Scotsmen Prefer Blondes (32 page)

Amelia MacCabe would scheme one last time. If she succeeded, she would win him. If she failed...

She refused to consider what would happen if she failed. She walked out of her room, out of their house, and didn’t look back. Either she would return as his wife in all ways — or she would never return again.

*    *    *

The next morning, at dawn, Malcolm stood at the far end of Gray’s Inn Fields. He picked up a pistol from the case Ferguson held and tested the weight in his hand. Extending his arm in front of him, he squinted down the barrel. He’d never wanted to murder someone — but he had to admit that Kessel tempted him to reconsider.

“Don’t say you’ll actually shoot the man,” Ferguson said, hunched under his greatcoat against the chill. “Half the ton still thinks I’m insane. I’d rather not prove them right before I’ve had my breakfast.”

Malcolm dropped his hand, careful not to let the pistol discharge between them. “I must say I’m tempted to wound him.”

“You aren’t half the shot I am. If you pierce his heart, you will have to flee for the Continent.”

“I’d wager fifty pounds that I’m a better shot than you.”

Ferguson snorted. “Done. But we’ll test it on targets the next time we’re in Scotland, not on Kessel’s sorry hide. His second said he won’t aim for you — if you murder him, you’ll hang for it.”

“Fine,” Malcolm said ungraciously. “I won’t kill him. Taking your money might make up for it.”

He should be spending the morning preparing for Parliament. But in a cruel irony, he had discovered that the task he’d set for himself — getting into politics, saving the Highlands — was possibly the last thing on earth he really wanted to do.

He wanted to be in Amelia’s bed. He wanted to watch the sun filter through her hair. He wanted to let his hands tell her everything he couldn’t say.

But he wasn’t where he should be, or where he wanted to be. He was standing in one of the most notorious fields in England, in dying late autumn grass, ruining his second best pair of boots on ground still sopping wet from last night’s rains, waiting to fight an illegal duel that could cost him everything with a stray shot. He was supposed to be calm, sober, dutiful. He should be more like Amelia’s brother, and nothing like Ferguson.

Of course, Ferguson had agreed to be his second. The Earl of Salford was probably still abed, or, equally likely, holed up in his study reading about rocks. Perhaps there was something to be said for being a bit disreputable.

Malcolm exhaled, watching his breath float away on the chilled air. “Where is the bastard? I want to end this.”

Kessel had called Malcolm out after Malcolm punched him at White’s. To be fair, it wasn’t the punch that caused the duel, although Malcolm could understand the man being put out after his nose was broken for a second time in a year over his dealings with Amelia. It was when Malcolm had called him Lord Grandison — the thinly veiled name Amelia gave him in the book.

Ferguson pulled out his watch. “They still have five minutes. His second, Lord Beale, agreed to bring a doctor along, so perhaps they are later than expected.”

Malcolm put his pistol back in the case. “We’re too old for this, Ferguson.”

“Too old for what? Tardiness?”

“You know what I mean.” Malcolm gestured at the field. “An illegal duel, with our titles?”

Ferguson opened his mouth. Then he clamped it shut.

“What?” Malcolm asked.

His friend shook his head. “After the duel. No sense making your blood boil until you’re safe.”

Malcolm sighed, but he didn’t argue. The sound of a carriage in the distance announced Kessel’s arrival. Ferguson was right — going into a duel angry was a sure way to accidentally kill one’s opponent.

It was all more petty than Malcolm expected. Kessel stepped down from the carriage, accompanied by Lord Beale. A sleepy man riding above the coach with the driver watched the proceedings with an utter lack of interest. If either of the combatants did need the services of the doctor, Malcolm hoped he would wake up before attempting to treat them.

Ferguson and Beale had already settled the particulars of the duel. All that was left for Kessel and Malcolm was to finish it.

“Lord Kessel,” Malcolm said, nodding curtly.

“Lord Carnach,” he replied. “Ready to apologize for your wife’s behavior?”

“No. Will you apologize for speaking badly of her?”

Kessel sneered. “Never.”

Malcolm sighed. “Very well. Rothwell, if you would be so good, give us our paces.”

Ferguson nodded. Kessel chose his weapon from the case. Malcolm picked up his pistol. They strode out the appointed number of steps.

Malcolm breathed deep. The cold air seared his lungs. If everything went according to plan, this would be over in another minute. But his heart still raced. If it didn’t go according to plan, the last memory Amelia would have of him was their fight.

And his last act on earth would be dying for a woman who didn’t know he fought for her.

He steeled himself. No Carnach laird had died at the hands of an Englishman, and he wouldn’t be the first. When he heard Ferguson’s shout, he turned, took aim, and fired.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

“I cannot believe you shot my hat,” Ferguson said for the fifth time as they drove back to White’s.

Malcolm sprawled on the seat opposite him. “You wouldn’t let me shoot Kessel. I didn’t want to waste the morning entirely.”

Kessel had deloped, shooting his gun into the ground rather than aiming at Malcolm. The duel was enough to salvage his pride — he wouldn’t risk killing an earl with a stray shot. Malcolm should have deloped as well, but he gave in to the last-second impulse. Hearing Ferguson shriek like a girl had been worth it — although he would save that tidbit for a day when he needed a favor.

“I suppose I should be grateful,” Ferguson mused. “I’m no longer the maddest Scots laird in London.”

The story would spread.  When Ferguson’s hat flew off, Kessel’s eyes had bulged out, looking particularly gruesome over the bruises from his still-healing nose. And the shot awoke the doctor — just before he fainted, no doubt at the thought of losing the Duke of Rothwell on his watch. The man almost fell off the carriage box, but Lord Beale’s driver hauled him upright before he tipped over the side.

“At least Kessel will have a different story to tell at White’s today than how my wife is a reckless hoyden.”

“What were you saying before the duel? Your claim that we were too old for this?”

Malcolm shrugged. “We’re peers of the realm, not schoolboys. We should be working, not dueling.”

Ferguson snorted. “I forget, you never come to London. Look around the next time you attend White’s. If they’re not addicted to gambling, drinking, or wenching, they’re so obsessed with Beau Brummell that they don’t have time for anything more strenuous than tying their cravats.”

“Just because other men neglect their duties does not make it right for me to do so.”

“True.” Ferguson worked his finger through the hole in his hat, then twirled it around his hand. “But why force yourself to be only the one, or only the other?”

Malcolm thought back to the moment before he turned around on the dueling field. He had thought there were two paths in front of him — either give up Amelia and be the laird he should be, or keep her and give up his ambitions. Each path had its own rewards, just as each path required its own sacrifice.

On the path he had chosen, there were defined waymarkers: marry someone, take up his seat in the Lords, make allies, make heirs, craft speeches, gather power, use power, win, die. It was a path — but it didn’t leave any room for joy.

But what if life wasn’t a path? What if it was an ocean, with endless tides and currents — and endless opportunities to change course?

“Drop me off at my house instead of White’s, will you?” he asked abruptly. He’d stayed at the club since leaving his house, although he’d kept to his room most nights rather than endure the sidelong glances and whispered gossip about Amelia’s writing.

“Of course.” Ferguson rapped on the roof and shouted up the new direction, then leaned back into the corner, still toying with his hat.

In the silence, with the clarity that had gradually replaced his rage over the past few days, Malcolm forced himself to acknowledge what his heart had known for weeks.

He was in love with Amelia. He loved the way she stood up to him when he was at his most insufferable. He loved that she had opinions of her own. He loved that she thrived in Scotland where other ladies would have faltered.

He loved her secret desire for adventure. He loved how often she blushed, and especially loved how she could say and do the most outrageous things despite her own inherent modesty. He even loved her writing, not that he had confessed it to her.

The same woman he had plotted to drive away had captured his heart. And until he’d been so awful to her, she had looked more than willing to give him hers in return.

He groaned. He wanted to go home and tell her all of this, but he did not know what reception she would give him. She would either rage at him and throw things — or coolly, efficiently cut him from her life just as he had threatened to do with her. To keep her from leaving, he would need to apologize. Even worse, he would have to confess his feelings and hope he was right about her, that her affection for him was strong enough to withstand the fight they’d just had.

Malcolm never thought he would be in this position, but at that moment, he had to admit he was a coward.

“Maybe I should go to the club first,” Malcolm said. “Freshen up, have breakfast.”

“Perhaps you should,” Ferguson said agreeably, even though the carriage was rolling to a stop in front of Malcolm’s door. “Without Amelia in residence, your cook has probably given himself a holiday.”

Malcolm leaned forward, all his clarity swept away again by Ferguson’s nonchalant pronouncement. “Where in the bloody hell is she? I thought you visited her yesterday.”

Ferguson put his hat back on his head, the entry hole prominently displayed right in the center. “She was there yesterday. She hadn’t said anything to me, other than to tell me to leave, every day I visited before that. But by yesterday, she was done waiting for you.”

“When did you intend to tell me?” Malcolm asked, keeping his voice calm even as his eyes narrowed.

“When I dropped you at your door — and here we are. I thought about telling you before the duel, but I’m glad I didn’t. You might have shot me in the face instead.”

“I told you not to take her back to her mother.”

“I didn’t. She’s with my sister. Anytime you want to thank me for watching over your wife when you couldn’t be bothered with her, I’ll accept your appreciation.”

Ferguson’s voice suddenly turned cold. Malcolm glimpsed the steel he usually hid under his rakish, devil-may-care attitude. “You know I appreciate it,” Malcolm said.

He wanted to beat down the path to Ellie’s townhouse, pound on the door, and demand to see Amelia. But his temper had already done enough damage. It wouldn’t help him now, no matter how easy or gratifying it felt in the moment to give in to it. A week of remorse was enough to keep it in check as he pondered Ferguson’s news.

Ferguson eyed his friend’s unusual forbearance with surprise. “Are you feeling well, MacCabe? I’m prepared to defend myself if you want to go to Gentleman Jackson’s and take out your aggression with some boxing.”

“Boxing won’t help,” Malcolm said, pretending to relax against the seat, ignoring the panic clawing at his throat. “If Amelia’s gone, it may be for the best. She was none too happy with me when we last saw each other.”

“She seemed happy enough before you came to London.”

Malcolm couldn’t listen to Ferguson any longer. He needed to walk, to think, to decide his own path — or decide whether to abandon the paths entirely and fight the current to get back into her arms. He grabbed his hat and flung open the door. “I’ll find my own way from here.”

Ferguson nodded. “I wish you luck, MacCabe. Wherever it is you decide to go.”

Malcolm stepped down onto the pavement in front of his house. Ferguson’s carriage rumbled away, melting into the noise of London coming awake. His windows, uncovered and unlit, held the ghosts of what the house could be — if anyone lived there, or loved it enough to make it a home. But it wasn’t a home, and it wasn’t what he needed right now.

Instead, he started to walk.

*    *    *

Amelia’s day did not proceed precisely according to plan. But then, Ellie was not a woman who could be managed.

The marchioness was ever ready to help someone in need, even if her definition of “help” was sometimes at odds with that of her beneficiaries. When Ferguson had deposited Amelia at her doorstep the day before, Ellie had sprung into action. Twenty-four hours later, Amelia dazedly suspected that if Ellie had helmed the command in the Peninsula, Britain would have destroyed the French armies years ago.

“I really don’t think a dinner party is a good idea,” Amelia protested again as Ellie nearly dragged her to the drawing room.

“Nonsense,” Ellie said briskly. “If you ask me, you should have gone out the night Kessel told everyone about your writing. You do have sympathizers, but it would have been easier to tip them in your favor if you’d stood up instead of hiding like you knew you’d done something wrong.”

Ellie probably had a point. Still, Amelia tried to stand her ground. “I only want to talk to Malcolm. I moved to your house to shake him into action, not host half of London.”

“It isn’t half of London. I haven’t invited more than thirty to dinner. Compared to the party I gave last week, this is the smallest, most intimate affair imaginable.”

Amelia sighed. Ellie was uncompromising when she took the bit between her teeth. But Amelia no longer wanted to scheme. She wanted a quiet moment with Malcolm and a chance to tell him what was in her heart.

But she couldn’t talk to him when the note she’d sent to his club earlier in the day went unanswered. And Ellie said she hadn’t invited him to dinner. Would he ever give her the chance to speak? Or was he really as done with her as he had seemed the day he walked out of their house?