Scotsmen Prefer Blondes (Muses of Mayfair) Page 7

  Malcolm didn’t respond well to threats. He felt his blood rise, like a fox backed into a corner, and his muscles prepared to attack. But his battle-mad ancestry was more of a hindrance than a gift in modern politics. He gritted his teeth and willed himself to take a breath.

  When he spoke, his voice was deceptively calm. “If the lady will have me, I will gladly do my duty. But I won’t force her. And if you would, you’re not the man I’ve heard of.”

  It was dangerously close to a mortal insult. The answering tic in Salford’s jaw said the man took it as such. “You don’t want to make an enemy of me. But let me assure you that I have Amelia’s interests at heart, perhaps more than she does.”

  “Amelia seems the type to make up her own mind.”

  Salford’s laugh was genuine. “That she is. She also won’t change it. A bit of advice, Carnach — convince her that she loves you, and she’ll follow you to the ends of the earth. If you fail, neither of you will have a moment’s peace until one of you is dead.”

  Malcolm knew how to seduce a woman. Love was another matter. He’d sought to arrange a marriage based on the bloodless mutual respect that would serve his political interests, not the passion that would distract him. “You’ve set a Herculean task, Salford.”

  “No worse than the Augean stables,” he replied, referencing the myth he no doubt knew by heart. Salford paused, staring at Malcolm as though he, like Prudence, cared about hearts and minds instead of ancient artifacts and cold stones. “Mind you, I’ve not forgiven you for this, and I shan’t forget it. But Amelia can be stubborn. If you make every effort with her and she still rebuffs you, I won’t force the issue. The ton may ruin you for jilting her, but I won’t.”

  Malcolm narrowed his eyes. “What changed your mind?”

  Salford shrugged and began gathering his documents. “You haven’t pled your case. I would have shot you if you’d tried to weasel out of this.” He rolled a sheaf of papers and slid them into his document case, looking utterly serious. But when he looked up, Malcolm was surprised to see him grin. “Amelia will either plead with me until I give in, or she’ll find another way to extricate herself. She will not go gently into the marriage you both deserve. If she succeeds, I can’t punish you for it if you tried your best to fulfill your obligation.”

  “I thank you for the warning,” Malcolm said drily.

  Salford rose. “She is attracted to you, from what I could see, even if she denies it. For my part, I believe she’ll be happy married to you — happier than she ever would have been living in my house for the rest of her days. I trust her dowry is enough inducement for you, if you can find a way to manage her where I have not.”

  Malcolm inclined his head, noncommittal. Salford took his leave with a jaunty wave. The man had the air of one relieved of a great burden, like Atlas suddenly freed of the world. The kiss in the library could have been swept under the rug if Salford hadn’t pressed the issue.

  It seemed a bit too convenient now, if Salford’s mood could be believed. Malcolm thought Amelia was lovely, but Salford was glad to hand over responsibility for her and Ferguson had warned him against her. What was the truth about her personality?

  After Salford left, Malcolm sat behind his desk again. He’d come to love the study in the year since his father’s death. It still felt wrong, sitting behind this desk. Most days it felt like his, but occasionally he would find a bit of old sealing wax or a scrap of paper covered in his father’s handwriting, and the grief would suddenly cut as fresh as it had the day they’d lowered his coffin into the ground.

  It had all been too quick — the cold that suddenly turned to pneumonia, the moment his breath stopped, the flicker of pain on the doctor’s face before he reached down and closed those sightless eyes.

  The speed with which everyone started calling Malcolm laird.

  Malcolm picked up the stone paperweight on his desk, worn smooth by generations of earls who had toyed with it. Legend said the first laird had pocketed it when they dug the foundations for the keep, and it stayed on the desk as a talisman. When Malcolm held it, he felt the weight of the clan and the granite strength of his obligation to them.

  His father had kept them intact by isolating them. But the factories in the south and the plantations abroad would someday destroy them. They’d survived Flodden Field, Dunbar, even Culloden, but they wouldn’t survive the changing economic landscape unless he saved them. The march of progress could not be stalled, not by guns and not by his father’s brand of benevolent laissez faire. Malcolm would take up the cause where his father hadn’t — he would not be the earl who saw their clan destroyed.

  Could he save them with Amelia at his side? He didn’t deny that she tempted him. She had a beautiful body and a quick wit, a combination he couldn’t refuse. But if her brother was so eager to be rid of her, could Malcolm manage her well enough to meet his needs? He couldn’t sacrifice his clan for her, no matter how lovely she was.

  If she cried off, though...

  There was a part of him — not just between his legs, but somewhere in his gut as well — that wanted to bind her to him. But she was too independent for his dominance and too accustomed to having her own way to cleave to his side. Perhaps it was for the best if she left him.

  His smile turned feral. He would show her just a bit of his baser nature. If she ran back to England at the first sign of his lordship, he would bid her farewell — even if he doubted she would leave his thoughts as quickly as she could leave his castle.

  But if she didn’t run, he would keep her to save both their reputations. And he would seduce her so comprehensively, so cunningly, that she would never think to betray him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “There’s nothing to be done for your dress,” Watkins said, surveying the creases in the silk.

  “You may have it,” Amelia said, pouring a cup of chocolate from the pot Watkins had brought her.

  “You should have called, my lady. You must have been uncomfortable in your stays all night.”

  “I was up too late with my letters,” she lied. Watkins looked at her skeptically, and Amelia wondered what rumors were circulating among the servants. She didn’t ask, though. It was better to pretend nothing had happened, even if the fact that she’d slept in her dress would likely be dissected and mulled over in the servants’ hall.

  In retrospect, she should have called for Watkins, no matter how late the hour. Even if the dress didn’t stir gossip, she had been uncomfortable sleeping in it. Sometime just after dawn, she had debated cutting herself out of the dress just to remove her corset, but it wasn’t a risk she would take with a penknife. Instead, she gave up her bed and threw back the curtains, letting the sunlight stream in and clear away the cobwebs of her half-awake dreams.

  As she expected, she hadn’t slept well, but she had come up with a plan. The plan wasn’t comprehensive enough to repair her friendship with Prudence. But there would be time enough for that if she returned to London unwed. Her first priority was breaking her engagement. It was preferable to end it quietly, before the mothers were informed. If that didn’t happen, though, she wasn’t averse to creating a bit of scandal to save Malcolm and herself from a lifetime of woe.

  Lifetime of woe. She liked that line, enough to evade Watkins’s efforts to repair her hopelessly tangled hair and reach for a pen and ink. Watkins was accustomed to her mistress’s eccentricities, and Amelia didn’t keep her waiting above a minute as she noted the words.

  There was a bright spot in all of this — the castle and her narrowly avoided marriage would surely inspire her next book.

  Watkins had nearly tamed Amelia’s curls when someone rapped on the door. The door opened before Amelia responded. Her heart had hoped it was Prudence, but she was disappointed.

  “Mother,” she said, her mouth dry as she stood to kiss her. She blindly reached for her second cup of chocolate, but her favorite beverage was made for indulgence, not fortitude. “You’re awake rather early.”


  The tiny web of lines around Augusta’s blue eyes crinkled in concern. “Do you have a moment, dear?”

  It was phrased as a request for Watkins’s ears, but Amelia knew she had no choice. She told Watkins to await her summons, then watched as her mother shut the door.

  “I would offer you chocolate, but I’ve finished the pot. We can ring for tea if you like?”

  Augusta shook her head and gestured at the chair by the fire. “Shall I take the chair? I would have waited until you were dressed so we might have this chat in comfort, but it cannot be delayed.”

  Amelia closed her eyes. If her mother knew, there was no hope of dissuading Alex and Malcolm quietly.

  Her mind was already racing toward alternate plans, but she forced herself to focus on her mother. She didn’t have her cousin Madeleine’s acting talent, but she could weave a story out of nothing. It would have to be enough.

  “Please, sit wherever you like,” she said. She perched on her dressing stool, glad that the window was at her back so the sunlight wouldn’t reveal everything on her face. “What do you wish to discuss so urgently?”

  “You know why I am here,” Augusta said, leveling a stare at her.

  She knew the general subject — but what had her mother really learned? “You’ve talked to Alex?”

  “No. He’s been closeted in Carnach’s study all morning. Lady Harcastle is most distraught, though. She said you and Carnach have decided to wed. And then she stopped speaking to me.”

  Amelia paused, searching for the right words. “I am sorry Lady Harcastle is angry.”

  “Mary isn’t the girl I knew thirty years ago. Perhaps we wouldn’t be friends if we’d only just met.” Then she caught herself. “Never mind about Lady Harcastle. What happened last night?”

  “Carnach offered for my hand,” Amelia said, as casually as if this was any other proposal she intended to refuse. “But I am not sure we would suit.”

  “I recommend deciding that you will suit,” Augusta said, her voice a smooth sheath over hardened steel. “If this offer came in the middle of the night and Alex is already involved, I can only assume the worst.”

  Amelia flushed. She shifted her unbound hair off her neck, suddenly warm. “It wasn’t the worst, Mother. Alex and Prudence found us in the library, and...”

  Augusta cut her off. “You know as well as I do that appearances matter more than facts.”

  “But no one needs to know!” Amelia cried. She glanced at the door and lowered her voice. “It was a kiss, nothing more. If Alex and Prudence say nothing, the ton needn’t find us out.”

  “You kissed him? She’s likely to feel betrayed at that, dear — and I can’t say I blame her. I feel sorry for her, in fact. Do you trust such a secret in her hands? If she’s as angry as Lady Harcastle, either one of them could be quite dangerous. If you don’t marry Carnach, Lady Harcastle will surely ruin you, even if Prudence does not.”

  Augusta was even more blunt than Amelia when the situation warranted, and Amelia winced. “I didn’t intend to betray her. I was trying to help her.”

  Her mother sighed. “Believe it or not, I am not angry with you.”

  “You aren’t?”

  “No.” She paused, and her grin was wry when she continued. “Mind you, I think a lesson to correct your meddling is long overdue.”

  “That seems uncharitable,” Amelia muttered.

  “And I’m sure Prudence doesn’t feel charitable toward you either. But you can make the best of this. Carnach is a worthy match for you. If you haven’t considered it yet, you should give a thought to your future.”

  “I have given thought, Mother. I’ve told you time and again that I’ve no wish to marry.”

  “I know. And I let you persist in that while Madeleine also remained unwed. Funny, that — I despaired of ever seeing either of you married, and you’ve managed to trap yourselves without any assistance at all.”

  Amelia scowled as her mother chuckled. But Augusta pulled herself together and continued. “Perhaps I should have been harder with you both and encouraged you to marry sooner. But I did so enjoy having you at home.”

  “It’s a shame you’re encouraging me to marry a Scotsman, then — you may never see me again.”

  “Carnach wants a political career — you’ll be in England often enough,” Augusta said, waving the overblown concern aside. “And I shan’t live forever. You might prefer to marry Carnach than be dependent on Alex.”

  That gave Amelia pause. Malcolm’s kisses were an undeniable benefit over her current status.

  But Alex didn’t watch her closely enough to guess about her writing. Malcolm was too observant by half. He wouldn’t want her harboring secrets. Life as a spinster bored her — but it gave her freedom in the ways that mattered to her.

  She couldn’t say that to Augusta. Her mother didn’t know about her novels. She thought Amelia was merely a dedicated diarist and letter writer. “Carnach and I aren’t meant for each other,” Amelia repeated firmly. “Will you speak to Alex and stop this?”

  Augusta tilted her head as she looked at her. She was still beautiful in her early fifties, far from the death she warned Amelia of — but in that moment, she looked tired, and Amelia’s heart wrenched.

  “Never mind,” Amelia said before her mother could speak. “I shall find Alex myself. You needn’t worry. We will settle this and return to normal.”

  “This is normal,” Augusta said. “All children must leave the nest. I’ve been lucky to have you this long, but perhaps this is a sign that you should take the next step in your journey. It’s not right that you still live with Alex rather than having a house and family of your own.”

  Amelia’s position in front of the window meant the light illuminated everything on Augusta’s face — including the tears forming in her eyes. “Are you all right, Mother?” Amelia asked.

  Augusta dashed at the tears with her hand. “I’m just melancholy at the thought of losing you, as much as I think it’s time. But Carnach could be good for you if you give him a chance. He reminds me a bit of your father, actually — trying so hard to be dutiful when you can see he just wants to run amok.”

  Amelia laughed. “You can’t trick me into liking him by claiming he resembles Father.”

  Augusta’s tone sharpened. “Promise me you will try, Amelia. Promise you won’t scheme your way around him without letting him talk to you.”

  Her mother knew her too well. Amelia intended to find a way out, and she wouldn’t let Malcolm convince her otherwise. But even though she couldn’t make such a promise without a good-faith effort to fulfill it, the stark, urgent concern in her mother’s voice gave her no choice.

  “I promise,” she said.

  Her mother’s shoulders sagged. “Good. Good,” she repeated, as though her conviction was enough for both of them.

  “I can’t promise I’ll love him, though. Not like you and Father.”

  Augusta’s mouth twisted. “Your heart may yet surprise you.”

  Amelia didn’t say anything as her mother came over and smoothed back her hair. Amelia suddenly felt like a child again — and she wished she could stay like that, without the momentous changes being negotiated for her in Malcolm’s study.

  Augusta smiled as her hands warmed Amelia’s cheeks. “Start as you mean to go on, dear. You have a good heart — let him see it.”

  Her mother left her then. Amelia slid slowly from the footstool to crumple on the floor, still bound in last night’s ruined silk. She buried her head in her arms and focused on her breath. She willed everything else away — the warmth of the sun on her back, the stays still digging into her ribs, the errant curl tickling her neck, the moisture slowly streaking over the fading sensation of her mother’s hands on her cheeks.

  Amelia exhaled and let the breath skim over her bosom. In that moment, in a ball on the floor of a castle hundreds of miles from home, she realized she was alone. Not the quiet solitude she occasionally craved — the isolation of one banished and
wandering in the wilderness. Madeleine was married, she’d ruined things with Prudence, she wasn’t ready to forgive Alex, and her mother...

  Maybe her mother was wrong. But would Augusta forgive her if Amelia abandoned her engagement?

  Her inhale turned to a sniffle. She didn’t want to be alone, but she had comprehensively mucked up so many relationships. Her mother claimed Amelia had a good heart, and perhaps she did. But a good heart and a bad temper were still too volatile for most. And no matter how guilty she felt after, she never seemed to learn. It would be better if she didn’t let Malcolm marry her. He seemed eager — but when he learned that she would never be the obedient chit he needed, he would regret his attraction to her.

  She steeled herself, forced herself to wipe away her tears, and sat up straight against the stool at her back. She already had a plan. The money from her writing would support her in comfort, if not opulence, even if Alex never gave her a penny of her dowry. Madeleine was married and Prudence hated her, but she could still set up her own cottage someday.

  It had been a lovelier vision when her friends had been beside her. But it was better than giving herself to Malcolm, then waiting for the day when she said the wrong thing, was too direct, too witty, too sarcastic, too independent, too everything to keep his affection.

  She had promised her mother she would let Malcolm talk to her before she schemed. That trumped anything else. She had too much honor to break a promise so blatantly, even if she wanted to.

  But her promise said nothing of lowering her defenses — or of staying when Malcolm came to his senses and tossed her away.

  She would dress, go downstairs, and write like it was any other day. And when the time came, she would talk to Malcolm. But she wouldn’t show him her heart — or let him win it.

  CHAPTER TEN

  He found Amelia in a small salon in the main wing, between the music room and the library. In the odd hours between breakfast and luncheon most house parties were dull, and theirs was no exception. Salford had left for the village to post his letters. His mother and Augusta were huddled in the drawing room with their embroidery and their whispers, and Lady Harcastle was in her room with her vapors. Graves reported, with a disappointed sniff, that Miss Etchingham had demanded a horse and a groom after breakfast and gone for a ride. That meant Amelia was somewhere in the castle alone, and it didn’t take long to track her down.