Scotsmen Prefer Blondes (13 page)

Amelia snorted. “Can I add a question?”

Ellie nodded graciously.

“Question two is invalid, as I shan’t marry Malcolm. I would replace it with how I can make things right with Prudence.”

“You may add Prudence as question three,” Ellie said. “But I predict you shall marry Carnach. You already call the man by his Christian name — surely an indicator of passion.”

Amelia blushed. Ellie sat in the very chair where her last encounter with Malcolm had occurred — the one that lodged his name on her lips and burned his touch on her skin. “Passion and marriage are very different,” she said weakly.

“Are you blushing, Mellie?” Madeleine demanded.

“Of course she’s blushing,” Ellie said. “She knows I’m right.”

Amelia stood abruptly, setting her tea on the table beside her and balling her hands at her sides. “No more questions. If you won’t help me, my time would be better spent alone.”

“Do you really not wish to marry him?” Madeleine asked, her tone softening.

“Why would I?” Amelia asked, pacing as she usually did. “I can’t write if I marry him.”

“I redirect you to questions one and two,” Ellie said.

They had sounded like a jest, but Ellie’s tone was utterly serious. “I don’t understand,” Amelia said, still pacing.

“Why are you attracted to him? And how can you write while married? Solve those questions, and I vow the rest will work itself out.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Amelia scoffed as she halted by Ellie’s chair. “No one is forcing you to marry.”

Ellie’s voice turned cold. “Not anymore, but I have been in your shoes, and with far less attraction between us. Better to make your marriage on your own terms than run from the man if you genuinely want him. Don’t let your fear confuse you.”

“I’m sorry, Ellie,” Amelia said, dropping back into her seat on the settee. Ellie’s marriage had been arranged a decade earlier, and if the marquess hadn’t died, she’d still be trapped. “I spoke without thinking.”

Madeleine stepped forward to sit at Amelia’s side. “The damage is done, Mellie. You might even find you like marriage if you let yourself enjoy it.”

Madeleine still had a newlywed’s glow — but then, she had loved her husband well before their wedding. Amelia didn’t care for Ferguson, but he and Madeleine were perfectly suited.

“I won’t find what you and Ferguson have,” Amelia said.

Madeleine patted her knee. “Try. If you kissed him in spite of Prudence’s situation, I’m convinced there’s something there.”

Ellie made her throat-clearing noise again.

“Do you need more tea?” Amelia asked acerbically.

Ellie grinned. “That obvious, was I?”

All three laughed. For a moment, Amelia felt that with their support, she could get through anything — either marrying Malcolm, or leaving him.

But the mood was lost when Ellie stopped laughing. “Amelia, even if you don’t love him, you should know something else. There have been rumors in London.”

“Rumors of what?” Amelia asked. “Lady Harcastle couldn’t have possibly spread word of my indiscretions yet, and you journeyed north with us. What could you have heard that we did not?”

“It isn’t Malcolm. It’s your writing.”

Amelia’s optimism collapsed. “What are they saying?”

Ellie’s voice was soothing, but serious enough that Amelia didn’t relax. “No one has said anything about you. But your last book was so pointed in its satire that only a member of the ton could have written it.”

“They’ve said that for months,” Amelia said. “No one has suspected me.”

“But this time — you do remember that you skewered Lord Kessel?”

“I had to have a villain, and he’s a good one. He deserved it after his horrid attempts to marry me last year.”

“Well, Kessel was in his cups at a soiree I attended the night before we left London, and someone called him Lord Grandison after the name you gave him in the novel.”

Amelia laughed. “I never thought the men would read it.”

Madeleine snorted. “You wanted the whole ton to read it so they’d stop speculating about Ferguson’s sanity. You shouldn’t have risked it.”

“I had to, if only to make amends to you,” Amelia said. It had been her attempt at an apology, and Madeleine had appreciated it at the time despite the risk.

“You succeeded, but it has a life of its own now,” Ellie interjected. “Kessel vowed to find the author and horsewhip him, then transport him for slander and libel. Apparently the definition of those terms and the usual sentence escaped him,” she observed drily. “But the threat remains. He’s offered three hundred pounds for information leading to the author.”

The sum wasn’t a fortune. It wouldn’t tempt Ellie, for instance. But if anyone who needed funds knew her secret, she would face the choice of buying them off — and likely having to pay them forever — or letting them tell Kessel and hoping he wouldn’t believe them.

“Did anyone come forward that night?” Amelia asked.

“The usual round of people trying to collect, but none mentioned you. If you are lucky, he will find some other person to hang for it before anyone suspects you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I didn’t see a serious threat. Only the four of us and Madeleine’s coachman knew of your writing, so there was no one to betray you, and no need to worry you. But now that Prudence has, if you’ll allow me to judge, a somewhat legitimate complaint against you...”

“You think she would sell my secret?” Amelia asked, disbelieving.

“She wouldn’t,” Madeleine declared.

Ellie sipped her tea. “I’ve seen more betrayal than either of you. Nothing surprises me.”

Amelia shook her head. “I agree with Madeleine. Prudence hates Kessel almost as much as I do. I think I’m safe. Madeleine, you haven’t told Ferguson, have you?”

Her cousin took offense. “You could trust Ferguson if I told him, you know.”

“Have you?” she demanded.

Madeleine scowled. “Yes. He was saying again that you’re a harpy, and I thought he might be nicer if he realized he had you to thank for urging the gossips on to a topic other than us.”

“You didn’t,” Amelia said.

“I’m sorry, but I cannot keep secrets from him. He won’t tell Carnach, though — you can be sure of it.”

Amelia sighed. “We do have a way of giving up each other’s secrets to try to save each other, don’t we?”

Madeleine looked into her teacup. “Let’s hope Prudence doesn’t take a leaf out of our book.”

They were silent for a moment. Amelia wouldn’t dwell on Prudence, though. Her friend would nearly be to Edinburgh by now, and no apology she could write would catch her before she reached London — particularly if she didn’t want to read it.

Amelia smoothed away the frown on her face. “I do hope Ferguson keeps his vow. Malcolm must never know about my writing. If I marry him, I won’t let him put an end to my endeavors.”

“You won’t be able to write if you lose your link to your publisher,” Ellie warned. “Now that Kessel has an incentive to learn your identity, you cannot be as straightforward as using Madeleine’s coachman to deliver your manuscripts and pick up your payments.”

She wouldn’t have anything to publish for a few months if she maintained her recently glacial pace. “By the time I choose to publish again, I’m sure the furor will have died.”

None of them looked convinced, but Amelia was grateful when they let the topic drop. Madeleine changed the subject to Ferguson’s Scottish estate. Amelia made all the right noises, but her thoughts kept slipping back to her writing — and to Malcolm. If he married her just before her secret was discovered, he would be a laughingstock.

She wanted acclaim and recognition — but with Kessel hoping to destroy her if he could learn her name, acclaim was a dream she might never realize. She had always hoped, perhaps vainly, that someday the climate would change, that a gentlewoman could take credit for her writing without fear of scandal.

But if her plan to avoid marriage failed, she wasn’t the only one who would be touched by any scandal her writing created. If Malcolm didn’t cry off, she would have to bury her writing identity so deeply that no one could ever unearth it.

And she would have to hope that, despite everything, Prudence let it stay buried.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Malcolm had retreated to his study with his breakfast that morning, in no mood for Amelia’s patently obvious attempts to avoid the inevitable. He hadn’t slept well, even after taking himself in hand to relieve the arousal Amelia had caused. That she was the only woman in his fantasy as he came annoyed him as much as it spurred him on.

He wouldn’t be the one to leave. And if she stayed, he wanted more than bits of forced obedience between periods of open war.

But even though he wanted to put her avoidance to an end, there was no use in chasing after her — she would reconcile herself to their marriage eventually, and he had other duties to attend to. So he spent the morning behind his desk, rereading weeks-old copies of
The Gazette
and
The Times
, making notations of which lords held which positions on the issues of the day. The news was light in September, with Parliament not yet in session. But he owed it to his clan to know the battlefield before he approached it.

The battle wouldn’t be easy. There were only sixteen Scottish peers in the House of Lords, voted in every session from the far larger Scottish peerage. Their limited influence had been forced on them with the Act of Union, when England had dictated terms to make sure Scotland would always be under her heel.

Malcolm could take a seat in the House of Lords despite the restrictions, due to his subsidiary English title, Viscount Leybourne. But most aristocrats, even those whose lands were in Scotland, held no love for the Highlands. Despite the war against America, few cared whether the entire population of Scotland left for those shores. All that mattered was profit — and most landlords could make more money from sheep than they’d ever earned in rent from their tenants.

When Graves tapped on the door, Malcolm ordered him away without looking up. Graves ignored him. “His grace the Duke of Rothwell,” the butler announced, unusually stiff with formality.

“Don’t say you won’t see me, MacCabe,” Ferguson said, striding to the desk and clasping Malcolm’s hand before Malcolm had fully risen from his chair. “I spent two hours with my sisters to reach you. The least you can offer is a drink.”

Malcolm gestured him into a chair and walked to the cabinet for a decanter and two glasses. “Your letters sounded pleased about your reconciliation with your family. Has something changed?”

Ferguson rolled his eyes. “You’ve only brothers — you cannot possibly understand. They can go on for thirty minutes about ribbon, of all things.”

Malcolm eyed the man’s elaborate cravat and impeccably tailored jacket, more commonly found in the exclusive clubs of London than in any precinct of the Highlands. “You aren’t unfashionable yourself.”

“I long ago reconciled myself to the backward fashions of the Highlands, but I don’t have to lower myself to meet them.”

“Wouldn’t you be better occupied by something other than spending two hours tying your cravat?” Malcolm asked, handing him a glass.

“I am such a genius that I require only one hour to tie my cravat,” Ferguson said with a sniff.

Malcolm laughed at Ferguson’s mock conceit. “I appreciate your willingness to take a few moments out of your daily rituals to attend to me, your grace.”

“Please, I’m still Ferguson to anyone who matters. And I wouldn’t dream of neglecting you when you’re in such a coil,” Ferguson said, sipping his brandy with an appreciative grin. “I do hope your plans to rid yourself of your fiancée will break me out of my boredom.”

“Who says I intend to break my engagement?” Malcolm asked, leaning against the edge of his desk.

“I’ve known you for nearly three decades and cannot think of a single time you let yourself be forced to do something. You surely have a plan.”

Malcolm swirled the brandy in his glass. The nutty aroma slid through him as he contemplated his answer. Ferguson was right. Malcolm didn’t respond well to force.

“Perhaps I’m not unwilling to marry her.”

Ferguson snorted. “You would have been better off with Miss Etchingham.”

“No. She was nice enough, but she didn’t show an ounce of spirit until the end.”

“She had gallons of it at my house yesterday. A woman scorned is a sight to behold.”

Malcolm sighed. “I know she feels wronged, even if an engagement was never formally discussed. But there’s something about Amelia that makes me think I could take over the world if she were at my side.”

Ferguson arched a brow. “I never thought you would seduce an innocent for political gain. You may yet surpass my schemes, MacCabe.”

“No, you remain the greatest schemer in the Highlands,” Malcolm said. “But my time with Amelia has complicated matters.”

He told Ferguson about his encounter with Amelia in the library, including Alex’s threats and Amelia’s desire to break the engagement, but leaving out last night’s interlude in the drawing room. Rather than sympathizing, or even disapproving, Ferguson laughed.

And laughed some more.

“Really, Ferguson, I don’t see what’s so amusing about this,” Malcolm said through his teeth.

Ferguson wiped his eyes, still chuckling. “Ever since you inherited, you’ve tried to accomplish your duties to the letter. Marrying the right woman was so important to you — and now you’ve made a cake of yourself with the one woman I told you to avoid.”

Malcolm ran a hand through his hair. “I knew better, but she was just too damned appealing. Far more appealing than the prim Miss Etchingham. What is so wrong with Amelia that you tried to warn me off?”

Ferguson sobered. He considered his words carefully, and when he answered, there was a reticence that Malcolm rarely heard from him. “Amelia has everything required to make a brilliant match, but she jealously guards her spinsterhood. Did you hear of
The Unconquered Heiress
? It came out in the spring and caused a sensation among the fashionable set.”

Malcolm nodded. “I read it.”