Scotsmen Prefer Blondes (31 page)

“Beg my forgiveness?” he asked. His laughter was bleak, cutting through the last scraps of her defenses. “You’d best start on your knees. And use that pretty mouth for something other than your lies.”

Something snapped at his crude language. “How dare you. Banish me if you will, but I won’t be spoken to like that.”

If his eyes softened, it must have been a trick of the flickering light. His voice was still brutal, uncompromising. “I’ll speak however I wish. You wanted a conversation about our marriage yesterday. Now you have it.”

“What changed?” she asked.

It was beyond obvious that he’d learned the extent of her secrets, but she tried to delay, tried to give the lover she knew a chance to emerge from behind the warrior who faced her.

The fury that rode him made him too ruthless to be rescued. He reached forward, unearthing a book from beneath his discarded cravat. She recognized it as soon as he grasped it, holding it between a thumb and forefinger as though it might poison him.

“Now, wife,” he said, deadly calm, “tell the truth, for once in your life. Did you write this?”

She met his eyes. He’d already made up his mind. But there was just a bit of hope there — that, against all odds, she would redeem herself, that she hadn’t hidden this from him.

She didn’t want to lose that look.

But it was inevitable. She confessed the way a good hunter killed her prey — mercifully swift, but implacable.

“Yes. I wrote it.”

He dropped the book on the desk. It landed badly, falling open and creasing the pages. He picked up his drink again, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes.

“I didn’t intend to cause a scandal.”

“I’m sure you didn’t.”

Amelia drew a breath. “No one who knew would have betrayed me. If you’d married Prudence...”

His eyes snapped open. “Don’t you dare say this is my fault.”

“I know where the fault lies. But I wrote that book long before I met you. If I had known...”

She stopped herself.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked. The words were dragged over the gravel of his voice, then flung bleeding at her feet.

She spread out her hands. “When? When should I have told you? When we were first married? Why ruin the best weeks of my life? Or in London, where you’ve barely said two words to me outside our bed?”

Her anger sparked, burning dangerously alongside her guilt. “It was wrong not to tell you,” she continued. “But don’t pretend that my secret is the only wedge driving us apart.”

“It’s not your secret I care about,” Malcolm said. “It’s that you didn’t trust me enough to tell me everything. Instead, I find out from Kessel, in front of an entire room of men at White’s.”

“Oh, my God,” she whispered. “Truly?”

“I’m not the liar in the room,” he snapped. “All I required from you, all I requested, was that you not cause a scandal. Was that so much to ask?”

It was little wonder he’d gone so cold. To have her writing made so public, in such a humiliating way...

“I’m sorry, Malcolm. I am truly, truly sorry. If I’d known when I wrote it that it would lead to this, that it would cost you so much...”

“It’s too late for apologies,” he said. “If you’d told me, if you had trusted me, perhaps there would have been a different outcome. But you didn’t.”

“Fine. I didn’t do enough. At least I am honest about what I failed to do for us.”

He didn’t acknowledge the blow. “What am I going to do with you?”

It was almost a whisper, more of a question for himself than anything she could answer. “Do I get a say in the matter?” she asked.

“No.”

She stood. No matter how angry he was, no matter how badly she’d behaved, she wouldn’t be a martyr. “Fine. Send me a note when you’ve decided what to do. I’ll be at my mother’s house.”

That threat was finally enough to draw him from his chair. “You aren’t leaving,” he said, coming around his desk to grasp her arms. “You may be a liar, but you’re still my wife.”

She stayed still within his grip, as though his touch didn’t affect her at all. It was another little lie, she supposed, but it was better than giving ground. He would just take the gesture, like he took everything else — and keep taking, until she was nothing but a porcelain doll, doing his bidding. “And you may be my husband, but that doesn’t mean we have to live together. If you don’t want me, let me go.”

Malcolm fixed his steely grey eyes on her. “You will stay here until you give me an heir. You will take up your responsibilities as my countess — all of them, starting with this house you’ve neglected since arriving here. But if I catch you publishing anything ever again, I will rid myself of you.”

Like she was vermin. She narrowed her eyes. “You can’t sue for divorce unless you prove I’m an adulteress,” she scoffed. “And you will find that an impossible challenge.”

“Divorce is only one option. I could have you deemed insane and committed to an asylum. Or I could confine you to that house in the western isles — your writing would never reach the mainland if I didn’t allow you letters.”

“You wouldn’t,” she said.

His eyes were as cold as the sea and just as relentless. “You do not want to see how far I will go if you push me.”

She wanted to apologize. She wanted to make him see how she felt — to tell him that she loved him, that they could overcome this. But if he didn’t love her, did it matter? She would always come second to his estate.

And as much as she loved him, she knew she would hate herself if she made her life a footnote to his.

She stiffened her spine, straightened her shoulders, and stubbornly met his gaze. “If you trust nothing else I say, trust this. I would rather be sent to your island than stay here and serve your whims. If you intend to treat me like a prisoner, we might as well make it official.”

Malcolm held her still, scanning her face, looking for the truth in the shadows cast by the candlelight. He flinched at whatever he saw there. She burned under his touch, but she would rather flame out than melt back into him. If he could see what he had, admit what she meant to him...

He couldn’t. She saw the moment when he hardened himself again. “You’ll stay here for now. But I have as little wish to see you as you have to see me. I have business to attend to and no need for your distractions.”

She felt another hot flare of anger at that word. “Good. Leave me. I’ve enough to do without you.”

“You’ll never publish again,” he reminded her. “I’ll burn every scrap of paper in this house if I have to.”

“It will be hard for you to stop me if you’re not here,” she said.

She was baiting him, wanting to snap him out of his frozen judgment. He just smiled thinly. “The servants won’t deliver your letters. I pay their salaries, not you. And if you want to leave the house while I’m gone, you’re welcome to. But will anyone receive you?”

“You think I care about that?” she asked. “Writing was all I cared about. And you. And now you’re taking both away, for something I did before I ever knew you.”

He ignored the statement. He caressed her cheek, just once, before stepping away. “Goodbye, Amelia. I’ll ask Ferguson to check on you. Send word through him if you’re breeding so I know whether my presence is required next month.”

Amelia sucked in a breath. She would have kicked him for that, but he was already out of reach. She heard him stride away, heard him open the door and shut it behind him. She stayed still, as impassive as he had been, until she heard the answering slam of the front door.

She picked up the book he’d tossed on the desk, smoothing the pages with her fingers. She couldn’t mend the creases. And when her tears started to fall, she couldn’t save the ink.

She sank to the floor and buried her face in her skirts. How could she have fallen in love with him? And how would she go on now that everything was gone?

CHAPTER THIRTY

A week later, Amelia sat silently in one of the main drawing rooms of the house she hated, watching the afternoon rain pour down against the windows. It was easy to stare at the rain — she still hadn’t ordered drapes. The room had all the cheer of a tomb. She supposed it was fitting.

She never thought she would be reduced to the languid, fainting air of all those stupid society misses. But since Malcolm had walked out of their house and their marriage, she could barely summon the energy to get out of bed, let alone charge through her days like she usually did. What was there to charge toward? How could she fight a battle in which the enemy never showed his face?

Ferguson, drat the man, sat in the armchair opposite her, reading a copy of her book. He came every day, without fail. She’d asked him to leave her alone, but he took his loyalties to Malcolm seriously. Luckily he hadn’t asked her if she was expecting — she might have killed him for that, no matter how much her cousin loved him.

The duke had tried conversation every other time he’d visited, but he hadn’t bothered today. He had taken a seat, pulled a flask from his pocket since she wouldn’t offer him a drink, and started reading the book he’d brought with him. When she realized he held
The Unconquered Heiress
, the book that had ruined everything, she knew he was baiting her.

He snorted at something on the page. He looked up, and his blue eyes twinkled as he examined her. Then he looked down at the book and chuckled again.

She felt the first stirring of curiosity over anything since the afternoon Malcolm had left. “What?” she asked.

He held up a finger. “You’ve waited days to say something. At least let me finish the chapter.”

She sighed, but was startled when she realized she was more amused than angry. “You don’t have to guard me.”

He made a show of marking his page before setting aside his book. “This is quite good, you know.”

She was flattered — hugely flattered. It was the first time someone outside the Muses had acknowledged her as a writer, and it still mattered, despite the circumstances. But she didn’t let the compliment distract her. “Really, your grace. You don’t have to be here. I’m not a traitor in need of guarding.”

“I know you won’t run away. But you look morose enough to jump off a cliff if you could gather up the energy to find one.”

There was sympathy in his voice, even after their spotted history. Did she really look so forlorn? Even in the awful months after her father’s death, she’d still found the will to write, and talk to Madeleine, and try to comfort her mother. What had happened to her?

“Suicide was never my idea of a solution.”

He shrugged. “I doubt my brother wanted to end himself either. I wasn’t here to stop him, but I wouldn’t have MacCabe feel that guilt over you. Even if he likely deserves it.”

She hadn’t given Ferguson enough credit. He was probably a better man than she realized.

Then he grinned. “I do love seeing MacCabe brought low by marriage, though. I wish you both very happy.”

Her little flicker of appreciation died. “Little chance of that, is there?” she snapped.

“Well, you aren’t Mad, and he’s certainly not me,” Ferguson mused.

She rolled her eyes. “You are so astute.”

He nodded. Then he stood, picking up her book. “I must be off. Same time tomorrow, though. Perhaps I’ll win a laugh from you yet.”

“Why hasn’t Madeleine visited?” she asked abruptly. “Is the gossip so bad she can’t come?”

In her prison, she’d heard nothing about the ton’s reaction to her writing. The butler brought no papers or letters; no cards were left at the door. Only Ferguson breached the walls — and his eyes turned wary. “She was told you wouldn’t receive her.”

“What?” Amelia demanded. “Who told her that?”

“Your butler. MacCabe’s orders, of course.”

“And did he order you to come every day?”

“He asked me to come once. After seeing your sorry state, I took it upon myself to come back. But don’t mistake me for your ally, Amelia,” he said, displaying a sudden flash of the ducal hardness that lurked under his rakish facade. “If you’d seen Kessel accost him at White’s, you wouldn’t forgive yourself lightly either.”

She shifted in her chair, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment. But his voice softened back into its usual drawl. “But as I said, I would hate for you to do yourself violence before MacCabe comes to his senses.”

She had felt dead inside before, thinking her scandal had touched her friends so badly they couldn’t visit. But knowing she’d been left to rot under Malcolm’s orders, with only his friend and watchdog for an occasional companion, made her seethe.

“I am going to do violence to him before I ever hurt myself,” she declared.

Ferguson toasted her with his flask. “Don’t tell Mad I said this, but just this once, I’m relieved to see your spirit.”

She came to her feet. “Did my blasted husband say I can’t leave the house?”

“Why? Do you wish to kill him in front of an audience?”

“No. But if I’m to rot, I can do it somewhere more comfortable than an empty house.”

“He did ask me not to take you back to your mother,” Ferguson said, serious again. The duke may have wanted to see her in better humor, but he would still honor the letter of Malcolm’s requests.

But there was just enough of a devilish gleam in his eyes that Amelia wondered if he could be convinced to ignore the spirit of those demands.

“Not to my mother’s, then,” she said. “I have a better idea, if you’ll consider it.”

She left Ferguson cooling his heels in the drawing room while she stuffed a few dresses and her pin money in a satchel. If Malcolm wouldn’t come home, she would draw him out.

And either they would hash things out properly and forgive each other, or she would force him to let her go.

She loved him. Even now, even after everything he’d said. But if he was still as unreasonable after she explained herself as he was before he left, she would leave him and not look back. She was no longer convinced that her writing was enough to keep her happy. The idea of growing old alone with her books no longer held quite so much appeal now that she had the memory of Malcolm’s caresses.

But she would rather be moderately unhappy alone than thoroughly miserable with her husband. If she had to see that cold, awful look in his eyes every day for the rest of her life, she did not think she could bear it.