The Lady and the Laird. Nicola Cornick

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      “You may imagine,” Methven said cuttingly, “how your regret moves me.” He got up abruptly and placed his untouched glass of claret on the table.

      “There is no need to be so sarcastic,” Lucy protested. She could feel the guilty color stinging her cheeks. “I truly am sorry. I did not know—”

      “Ignorance is no excuse,” Methven said roughly. “It is not as though your letters on behalf of your brother are unprecedented.”

      Apprehension breathed gooseflesh along Lucy’s skin. Wrapped up in the tale of the Methven inheritance, stifled by guilt, she had forgotten for a moment that Lord Prestonpans had dropped her well and truly in trouble with his ill-considered ramblings earlier.

      “You do not deny it,” Methven said after a moment. “So it must be true. You wrote the erotic letters that scandalized society last year.”

      He strode across to the fireplace and laid one arm along the mantel. Every action spoke of latent power and authority. Lucy felt completely intimidated and was equally determined not to show the fact. She stood up, because being seated when he was standing made her feel at an acute disadvantage.

      Her palms were damp. She rubbed them on her skirts. “I did not realize how Lachlan’s friends would use those letters,” she said. “I had no notion.”

      “Ignorance is an excuse you have already tried this evening,” Methven said pleasantly. “It wears thin. Your gullibility has been fairly extensive, hasn’t it, Lady Lucy? How did you expect people would use erotic letters?”

      Lucy’s face was burning. “I agree that my naïveté has been extensive,” she said, between shut teeth.

      Methven stepped away from the fireplace and came toward her. He took her gently by the upper arms, turning her so the candlelight fell on her face. He did not let her go; his hands were warm on her bare skin above the edge of her gloves, and his gaze on her face made her feel mercilessly exposed.

      “Are you a virgin?” he asked.

      “My lord!” Lucy was genuinely shocked. She could feel even hotter color stinging her cheeks now.

      “It’s a fair question,” Methven said, “under the circumstances.” He looked unmoved by her outrage, amused even. “The erotic letters hint at an experience far greater than that of the average debutante. Not—” he appraised her thoughtfully “—that you are average, precisely. Far from it.”

      “My experience or lack thereof is no business of yours, my lord,” Lucy said. “That is a scandalous question. No gentleman would ask it.”

      Methven inclined his head ironically. “Then I am no gentleman. And I would still like to know the answer. Could one write like that without knowing what it truly felt like to make love? I think not.”

      “There was no personal experience in my writing,” Lucy said. She was feeling strange; her head felt too heavy and too light at the same time, as though she had been drinking champagne. She was suddenly aware that Methven’s hands had slid down her arms to hold her lightly by the elbows. She wanted to tell him to let her go because it felt disturbing, far more so than a simple touch should. And then he stroked the tender skin in the hollow of one elbow with his thumb, such a sweet caress that it made her catch her breath and made the blood flow heavy like honey in her veins.

      “You must have an extremely vivid imagination,” Methven said softly.

      “I have no imagination at all,” Lucy said, trying to concentrate. “Writing is purely an academic exercise for me.”

      She saw her words had surprised him. His hands stilled on her. There was curiosity and speculation in his eyes.

      “Pure is not really the right word to describe your writing,” he said. His gaze narrowed on her face. “Are you telling the truth? Such provocative words did not affect you in any way?”

      “I don’t know what you mean,” Lucy said impatiently. She gave a little dismissive shrug. “Lachlan wanted love letters, so I researched what a love letter should be and wrote some. I do understand that some people find them stimulating to the senses, but I—” She stopped. She was not going to tell him that she had locked any and all desires away long ago in order to spare herself pain.

      “You?” Methven prompted.

      “I don’t find them remotely arousing,” Lucy said truthfully.

      Methven nodded slowly. She did not understand the expression in his eyes. “How interesting,” he said. “So the letters were not drawn from personal experience at all.”

      “Certainly not,” Lucy said. “They were drawn from my grandfather’s library.”

      That made him smile and in that moment she saw her chance. His attitude seemed to have softened toward her a little. She would have to take a risk.

      “Are you going to give me away?” she asked. She thought it was better to be direct than to prevaricate. Or beg. Begging was out of the question. She was not that feeble even if she was desperate.

      For once he did not answer her immediately. His face was pensive. After a moment he said, “Perhaps you should have considered the consequences of your actions, Lady Lucy.”

      He was right, of course. She should have done so. She wondered now if rather than being naive she had been deliberately reckless. In her deepest heart she had known the trouble that would be caused if the truth about the letters came out, and yet she had written them. She had no explanation as to why she would do such a thing. Except that the letters had been a small rebellion, exciting, dangerous. She had challenged all the stifling rules that bound her, and it had been exhilarating.

      Besides, she had thought herself safe. She had thought no one would ever unmask her.

      “You are right,” she admitted grudgingly. “It was stupid of me.”

      “It was foolhardy and dangerous.” He sounded unyielding and unsympathetic. “You have interfered in several people’s lives and done a great deal of damage.”

      Lucy felt like a chastened schoolgirl. “I realize that it was wrong,” she offered. She tried her special smile again, the one without guile, the one that generally made men melt like butter. “I have apologized.”

      It did not work. Methven smiled too. Grimly. “You are trying to manipulate me,” he said. “I am not so susceptible, Lady Lucy, I assure you. I think...” He paused. “I think the people you deceived should be told.”

      “No!” The stark, black panic was on Lucy now, threatening to swallow her whole. Perhaps begging was not out of the question after all. She struggled to stay calm.

      “You could not prove I wrote them,” she said defiantly.

      His smile deepened. “I could have a damned good go at trying, and it would please me to do so.”

      Just the hint of impropriety would be sufficient. Lucy knew that.

      “Please—” She heard the entreaty in her own voice, and this time there was no guile at all. “I know I deserve—”

      “To be punished?”

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