Scotsmen Prefer Blondes (33 page)

Sir Percival Pickett was the first to arrive. “Fair Lady Carnach!” he cried, ever dramatic as he bowed over Amelia’s hand. “If you had only told me you were an authoress, I would have redoubled my efforts to conquer your golden citadel!”

Amelia choked back a laugh as she heard Ellie snicker beside him. “I do hope you aren’t too scandalized by my efforts, Sir Percival.”

“Scandalized? I am enchanted! I knew there was a spark of the divine in you. I must write another poem for you now that you are no longer the Unconquered.”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” she said. In her second London Season, Sir Percival had written a horrid poem, “On the Unconquer’d’s Cornflower Orbs,” that had given her her nickname and caused Alex and Sebastian to rib her mercilessly for months. She didn’t need another of his dubious poetic efforts.

Sir Percival could not be quelled. “You dubbed me Sir Galahad in your book. I am honored. Nay, I am humbled. Nay, I am rendered speechless. I can only hope to repay the favor. I shall consider a name immediately.”

He wandered off in search of brandy to fuel his art. Ellie snickered again. “Sir Percival does not seem inclined to call your husband out for your book, does he?”

Amelia scowled. One of Ellie’s callers earlier in the day had delighted in telling them all about Malcolm’s duel with Kessel. “Of all the stupid things men do, that must be by far the worst,” Amelia said.

A footman ushered Ferguson and Madeleine into the drawing room. “I hope you aren’t casting aspersions on all men just because you’re plagued with poor Percy,” Ferguson drawled as he kissed her hand.

“Sir Percy is harmless. It’s duelists I cannot abide by,” Amelia said.

Madeleine kissed her cheek. “No need to lecture Ferguson on the matter. If I had known why he left the house before dawn today, I would have shot him myself. But I agree with him — it is nice to know that another Scottish peer is more scandalous than he is.”

“You have my felicitations,” Amelia said drily. “And how did my dear husband acquit himself?”

“Tolerably, although he owes me a hat,” Ferguson said. “Your honor is defended for another day, my lady.”

His younger sisters, Kate and Maria, greeted her next. “How could you not tell us you wrote
The Unconquered Heiress?
” Kate squealed.

“It is grossly unfair of all of you,” Maria complained. “First Madeleine, now you!”

Ellie pinned her with a glare. “If you are so indiscreet, it’s little wonder the grown-ups don’t tell you their secrets, is it?”

Maria flushed. The twins knew of Madeleine’s acting, but no one else in the ton did — and Amelia didn’t think any of them wanted to risk that scandal being unearthed. “I am sorry, Ellie,” Maria said. “It won’t happen again.”

Kate and Maria linked arms and walked to the far side of the room, escaping the muttering Sir Percival, who was entranced by a painting of a mostly nude woman near the fireplace. Ellie’s drawing room was perfectly arranged for both large parties and surreptitious encounters. Her reputation for scandalous gatherings was borne out by the lavish oil paintings, the little alcoves lined with velvet drapes to keep sound from carrying, and the lush undercurrent of perfume from the hothouse flowers rioting in enormous urns throughout the room. It had the feel of an expensive boudoir, not a prim, prudish widow’s hermitage.

Amelia kept a smile pasted on her face as more guests streamed in. It really was a select gathering of the cream of the aristocracy. Ellie’s influence, at least in some circles, was enough that she could fill her table with only a day’s notice.

But then, in November, the company was thin and there weren’t as many entertainments as there would be at the height of the spring Season. Between Amelia’s writing, Malcolm’s dueling, and their mutual feuding, she was the
on dit
of the week. No one invited to such an event as this dinner would decline the invitation, unless they meant to blackball her.

Ellie’s Aunt Sophronia, the Dowager Duchess of Harwich, strode imperiously into the room. “Is the Duchess of Bodlington supposed to be me?” she demanded, ignoring the pleasantries.

Amelia blinked. “Yes, your grace.”

“Good. The Duchess of Devonshire tried to claim her, but I said the author had more sense than to honor such a scandalous woman.”

The duchess was a force in the ton and always spoke her opinion bluntly. The fictional Duchess of Bodlington was one of the more comical aspects of Amelia’s satire. Amelia tried to read the woman’s face, but saw the same inscrutable, vaguely displeased look in Sophronia’s eyes that she always saw. “I am sorry if the book caused you offense, your grace.”

Sophronia laughed. “Nonsense. It was the best flattery I’ve had in an age. You may not receive vouchers to Almack’s after this, but you’ll be invited to every party I have influence over.”

She turned away. Amelia exhaled, thinking she was safe.

But then Sophronia turned back. “I am offended about the cane. Must you have given me a cane like I am yet another gouty old woman?”

“If anyone could make a cane seem appealing, I’m sure it’s you,” Amelia offered.

Sophronia nodded. “That is true. You are forgiven, Lady Carnach.”

The duchess proceeded into the room. Ellie smiled smugly. “I told you this party was a good idea.”

Amelia sighed. “I vow, if I ever write another satire, you will not be spared.”

Amelia’s brothers turned up next. She hadn’t talked to either of them since her Malcolm-imposed isolation, but their greetings were warm even though the look in Alex’s eyes promised an imminent rehashing of everything that had happened. Sebastian, though, had just arrived from his plantation in Bermuda two weeks earlier, and cared more for regaling the lovely Maria and Kate with stories of his exploits than he did for Amelia’s scandal.

Augusta came with them, accompanied by Lord Tarrier, her usual companion at these sorts of events. She was slightly cooler than her sons when she embraced Amelia. “I was surprised you wouldn’t let me call on you this past week,” she said.

“Malcolm takes the blame for that. I didn’t know it, but he told the butler I wasn’t receiving.”

If Augusta had been annoyed with Amelia, all her anger suddenly switched sides. “That man is a beast. I do hope you have a plan to teach him a lesson.”

“Why do you all think I have a plan?” Amelia asked.

“You always do,” Augusta said. “Even if you don’t share it, as you neglected to share your writing these past years.”

Amelia winced, even though there was no anger in her mother’s voice. “I won’t scheme again. And I’m sorry...”

Augusta cut her off. “I only wish you’d told me. I feel like a first rate fool for having discussed
The Unconquered Heiress
with you without realizing you’d written it. You must have laughed when I was blathering on about who I thought each character was.”

“It was hard to keep from telling you then,” Amelia admitted.

“Well, what’s done is done.” Then Augusta frowned. “Though I must say, you have more of a talent for attracting scandal than I ever expected. I hope your friend Prudence isn’t similarly inclined.”

“Why do you say that?” Amelia asked, stepping back with her mother from the open doors so that Ellie could greet the next arrivals.

“I can’t abide by what Lady Harcastle did. No matter how angry she was about your marriage, you would think her friendship with me would have held her tongue. But I’m fond of Prudence, and the daughter shouldn’t hang for her mother’s mistakes. And I may be lonely without you and Madeleine. I’ve asked her to move in with me and be my companion, if she would like.”

Amelia’s mouth twitched. “You have less need of a companion than any woman I know.”

“That obvious, am I?”

“It’s a lovely gesture,” Amelia said. “Really. And it would be wonderful to know that Prudence has somewhere to stay in London, especially someplace without her mother. But you don’t need a companion.”

“True. But with you and Madeleine both moving on, perhaps I would like another young lady in the house. And you’re not the only woman in the Staunton family who can scheme.”

Her gaze flickered to Alex. Amelia laughed. “I wish you luck with that. Alex won’t look up from his books long enough to see Prudence.”

Her mother smiled mysteriously. “We shall see, dear.”

Lord Tarrier returned then with a glass of champagne for Augusta, and they went off together to examine the paintings.

Within another fifteen minutes, the full company was assembled. Ellie was conversing in low tones with Ashby, her butler, about how to move everyone to the dining room when loud voices in the entry interrupted them.

“Who could that be?” Ellie said.

She didn’t sound particularly concerned. Ashby bowed. “I will attend to the matter, my lady.”

The matter came to them instead. They heard booted feet moving quickly down the hallway toward them. Amelia took a step back from the door. Ashby moved into the gap, ready to defend his mistress.

“Step back, Ashby,” Ellie murmured.

The butler stayed where he was. Ellie sighed. “At least have a care for your face — you can’t be my butler if he breaks your nose.”

Ashby did step back then, just as Malcolm turned the corner. He stood framed in the open doorway, alone, and yet somehow as dangerous as if he had an entire army behind him.

Behind her, Amelia heard women gasp. She couldn’t look away from him, though. He wasn’t dressed for dinner — in fact, if she had to guess, he was still wearing his clothes from the morning’s duel. His buff breeches were more suited to a morning ride than a social call, and his boots were covered in dried mud that flaked off onto Ellie’s pristine carpets.

He looked like William the Conqueror, come to claim the woman who had tried to spurn him. At least William and Queen Matilda had ended as a love match, even if the legends said he’d whipped her for refusing him.

Amelia drew a breath and told herself to focus on them — on what she saw on Malcolm’s face, not the stories she could make up about them. His face was more compelling than any fiction — fierce, rugged, a little wild, with sleepless, bloodshot eyes and dark stubble on his chin. His eyes were locked on her, had been since the moment he stepped into the doorway, like he knew unerringly where she was and could always find her, no matter the obstacles.

Her heart leapt. Everything else in the drawing room fell away. Even the air disappeared — she couldn’t breathe anymore, not with him looking like he wanted to devour her.

“Amelia,” he growled. “Let’s go home.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Home
. That word meant something with him, something more than it had ever meant to her before. She used to think she could be happy anywhere, as long as she had her writing. But with him, she wanted roots. She wanted a place that was theirs. Above all, she wanted him.

She almost ran to him. The instinct was there — to go home with him, drag him up to her chamber, and let their lovemaking stand in for all the apologies they owed each other.

But she had to know whether there was more behind his eyes than lust.

She sucked in a breath. Then she gestured to the butler. “Ashby, escort Lord Carnach to Lady Folkestone’s salon? We can talk after dinner, if you’re inclined to wait.”

Malcolm’s eyebrows slammed together. She heard Sebastian’s laughter, Sophronia’s clucking, even Sir Percival’s murmured exclamation of adoration. But she kept her eyes on Malcolm’s face.

He was angry, yes.

But he wasn’t defeated.

“I’m not inclined to wait,” he said.

She lifted her chin. “You’ve waited a week — surely another three hours won’t be the death of you.”

“I only need three minutes.”

From his vantage point a few feet away, Ferguson snickered. “I would have wagered less than that.”

Some of the women tittered. Malcolm’s scowl deepened. “Three minutes, without this helpful audience you’ve assembled.”

“Do take your time, Lady Carnach,” Ellie said, gesturing at the door. “You can use the salon across the hall. Dinner can wait three minutes.”

From the expectant air in the room, Amelia suspected they would wait even longer if they got the show this dinner suddenly promised them. She scowled. “Very well. Three minutes. If I don’t return by then, send a rescue party.”

She walked forward. The five feet separating them had seemed unbridgeable, but suddenly his hand was on her shoulder as he turned to walk with her. It wasn’t heavy, or angry, or even demanding, though.

For the crowd, he was a lord asserting his rightful authority. But his touch on her shoulder was tentative, as though he worried he could break her.

The first cracks split across her armor. If he had lashed out at her, she would have hardened. But the soft graze of his fingers across her arm was a greater threat to her composure than any accusations.

The salon was smaller than the drawing room, but not as intimate as the room upstairs that Ellie used for their private Muses of Mayfair meetings. The room was empty, but lit candles abounded and a fire burned merrily in the hearth. Ellie spared no expense when entertaining, making sure all the public rooms were open even when the party didn’t intend to use them.

Amelia wanted to pace, but she forced herself to stand still. She needed to keep her composure — and keep from begging — long enough to hear what she needed Malcolm to say.

“Will you sit?” he asked.

“No. What do you wish to say?”

He ran his hands through his hair. If he’d worn a hat earlier, it was missing, and the dark tendrils were damp from the day’s rains. He clasped his hands behind his head, as though to keep from touching her. The gesture, and the taut lines of his arms and chest as he looked at her, only emphasized his air of barbaric suffering.

“I’m sorry, Amelia. For everything.”

He ground the words out through his teeth.

She waited.

He waited.

She sighed. “Is that your apology?”

He dropped his arms and crossed them on his chest. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? An apology?”

“Is that why you said it? Because you think that’s what I want?”