, it was stolen by the wind.

  * * *

  Madeleine served them luncheon as soon as they arrived. She’d been a duchess for five months, but it still felt odd to watch her preside over a gathering rather than hovering around the sides of it. An outdated, drafty dining room in the Highlands was as far removed from the theatres of Covent Garden as anywhere Amelia had seen her — and yet, somehow, Madeleine was in her element.

  “Do you not care for the dessert, Mellie?” Madeleine asked.

  It was some sort of pudding, delicious enough, but Amelia had spent more time staring at it than sampling it. “Just woolgathering, I’m afraid. Everything is lovely.”

  Malcolm dug his spoon into her dish, drawing a giggle from Ferguson’s sister Maria. “You mustn’t waste it,” he said. “Ferguson is known for his frugality.”

  The room seemed to verify his claim, with the ancient, faded drapes and the threadbare carpet. But Ferguson’s perfectly tailored jacket and gleaming Hessians told a different story. “If I seem frugal in the Highlands, it’s only so I have less for my neighbors to purloin,” he drawled.

  Malcolm raised his glass to Madeleine. “If the pickings are better in London, Duchess, I do hope you will invite us to Rothwell House as soon as we arrive.”

  Madeleine laughed. “Be warned that we’ve enough footmen at Rothwell House to raise a battalion. And our butler can count spoons better than Ferguson’s shepherds can count sheep.”

  Even though Amelia could barely remember the food she’d just eaten, the luncheon was one of the loveliest entertainments she’d had in ages. Madeleine had settled into her role, directing the servants discreetly, keeping the conversation flowing. It wasn’t a hard task, with the familiar company assembled — only the two couples, with Ellie, Maria, and Kate scattered around them. But Amelia saw the hostess Madeleine might become. She had always held the seed of it, and her love for Ferguson gave it space to bloom.

  Malcolm set aside his spoon as Ferguson rose. “Ladies, shall we leave you to your gossip?” he asked.

  “I’m sure we will speak of more edifying topics than gossip,” Madeleine said.

  “Then you’re better souls than I — I intend to demand every bit of gossip from MacCabe,” Ferguson said.

  Madeleine smiled at her husband. Amelia saw something flit across her face — just an instant of it, before it subsided beneath her grin. Persephone might have looked at Hades that way, over her dish of pomegranate seeds — like she was ruined for all other men and wouldn’t choose any other fate.

  She wondered what her own face said when she looked at Malcolm. His eyes held hers for a moment, a dark lover ready to consume. His grin said he wanted to taste all of her. And his voice, when he told her not to miss him, held a contradictory command. He wanted her to think of him while she was visiting her friends, to think of nothing but returning to him.

  Amelia shook her head as he followed Ferguson and the promise of a drink. She usually only thought of characters like this. Somewhere, somehow, Malcolm had become part of her story — the story of her life, which she hadn’t let herself contemplate until now. Three weeks ago, she would have called him the villain. He would cast himself as the hero.

  Eithe
r way, she had to clear her head. She needed reason and pragmatism, not emotions and fantasy.

  “The pudding may not have been to her liking, but I think her marriage is,” Ellie commented to Madeleine.

  “Strange, isn’t it?” Madeleine responded. “I thought she’d be spitting nails at the man, and instead she looks ready to swoon at his feet.”

  “I’m still capable of hearing you,” Amelia snapped. She didn’t enjoy being talked about, but at least their jesting brought some of her old spirit back. “And I won’t swoon at anyone’s feet.”

  “Careful what you vow, Lady Carnach. You also said you’d never marry, and yet here you are.”

  Madeleine’s French accent was most obvious when she was amused, and Amelia’s marriage had amused her enough that one might guess she was a just-arrived émigré. “You made that vow yourself, Duchess.”

  Ellie stood, tossing her napkin aside. “Can we adjourn to the drawing room? I would much rather hash over Amelia’s marriage with a cup of tea and a comfortable chair.”

  “The comfortable chair may be too much to expect,” Madeleine warned Amelia, leading all the ladies through the dining room doors to the nearby drawing room. “I suspect Ferguson spent every spare coin he could find on a set of chairs for his study several years ago, but until he inherited the duchy, there wasn’t enough money for the renovations this house needs.”

  She was right about the chairs. No dust sprung from them, but the seats sagged so badly that perhaps the dust was trapped within the fathomless pits where the cushions had once been firm. Amelia sat gingerly on an ancient settee that might have been in service when James I had united the English and Scottish crowns. “Do you intend to remain in Scotland very long?” she asked.

  Madeleine adjusted her skirts as she sat in an armchair, ignoring the ominous creak of outraged wood. “Perhaps another week. Ellie and I are making a list of everything that must be replaced, refurbished, repainted, restored — we’ve spent a fortune just on parchment.”

  “I do enjoy spending my brother’s money,” Ellie said as she sat next to Amelia on the settee.