Scotsmen Prefer Blondes (Muses of Mayfair) Read online

  But when he tried to imagine that woman, he couldn’t see her. All he saw was Amelia’s smile.

  He folded the paper, sealed it with wax, and took it down to the great hall to toss on a tray for Graves to dispatch in the morning. Then he looked up at the ancient swords hanging above the dais, protected by generations of Carnach earls. They were softened by the tapestries that added color to the stones, embroidered by generations of Carnach countesses.

  Every one of his ancestors had done their duty to the estate. He needed to follow in their footsteps, not be led astray by passion. If Amelia could take up his duties with him, he would offer for her. If she couldn’t...

  If she couldn’t, he wouldn’t take her, regardless of what his intuition said.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The next morning, Amelia was still in her dressing gown hours after the sun rose. She hadn’t slept well after returning to her room. Even though she’d caught herself in time and refused Malcolm’s kiss, it should never have come that close.

  She knew better than to kiss anyone. She sometimes desired the adventures her heroines had — but in real life, it took only an instant to be ruined. She’d come close to being forced into marriage by the awful Lord Kessel a year earlier, when he had cornered her at a ball and tried to kiss her. Luckily, Alex had been watching, and he’d found her before the damage was done. After Alex broke the baron’s nose, adding injury to the insult Amelia had caused by slapping him, Kessel had given up his pursuit of her.

  But if Alex had to rescue her again, he might start to think she was better off married. She should have left the library as soon as Malcolm appeared. She certainly shouldn’t have enjoyed their conversation as much as she did — was laughter and a bit of moonlight really enough to make her lose her common sense?

  She’d remembered before anything disastrous happened. But even though she didn’t want him — didn’t want to want him — she still didn’t want to face Prudence. Neither he nor Prudence seemed interested in each other, but Prudence wouldn’t appreciate Amelia’s meddling.

  And if Prudence knew how close Malcolm had come to kissing Amelia in the library — what would that do to Prudence’s only chance to escape her mother?

  Amelia picked up her quill. She was curled in bed with her writing desk, even though she’d done more daydreaming than writing since unpacking it that morning. All she could do now was stay away from Malcolm, and hope Lady Harcastle gave up on the idea of Prudence’s marriage so they could all return to England.

  Ink bloomed on her fingers from her careless grip on the pen. She cursed softly to herself. She needed to work, not stare off into space and let the ink run down her hands. She placed the quill’s nib on the paper and started to write.

  Veronique walked slowly down the stone hallway toward the doom that awaited her. Her torch flickered in the draft, as though a great beast with cold, menacing breath slumbered at the end of the passage, threatening to extinguish her light with every exhale. Would her captor demand her embrace tonight?

  Amelia groaned and scratched through the lines with a heavy, decisive hand. Her writing had been ruined by seeing Malcolm in the library the night before. If she stayed in Scotland, she would write a novel so lurid that even her greedy publisher might not risk the scandal of publishing it.

  Someone tapped on the door. Prudence stuck her head into the room before Amelia said anything. “Aren’t you starved, Mellie? I missed you at breakfast.”

  Amelia waved her in. She didn’t want to look Prudence in the eye, but it was better than banging her head against her writing desk. “A maid brought me a roll and some chocolate an hour ago — or was it two?”

  Prudence closed the door and sat on the edge of the bed. “I would tell you to take better care of your health, but I barely ate either. And you should see our mothers — they had enough ratafia last night to stock all of Vauxhall for a fortnight.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Amelia said, putting aside her writing desk and wiping the ink from her fingers with a cloth.

  “Perfectly serious. Your mother must have switched to wine at some point — her lips are still purple. And my mother was so quiet from her headache that she didn’t say a single word about my failure to land an earl.”

  Prudence was more cheerful than she was the night before. Amelia shifted in bed, pulling her coverlet up around her like a piece of armor. “I am glad you’ve decided against an alliance with that man. He’s not the type I would see you with.”

  “Hmm,” Prudence said.

  Amelia eyed her suspiciously. “You haven’t changed your mind?”

  Prudence pleated the edge of the coverlet with her fingers. “Not precisely. But perhaps you are right. If I saw him alone, without my mother, would we suit?”

  “No,” Amelia said, more sharply than she intended.

  “How can you know that? It was your idea, not mine.”

  She sounded bewildered — which was fair, since it was Amelia’s idea she had grasped on to. Amelia sucked in a breath. If Prudence still wanted the marriage, she would support her — but only if Prudence was sure.

  “Don’t you want someone...safer than Carnach? Someone who will adore you, not just marry you to tick a requirement off his list? You should find a man who is interested in history, who loves books and quiet evenings at home, not public policy and Parliament.”

  “You make me sound so dull,” Prudence protested.

  Amelia laughed. “I want the same, you know. Without the husband lording his authority over me, perhaps — but quiet evenings at home would be lovely.”

  “Maybe I don’t want the same,” Prudence said slowly, smoothing the coverlet out before pleating it again. “I thought I wanted a scholar, but perhaps I should find a man who won’t let me sink into all those ancient languages and dead cities.”

  “You can have that without the man.”

  Prudence shrugged. “You’ve had your chances at passion and refused them. I haven’t. And I wonder if I’ve not done enough to find it these past few years.”

  “Passion isn’t as necessary as freedom,” Amelia said. “And passion with the wrong man...it may feel wonderful, but it ruins everything in the end.”

  She was thinking of Malcolm — Carnach, as she needed to remember to call him — but Prudence smiled sympathetically. “If you had found the right man to offer for you, rather than a string of wrong ones, might you feel differently? I know Lord Kessel’s pursuit of you was awful, but there must be someone worth having. If not, why are there so many poems and plays about love?”

  Amelia didn’t want to revisit her old suitors — particularly not Kessel. She stood and jerked the bellpull. The library felt medieval, but the castle had been modernized. She could pretend she was still in London, not in a castle with the one man who had almost broken through her defenses. “I should dress and show myself downstairs, don’t you think?”

  “I know you’re changing the subject,” Prudence said with a wry smile. “But if you plan to dress, would you please put on something suitable for a picnic? It’s why I came to your room.”

  Amelia walked over to the window, afraid that her face would give her away if she asked the question while looking at her friend. “Who is picnicking with us?”

  “Lord Carnach and your brother. The mothers claimed they wanted us to enjoy ourselves, but I think it’s the ratafia headaches keeping them at home.”

  Amelia looked out over the craggy hills toward the valley where a little village nestled beside a lake. It really was beautiful terrain — so wild compared to her family’s estate in Lancashire, and yet so gorgeous in its untamed state. “Are we safe without a true chaperone?”

  Prudence snorted. “Your brother will guard your virtue, and you can guard mine. Carnach’s virtue is in his own hands.”

  Amelia flinched. “He may not have much virtue to concern himself with.”

  “Why are you set against him?” Prudence asked, coming to stand beside her at the window. “He isn’t th
at bad. He was most civil to me this morning, and readily agreed to a picnic.”

  She needed to tell her everything. How could she let Prudence marry a man who was so easy with his affections?

  Prudence would know that Amelia wasn’t trying to steal Carnach away from her — Amelia had vowed off marriage years earlier, and her resolve was as strong as ever. But what was fairer to Prudence? If she told Prue what had happened, perhaps there wouldn’t be a wedding. They could go back to England, and Prue could find someone better suited for her.

  But Prudence thought she was out of options. Even if Amelia told her that Malcolm had almost kissed her in the library, Prue might put duty over fidelity and marry him anyway.

  Would their friendship survive if Prudence always wondered whether her husband would lust after Amelia again? Surely Malcolm would settle into marriage, perhaps even fall in love with Prue the way she deserved — but if he didn’t, would telling Prudence ruin everything? Was it better to stay silent, and just stay away from Malcolm?

  If Amelia thought about it any more, she’d be a candidate for Bedlam. So she turned to Prudence with a bright smile. “You’re right. Carnach is civil. But please promise me you will seek more than civility.”

  “Would civility and a title be enough? Civility and a comfortable living? Civility and a good family?” Prudence’s voice turned sharp. “For one who advocates so strongly against a love match, you don’t seem willing to accept that there are other reasons for marriage.”

  “Fine,” Amelia snapped. “Marry the man. Even though you deserve better. Even though you would hate to be a political hostess. Ignore all that and marry him so he can keep you in gloves and books and lemon cakes.”

  Prudence glared at her, but her expression smoothed before Amelia could apologize. “You always were a stubborn one, Mellie. And I know you only want me to be happy. But someday...”

  She trailed off. Amelia was too curious to let her stop. “What?”

  “Someday I hope someone changes your mind. You aren’t always right, you know.”

  “I know that,” Amelia said.

  Prudence laughed. “That sour look on your face says otherwise. But let’s not argue. It’s too beautiful outside to fight, and I don’t want anything to mar our picnic. If Carnach and I still don’t suit after spending time away from my mother, I won’t marry him. Is that enough of a promise?”

  The maid entered then, so Amelia didn’t have to answer. But Prudence left her with a look that said she noticed the lack of affirmation.

  Amelia sighed. Prudence was so forgiving. Too forgiving. If she knew what Malcolm had done...would she be so forgiving then?

  CHAPTER SIX

  Malcolm should talk to Miss Etchingham. She had suggested their picnic, after all. It was the first display of initiative she’d shown with him.

  Salford rode at her side instead, going on about the differences between Scottish and English fortifications. The woman didn’t seem to care for Malcolm’s conversational gambits, but her passion for architecture was apparent enough. She was arguing with Salford about something related to the Romans. They were so deep in conversation that it never occurred to them to ask Malcolm when the fort had been built.

  Not that he minded. He had invited Miss Etchingham to Scotland, but it was her companion who attracted his interest. He reined in his horse, waiting for Amelia, who had fallen slightly behind their party. He shouldn’t engage her in conversation — but tempting himself with the woman he shouldn’t marry was surely better than listening to Salford’s dissertation.

  “Does your brother always talk about rocks like they’re his firstborn children?” he asked when Amelia caught up to him.

  She rolled her eyes. “Prudence is just as awful. She can’t indulge like this in most circumstances. Her mother would lock her up forever if she knew Prudence was such a bluestocking.”

  “Then you aren’t as enthralled by the clan’s ruins as they are?”

  There were few ruins on Malcolm’s lands, but the fort rising above them was a picturesque site. With its missing windows and jutting crenellations, it was a broken crown above the rugged pastures where his clan scratched out their survival. Malcolm never thought of the architecture. He was always more consumed by who had lived there, and what they had lost.

  Amelia’s voice turned dreamy. “I am enthralled, but not by stones. Think what it must have been like to command such a place, or to conquer it.”

  “It was never conquered,” Malcolm said. “But the Highlands were disarmed after Culloden and our defenses are falling back into the earth.”

  She gestured behind them, toward his sturdy castle on the other side of the valley. “Not everything here is crumbling.”

  “Perhaps the castle will eventually. But it won’t while I am laird.”

  “So you won’t lead an uprising and lose your castle?” she teased.

  He snorted. “No. England’s path is ours now. And I’ll go there to save this place, even if London makes my skin crawl.”

  “Why would you want to leave such a place for London?” Amelia asked.

  He paused to watch her navigate around a low-hanging branch. She would never win a race to Newmarket, but she was competent enough that he could relax.

  “I don’t want to leave,” he said. “But the Highlanders aren’t faring well. Most of the landlords care more for profits than people, and every year they evict more tenants to make room for sheep. And Parliament aids them at every turn. If my clan is to live to see another century in Scotland instead of America, they need me in London to advocate for them — for all of Scotland, if I can.”

  “You won’t find many allies, my lord.”

  He sighed. He didn’t want to think of alliances and political strategies. He would rather spend his days riding about his estate, meeting with tenants, smelling heather and gorse rather than coal fires and horseshit.

  But his responsibilities didn’t allow him the freedom to live as he wanted. “Perhaps no one in London cares about the Highlands. I cannot give in without a fight, though.”

  “Say what you will about Miss Etchingham’s historical leanings,” Amelia said, nodding toward the pair in front of them. “If it’s a political wife you’re after, she could write you entire treatises on what is happening here, if you gave her time to learn.”

  Prudence and Salford were deep in conversation, no doubt about some long-passed era. Whatever lack of interest held her tongue around him did not extend to Amelia’s brother. Malcolm moved his horse closer to Amelia’s, lowering his voice. “Miss Etchingham is accomplished, I’m sure. But I want a wife who can talk, and laugh, and feel something other than academic detachment.”

  A fly buzzed against his ear. He lifted his hand to brush it away. Amelia flinched away instead, as though she feared his touch.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Is something amiss, Lady Amelia?”

  She blushed, but she didn’t apologize. “No. You should discuss your requirements with Miss Etchingham. Given enough time, you’ll suit each other well enough.”

  “What if it’s not Miss Etchingham I want?”

  Amelia’s hand tightened on her reins. Her mare mouthed the bit uncomfortably. “Then I wish you very happy with the next woman on your list.”

  Her voice was as cold as the great hall in winter. He wanted to be the fire that brought her back to life.

  “There’s only one woman on the list at present.”

  She reined in her horse, so quickly that he was ten yards beyond her by the time he came to a stop. He looked over his shoulder, turning slightly to keep her in sight. Her face was ashen, with all the pallor of marble under her crown of golden hair.

  But her blue eyes were fierce as she nudged her horse up to meet him. “You brought Miss Etchingham here to marry, and marry her you shall,” she said, in a dark, urgent voice. “Whatever you may think of either of us, I assure you that she is the one you want.”

  He wanted to touch her, to prove her wrong. But he couldn�
��t do it here. “We both know what could have happened last night. Why would I give that up to marry a woman who barely speaks to me?”

  She closed her eyes. Without the sharpness of her gaze, she suddenly looked vulnerable. “If you won’t marry Prudence, find another. There are dozens of women in London who are better for you. I cannot entertain your suit.”

  “Do you not want to upset Miss Etchingham by marrying me? She and I were never engaged, and I don’t even believe she likes me. There would be no scandal there.”

  When she opened her eyes again, she didn’t look at him. Instead, she turned her gaze out over the countryside, across the estate he had vowed to save. “You know nothing about me, my lord. I’ve caused no scandals, but I’m not a witless porcelain doll. I have dreams of my own. Find a sweet girl who will be content to let you think for her. Your career will be better for it.”

  Her certainty shook him. But he couldn’t agree that easily. “Meet me tonight,” he said, knowing it was foolish to say the words even as they slipped through his lips. “Let’s discuss this where we can have a proper conversation, not in the middle of a road. Earls should propose marriage indoors, at the very least.”

  That brought a glimmer of a smile to her face. “How very proper of you, my lord.”

  He had never felt less proper in his life. “Tonight?”

  She didn’t falter under the sudden command in his voice. She coolly stared him down, then looked up the road to where Salford and Prudence were disappearing around a bend.

  When she turned back to him, there was mischief in her eyes. “The library, at a quarter to eleven. I trust that after our interview, this nonsense about a union between us will end.”

  She cantered away from him, up the final rise toward the fort where Salford and Prudence awaited them. He gave her a few moments’ start before following her. She seemed so sure that they were ill suited — and perhaps they were. Ferguson surely had a reason for recommending Miss Etchingham over her.