Scotsman of My Dreams Read online

  What sort of woman lusts after a man who wanted to do damage to her family? That question cut too close to the bone. She pushed it away as well as other thoughts that had nearly kept her in her room, a woman about whom the Covington sisters could find nothing to criticize.

  Very well, she could be nearly perfect, but what good was that? She had attempted, for years, to be the perfect older sister for Neville, only for him to reject her training and turn his back on her.

  She had tried to be a proper young woman, pushing back her interest in those things that were not considered feminine to pursue. She had made herself miserable for a goodly number of years until it occurred to her that no one truly cared if she was happy or not.

  They only cared if she was obeying the rules.

  Who decreed that women couldn’t wear trousers?

  Who decreed that women should wear corsets?

  Who decreed that women couldn’t be intellectually curious? That she shouldn’t want to know about ­people who had gone before, women who had gone before? What had their lives been like? What had they thought or felt? How had they coped with the circumstances of their times?

  Who decreed that every woman should marry? And if they didn’t, that they were destined to huddle together like the Covington sisters, abandoned little chicks who’d grown up to be scrawny hens.

  Who said that a woman shouldn’t act on her feelings, even if that feeling was lust?

  She could feel her cheeks warm, a heat to match the rest of her body.

  Perhaps she should blame Dalton. After all, he had kissed her and started the fire burning. Or maybe it began the very first time she saw him, a magnificent specimen of man regardless of his scars.

  She grabbed the strap above the window when Michael took a turn a little too sharply. With any luck, he’d be able to navigate the lane behind Dalton’s town house.

  To her relief, he didn’t have any problems. Although stopping was something he needed to work on, she congratulated him when he opened the carriage door.

  “This is the very first time you’ve ever driven a carriage, isn’t it?”

  He nodded.

  “It’s all right if you speak, Michael.”

  “Yes, ma’am, it is. But I knew I could do it. I watched Hugh enough years. And I knew I wanted to try.”

  She really couldn’t fault the boy. After all, she was doing something novel as well.

  “Remember our agreement,” she said. “I won’t tell anyone you drove if you don’t tell anyone where you brought me.”

  He nodded again, and this time she didn’t try to make him speak.

  “Wait here. I might be a little while. I don’t mind if you get inside the carriage and sleep for a bit.”

  Another nod. She patted him on the shoulder and left him without a word. Perhaps she intimidated him. After all, she paid his salary. Or perhaps he was just simply dumbstruck at her shocking actions. After all, a proper gentlewoman didn’t go anywhere without a chaperone, let alone at midnight.

  But she’d already been shocking, hadn’t she? She had accompanied the Earl of Rathsmere all over London with no chaperone, only the two of them in the carriage. Also, she knew full well that it wasn’t entirely proper to be acting as his secretary. If it was, Howington wouldn’t have greeted her with a glare every morning.

  She made her way around to the side of the town house. Tonight there was a full moon, bright enough to illuminate the hedges and the windows they guarded.

  As she stood there, her conscience made itself known.

  What on earth are you doing, Minerva? Going to a man’s house in the middle of the night for the sole purpose of bedding him? Are you that desperate? Are you that lonely?

  Not as lonely as curious. Should she have to bury her curiosity entirely?

  Was it a terrible thing to want another kiss? And more? Was she a horrid woman for indulging in hedonism, both in thought and act?

  Granted, she was not as schooled in passion as he, but she knew it when she felt it. She knew it when she saw it. His cheeks had been bronzed. His breath had come as fast as hers.

  Or perhaps he’d only kissed her because he was bored. He’d been without his companions. He’d willingly made himself a hermit. She might be a diversion, nothing more.

  Very well, she’d treat him as a diversion as well. Someone to satisfy her curiosity. But she’d felt that same way about Hugh and look how terribly that had turned out.

  She hated dithering. How much better to simply make a decision, to do something rather than worrying about it. She was not the type to hesitate once a course had been set. Evidently, her conscience was not prepared for such a vigorous debate because it suddenly went silent.

  The unlocked window slid upward without a sound.

  The maid had closed the draperies and Minerva had to fight them for a moment. She raised her leg, grateful for having had the foresight to wear her trousers skirt, and was entering the house when a hand clamped hard on her shoulder.

  She screamed.

  SOMETHING WOKE him.

  For a moment Dalton lay there as he came to himself. As it happened every night, he blinked a half-­dozen times, staring into the darkness before realizing it was permanent. One day he would awaken with knowledge of his loss of sight and these first few seconds wouldn’t be so jarring.

  What time was it? Since he rarely slept a whole night through, it had to be the middle of the night.

  Dalton slid his pistol out from under his pillow, holding it in his right hand. He might be blind, but he was damned if he would be a passive target.

  Slowly, he sat up, looking in the direction of the sitting room. He’d never thought to lock his door, but maybe it was a practice he should begin.

  Had Dorothy known Neville’s whereabouts after all? Had she told him that ­people were searching for him? Had Neville decided to finish him off tonight? Or was it Lewis, coming to prove his suspicions correct?

  The knock on the sitting room door startled him. He doubted if anyone sinister would announce himself. He put the pistol on the bedside table and got up.

  After grabbing his dressing gown and patting himself to make sure all the naked bits were covered, he strode through his sitting room.

  “Your Lordship!”

  It wasn’t like his housekeeper to shout at him.

  “Yes? What is it?” he asked as he pulled the door open.

  “Oh, Your Lordship, it’s a catastrophe for sure. We’ve the authorities at the door and he’s nicked Miss Todd!”

  He couldn’t even begin to fathom what Mrs. Thompson was saying, so he wordlessly followed her to the staircase and made it down the steps.

  The odor of garlic and onion wafted through the foyer. Cook had been in an exploratory mood tonight, producing an Italian dish even though she came from Devon.

  “This is the Earl of Rathsmere himself, awakened by all this nonsense,” Mrs. Thompson said, announcing him as if she were a majordomo and this a ball filled with notables.

  A male voice greeted him. “Do you know this woman, Your Lordship?

  “Oh, do let me go!”

  “Minerva? What are you doing here?”

  “I found her, Your Lordship, trying to get into your parlor by a window. You should keep those locked, sir.”

  “I assure you that I do. And who would you be?”

  “My name is Robert, sir. Robert Hinnity. Mr. Wilson set me to watching your house. A good thing, too, or I wouldn’t have caught this woman.”

  He could just imagine the scene. Mrs. Thompson standing there looking scandalized. Perhaps a maid or two observing the excitement with wide eyes. Minerva, flushed and embarrassed, if Minerva ever got embarrassed. And the righ­teous Robert Hinnity, looking proud at his capture.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hinnity, I shall take care of the matter from this point onward.”<
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  “Sir? I should report her to the authorities.”

  “It’s not necessary,” he said. “I will handle the matter. Thank you for your diligence.”

  He heard the door close and turned to his housekeeper. “Thank you, Mrs. Thompson, that will be all.”

  “Will you be needing anything else, Your Lordship?” Mrs. Thompson asked.

  “No, thank you. Go back to your room, Mrs. Thompson. I’m sorry you were disturbed.”

  “If you’re sure, sir,” she said, reluctance coating each word.

  Was she afraid of leaving him alone with Minerva? Why, to protect Minerva’s reputation? Or his?

  “I am. Thank you, again.”

  He heard the sound of slippers on the steps and waited until the only noise in the foyer was the breathing of his companion.

  “Is she gone?” he asked, extending his hand.

  Minerva put her hand on his, no doubt believing he needed guidance.

  “I think so,” she said. How meek she sounded. Quite unlike her.

  “Do you want to explain breaking into my home again?”

  “Must I?”

  “I’m afraid you must.”

  “I came to seduce you,” she said.

  He had expected a variety of explanations, but not that one. The woman had the ability to constantly startle him into silence. He turned and, still holding her hand, crossed the foyer and began to mount the steps.

  She would have pulled away from him, but he kept a grip on her hand.

  He had no intention of questioning her in the foyer. Or in the library, for that matter. He wasn’t an idiot. If Minerva Todd had come to seduce him, who was he to protest?

  Dalton heard the seventh step groan just as it had when he moved into the house ten years ago. He’d had two carpenters look it over, work on it with much banging and swearing and hammering, then proclaim the issue repaired. Only for the sound to come back days later.

  He felt for the door to his suite, entered, and closed the door behind them.

  “However do you do it, Dalton?” Minerva whispered. “It’s black as pitch in here.”

  Her emotions came through her speech. He knew when she was sad, when she was irritated and trying not to show it. Amusement danced in her tone sometimes, as if the words themselves were smiling.

  At the moment she was nervous.

  Her hand was cold, and when he put his fingers on her wrist, her pulse was racing.

  Placing his hand flat on the door, he allowed himself one last instant of rational thought. Did he really want Minerva in his bedroom? Hell, yes. Did he want to be seduced by Miss Todd? That might be an interesting experiment, one he was eager to try.

  After their kiss, she’d been at the forefront of his mind. Evidently, she felt the same.

  It was as if Providence, in partial reparation for his blindness, had plunked Minerva Todd down in his house.

  “Shall we discuss this idea of you seducing me?”

  “It’s your fault. You kissed me. I quite enjoyed it.”

  “And that’s why you’re here? Because of a kiss?”

  “Well, partially. It’s the promise of the kiss. You kiss very well, Dalton. Better than I’ve ever been kissed, as a matter of fact. I wanted to know—­strictly as an intellectual pursuit, you understand—­if you loved as well as you kissed.”

  “Couldn’t you just ask me?”

  He leaned against the door and folded his arms. In the darkness, she probably couldn’t see his smile.

  “Very well, I’m asking. Do you make love as well as you kiss?”

  “Better.”

  “You see, that will never do. Most men, I understand, are given to grandiose statements about their sexual prowess.”

  “They are?”

  “They are.”

  “Who did you hear that from? The Covington sisters?”

  “Does it matter? Anyway, I could take your word for it or I could experience it myself.”

  “In the interest of scientific exploration?”

  “Of course,” she said. “I have an excess of curiosity. At least that’s what I’ve always been told.”

  “You would challenge scandal for the sake of curiosity?”

  “There have already been enough tales about me,” she said. “I’m not as feminine as I’m supposed to be. Or as ladylike. I am stubborn to a fault, intractable in several ways. I bray when I laugh. I slump when I walk.”

  “And you say things no other woman I’ve ever known would dare to say.”

  “See?”

  He could hear her coming toward him.

  “Ouch!”

  “Minerva?”

  “Just a moment. I’m nursing a broken foot. Really, do you need all this furniture in here?”

  “Shall we discuss the placement of my furniture or seduction?”

  “This isn’t very easy,” she said, surprising him. “I suppose you have a great deal of experience in seduction. I don’t.”

  “I like your laugh,” he said. “It isn’t the least donkeylike.”

  “Truly?” she said.

  “My honest opinion. How’s your foot?”

  “Better.”

  “Shall I massage it?”

  “Please don’t. I can’t imagine anything worse. Why do ­people always want to touch an injury?”

  He smiled. “I can assure you I won’t touch your foot. Other places, perhaps.”

  She was close now, only a few feet away.

  “You don’t smell of cinnamon tonight,” he said.

  “I don’t? Well, I didn’t have scones before I came.”

  “Nor worked in your storeroom?”

  “I couldn’t concentrate.”

  “I had the same affliction, I’m afraid,” he said.

  “Truly? You were thinking of me?”

  “I was. The kiss was memorable for me as well.”

  “You’re the Rake of London. You’ve kissed thousands of women.”

  “Hardly thousands.”

  “Hundreds, then. At least hundreds, am I correct?”

  “Perhaps,” he said.

  “But you haven’t kissed anyone lately. Do you think that’s why it’s so memorable?”

  “Perhaps, but it might just be you, Minerva.”

  “I think it’s due to your lack of release.”

  His smile broadened. “I can only thank you, then, for your compassion in aiding me in seeking an end to my problem.”

  “You’re ridiculing me.”

  “Minerva, I swear on my sainted mother that I’m doing no such thing. I’ve never been more serious.”

  “Oh.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been seduced, however.”

  “Well, there’s always a first time for that, isn’t there?”

  “I suppose there is,” he said. “How shall we proceed?”

  “Slowly, until my foot stops throbbing.”

  He’d never pictured a seduction that began with wanting to laugh.

  Chapter 26

  She wasn’t reluctant to be led into his bedroom by the hand, but she still couldn’t see. The sensation was disturbing, more than the time she’d blindfolded herself in the parlor.

  “There’s a full moon out tonight. Would you have any objections if I opened your curtains?”

  “If you wish,” he said. “Do you want me to light a lamp?”

  “I’ve never made love in the light before,” she said. “I should think moonlight would be enough.”

  He didn’t say anything in response.

  She turned. In the faint moonlight she could make out the bed, the bureau, and armoire. She could see his figure, suddenly startled to realize he was taking off his dressing gown.

  Underneath, he was naked.

 
“Do you ever wear a nightshirt to bed?”

  “Never. I detest them.”

  He didn’t move to cover himself nor did he say anything, merely stood there letting her look her fill.

  She could have studied him for hours, but she felt odd looking at him when he probably didn’t know.

  “I’m watching you,” she said.

  “Are you?”

  “I thought Hugh was attractive, but you’re even more so. I think you’re as beautiful as a statue and perfectly proportioned.”

  His legs were thickly muscled, as were his arms. Dressed as he was each day in a loose white shirt and black trousers, she’d only a hint of his physique. She knew his chest was broad and that he was tall, but who would have guessed he was so perfectly formed?

  “I’ve never been called a statue. Hopefully, you’ll find me warmer than that.”

  “Can I come closer?”

  “Who am I to deny you?” he asked, smiling.

  A lock of hair fell down on his brow, giving him an even more wicked look, as if he’d just roused from a bed of debauchery. Or as if a satisfied woman had reached up and threaded her fingers through his hair.

  She walked toward him, stopping a few feet away, her hands fisted in her trousers skirt.

  “Will you turn?”

  “Turn?”

  “I have an intense desire to see your backside,” she said.

  His laughter made her smile.

  Moonlight was his friend. Or maybe his lover, caressing the planes and valleys of his body with a gentle touch, casting him in a pale light that only accentuated the magnificence of his body.

  “Oh my,” she said.

  “Do I meet with your approval?”

  To answer him, she reached out and palmed one smooth buttock. It flexed at her touch.

  “Oh yes, you do. But you must know how truly striking you are. Surely other women have told you.”

  He turned to face her.

  “Not in so many words. Nor as directly, Minerva. What are you wearing? Your trouser skirt?”

  “I am,” she said. “That way I had no need for a crinoline or a hoop. I’m not wearing undergarments, though,” she said, feeling her face warm.