How to Catch a Sinful Marquess

by Amy Rose Bennett

  But Felix would probably just throw money at the occupants and tell them the same story he’d told the publican.

  In the distance, she could hear the clop of horses’ hooves on the road. Perhaps when they reached the main street of Gretna Green she could take a chance and jump out of Felix’s carriage if it wasn’t traveling too fast. Once they reached the toll road, she’d have less chance of escaping when it sped up.

  They reached the corner of the inn, and Felix roughly tugged her around the side, heading for the back of the building, where Olivia assumed the stable yard lay. Could one of the stable hands or the head ostler be persuaded to offer assistance? If she summoned a scream . . .

  When she splashed through a particularly deep puddle, she tripped and bumped into Felix. He immediately swore and clipped the side of her bonnet with his hand. “Watch where you’re going, Livvie,” he sniped. “You clumsy cow—”

  All at once, his cruel hold on her arm fell away as he was hurled backward. Indeed, the suddenness of the attack set Olivia stumbling again, and she nearly fell a second time. But when she regained her footing and discovered who her rescuer was, she almost cried with relief.

  For it was none other than Lord Sleat.

  The marquess was a picture of towering, blistering anger as he threw Felix up against the wall of the pub, anchoring him there with his iron-hard forearm. As Lord Sleat leaned forward, pressing into her cousin’s throat, Felix frantically clawed at the marquess’s sleeve, but his efforts to free himself proved futile. Lord Sleat was far too strong.

  “What the hell are you doing?” The marquess’s voice shook with murderous, pulsating, thunderous rage. “How dare you lay a hand on Miss Morland.”

  Felix’s eyes bulged. His face had turned an alarming shade of puce. When he opened his mouth and nothing but a hoarse gasp emerged, Lord Sleat eased off the pressure a fraction. “Answer me, you bastard.”

  “She’s not . . . Her name . . . Killing me . . .”

  Panic had Olivia in its grip again. Everything was about to come unstuck. She couldn’t let Felix reveal her secret. Nor did she want Lord Sleat to murder her cousin. But perhaps if she tried to explain first . . .

  “Lord Sleat.” She stepped forward and laid a hand on the marquess’s rigid shoulder. “There’s, there’s something I m-must t-tell you—”

  At that moment, Felix somehow broke free and shot off around the corner of the inn faster than the quarry at a fox hunt.

  Lord Sleat cursed and made to bolt after him, but Olivia caught his arm, staying him. “Let him . . . let him go, my lord. I beseech you.”

  The marquess’s black brows crashed together. “What on earth for?” he demanded. “The cur is lucky I didn’t snap his neck.”

  A sharp cry suddenly rang out, and when Lord Sleat glanced around the back of the building, he smirked. “Not to worry, the dog’s tripped and almost broken his own neck.”

  “Is he . . . is he all right?” Olivia stepped closer to Lord Sleat and peered around the corner too. It appeared that Felix had slipped in the mud and fallen heavily with his arm outstretched.

  Lord Sleat shrugged as he continued to watch. “Judging by the way he landed and the snap I heard, I suspect he’s probably fractured his collarbone. Oh, look. One of the stable hands has taken pity on him and has come to lend a hand, which is more than the blackguard deserves.”

  “Yes . . .” Olivia drew back and turned to face the marquess. “My lord . . .” She was pressed between the wall and Lord Sleat’s body, and her thoughts were in a terrible scramble. What should she tell him about what had just happened? Felix had fled before he’d mentioned her real name. Perhaps there was a way to preserve her identity.

  Lord Sleat captured her chin between gentle fingers. His gaze was steely as he said, “You mentioned you had to tell me something, Miss Morland. You know that man, don’t you? And he knows you. Is that why you urged me to let him go? I insist you tell me what’s really going on.”

  Oh, no. It seemed the cat was at least halfway out of the bag. Judging by the determined glint in Lord Sleat’s eyes, this was one catastrophe Olivia had no hope of escaping.

  CHAPTER 9

  Every young lady may feel for my heroine in this critical moment, for every young lady has at some time or other known the same agitation. All have been, or at least all have believed themselves to be, in danger from the pursuit of someone whom they wished to avoid; and all have been anxious for the attentions of some one whom they wished to please.

  Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey

  Gretna Green

  We’ll be back at Graitney Hall in no time at all,” said Hamish after he’d installed Miss Morland on his horse and leapt up behind her. Lashing an arm about the lass’s slender waist to keep her steady in the saddle, he then urged his mount into a gentle trot. The sooner they were away from the King’s Head, and out of this infernal rain, the better.

  Because if he stayed, he was likely to tear the blackguard who’d assaulted Miss Morland limb from limb. Indeed, he might have done just that if Miss Morland hadn’t entreated him to let the bastard go. That was the one thing he could never abide, the violent treatment of a woman. When Hamish thought of all the times his father had beaten his wife, and Hamish, a powerless, helpless lad, had been forced to listen to his mother’s cries . . .

  His lip curled, and his gut clenched. It made him see red even now, all these years later.

  Miss Morland leaned back against him, and Hamish was conscious of how slight she was. How her slender body trembled against his. This was the second afternoon in a row she’d been through a terrible experience, and it bothered him more than he could say. Not only that, she’d been soaked to the skin again. It was a wonder the lass hadn’t caught a chill.

  “How . . . how did you f-find me, m-my lord?” Miss Morland asked as he directed his horse onto the main road that would take them back to Gretna Green.

  “As it happens, it was quite by chance,” Hamish admitted. “When I was at the forge in the village, the blacksmith suggested the stables behind the King’s Head might have a spare conveyance available for hire if I didn’t want to wait another two days for him to complete the repairs to your carriage. He offered to send his apprentice over to Springfield, but as I was already out and about, and it was only a short ride . . .” He shrugged. “It just seemed easier to chase it up myself.”

  “W-w-well, I’m v-very grateful that you d-did.”

  Hamish could well imagine, considering the scene he’d stumbled upon. A near kidnapping. No wonder Miss Morland was still shivering in his arms. The sodden brim of her bonnet—the one he’d purchased for her this morning on a whim—hid her face so he couldn’t read her expression. However, the lass’s stammer had worsened, and he knew from experience that such a thing tended to happen whenever she was particularly nervous or unsettled. As well she might be.

  She had some explaining to do.

  Miss Morland. Was that the lass’s actual name? More than ever, Hamish was convinced that Lavinia Morland was not who she claimed to be. Her assailant clearly knew her and had called her Livvie, which in Hamish’s mind was usually a diminutive form of Olivia, rather than Lavinia. Of course, he could be wrong. Needless to say, there would be no putting off the conversation they needed to have once they reached Graitney Hall.

  * * *

  * * *

  So, lass, would you care to explain what happened outside the King’s Head?” asked Lord Sleat as soon as the door to Olivia’s sitting room closed behind Daniels and Tilda. After the marquess had taken the footman aside for a quiet word, he’d offered to take Tilda downstairs to Graitney Hall’s kitchen in search of hot chocolate, cake, and the resident cat. “You said you had something to tell me . . .”

  He stalked across the carpet, all power and grace. He’d discarded his coat and was wearing only shirtsleeves, a plain wool waistcoat, form-fitti
ng breeches, and his muddy Hessians.

  Olivia moved closer to the fire and stirred the logs, hoping to marshal her riotous thoughts into some semblance of order. On the way back from Springfield, and while she’d been changing into her only fresh gown, one of pale lavender wool, her mind was awhirl as she contemplated how Lord Sleat would react when he learned the truth—and in each imagined set of circumstances, not one of them ended well for her.

  Now that the moment for her to confess had finally arrived, Olivia found she’d never been more nervous in her entire life.

  If the marquess tried to send her back to her uncle and thus into Felix’s clutches . . . She wasn’t able to suppress a violent shudder of fear.

  “My lord, might . . . might I have a whisky?” Olivia knew he kept some in his room, and although it was presumptuous of her to ask such a thing, she really needed something to help her calm down.

  The marquess frowned, but nevertheless he fulfilled her request. When he joined her at the fireside and passed her a glass, his gaze was filled with concern. “Miss Morland, I might resemble a brutish ogre in a physical sense, but I assure you, I won’t bite your head off.” He drew closer to the fire. The flickering light of the flames danced over his stern but handsome countenance, lending him an otherworldly appearance. “But I do want you to tell me the truth. I sense you are in some kind of trouble, and I cannot help you unless you tell me exactly what it is we are dealing with here.”

  What we are dealing with. Olivia liked the sound of that. But would Lord Sleat feel that way once he realized how much of a nuisance she was?

  Olivia took a fortifying sip of the whisky, welcoming the fiery warmth that spread over her tongue, down her throat, and then into her belly. “Thank you. I needed that,” she said as she carefully placed her glass on the mantelpiece. “And thank you for your reassurances. However, you might not feel so magnanimous or kindly disposed toward me in a moment.”

  Lord Sleat’s mouth kicked into a small grin. “What, are you about to confess you’re a thief or a murderess on the run, lass?”

  “Nothing quite so dramatic as that, my lord.” She drew a bracing breath, then met his gaze directly. “Actually, I’m an heiress on the run. And . . . and as you might have already guessed, my name isn’t Lavinia Morland. It’s Oliv . . . Olivia de Vere.”

  Lord Sleat’s brows sank into a puzzled frown. “Olivia de Vere. I’ve heard your name somewhere before, but God knows why I know it. Wait a moment . . .” He studied her face. “Are you telling me your father was Edmund de Vere, the arms manufacturer? Good Lord, my regiment used his weaponry—de Vere bullets and rifles—when we were fighting Old Boney.” He rubbed his forehead as though his head hurt. “Olivia de Vere you say?”

  “Yes, my lord. After my parents died, I was sent to live with my father’s brother and his wife, Edith, as my mother had no family to speak of. Reginald de Vere is my appointed legal guardian until I turn twenty-one on the fifteenth of October. But I won’t gain access to my fortune until I turn twenty-five. Or my uncle and trustee both agree to assign control to my husband if I wed before then. Such are the terms of my father’s will.”

  “So, Miss de Vere, tell me why you took it upon yourself to abscond from London. Your aunt and uncle must be frantic with worry . . . unless . . . I take it that the man who accosted you at the King’s Head is someone from your family?”

  “Yes . . .” Olivia was relieved beyond measure that Lord Sleat seemed to be taking this so well. “He’s my cousin. Uncle Reginald’s son, Felix de Vere. And . . .” This was the difficult part she had to get out. “And my uncle and aunt want us to wed to keep my fortune in the family. But I do not.”

  Lord Sleat’s gaze hardened. “That man who hauled you down the street, hit you, and insulted you is your cousin?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “By God. You should have let me throttle the bastard.”

  Olivia swallowed another mouthful of whisky. “I’m afraid it’s worse than that,” she said. “You see, I know things about Felix that my uncle and aunt don’t. And that knowledge puts me in grave danger.”

  And then she poured out everything to Lord Sleat. How she’d come across Felix embezzling her inheritance money and how he’d threatened her, if she told his father about the theft. That her aunt and uncle controlled every aspect of her life and how her cousins Prudence and Patience despised her. How she would have sought sanctuary with her friends Lady Charlotte, Lady Malverne, Lady Langdale, or perhaps even Lady Chelmsford, but they wouldn’t be able to protect her, not when the law was on her uncle’s side.

  And so, when the opportunity to become Tilda’s nursemaid and quit London altogether had presented itself, she hadn’t hesitated to take that chance. “I was so terrified, my lord. And I could think of no other way to protect myself. I reasoned that if I became someone else, Lavinia Morland, and stayed hidden until I turned twenty-one, then I could seek support from my friends. And they wouldn’t get into trouble either. My uncle cannot force me to live beneath his roof, or do anything at all, once I am legally of age.”

  Lord Sleat rubbed his jaw. The bloodred ruby in his gold signet ring flashed in the firelight. “Lass, that is quite a story.”

  “I assure you it’s entirely true.”

  “I believe you. That’s not the problem.”

  Olivia swallowed. The marquess’s expression was as hard as granite, his mouth a flat line. “I know I have deceived you terribly, my lord. I’ve . . . I’ve misrepresented who I am and done nothing but lie to you over and over again. But I was desperate and knew not whom to turn to.”

  “Aye. That alone is a terrible thing, Miss Mor . . . I mean, Miss de Vere. That you had no one to ask for help. At least, no one who could make a real difference. You are right when you say the law is on your uncle’s side. I only wish . . .” He scrubbed a hand through his thick sable hair, ruffling it into wild spikes. “I only wish you had come to me sooner.”

  “You’re not . . . you’re not angry with me? I would understand if you were. I’m not a good person.”

  Lord Sleat threw back his head and laughed at that. “Lass, you have no idea what you’re saying. Not a good person? So you’ve told a few white lies in order to save yourself from marriage to a despicable dog. It hardly signifies.”

  “But I’ve also brought trouble to your door. Trouble you don’t need given everything else you have to contend with.”

  He grimaced. “Aye, you’ve done that.”

  “And believe me, I feel terrible about it. The reason I didn’t tell you the truth sooner was that I feared you would terminate my employment and throw me out. Or, worse, return me to my uncle’s care. And to Felix.”

  A muscle flickered in Lord Sleat’s jaw. “You can rest assured, that’s not going to happen. If I ever see your cousin again, he’ll rue the day he was born.”

  “Then . . . you’ll let me stay on as Tilda’s nurse?”

  “I didn’t say that, lass.”

  Olivia frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “Miss de Vere. Even though your cousin Felix might be temporarily incapacitated with a broken collarbone, do you think he’s just going to let you walk away now that he’s discovered your whereabouts?”

  “I . . . I hadn’t thought that far ahead.” Indeed she hadn’t. What a wigeon she’d become. She’d been so preoccupied with what Lord Sleat might do, she hadn’t even thought about the threat Felix still presented.

  “Well, I have.” Lord Sleat’s expression was grim.

  Apprehension flared inside Olivia. “What . . . what are you suggesting then, my lord? I’m confused.”

  “There’s only one sure way to protect you and your fortune, lass.” Lord Sleat took a step closer and captured her hand. Fire lit his gaze from within as he stated with the solemnity of a man upon the gallows, uttering his last words to the crowd below, “Olivia de Vere, I’m going to m
ake you my wife.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Olivia de Vere gaped in openmouthed horror even as she simultaneously blushed. “Surely you’re jesting, my lord.”

  “Indeed, I’m not.” It was the only way Hamish could think to save her. And it might just benefit him too. A plan began to take shape in his mind.

  “But why?” Olivia shook her head. “Why would you do this?”

  “I assure you I don’t need your money, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “No, I didn’t think that.” Olivia’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “It’s just . . . I don’t understand.”

  “You’re a gentle, sweet-natured lass, and it would be a travesty indeed to see you wed to a self-serving blackguard like your cousin. And all because of greed. I won’t stand for it.” His mother, Margaret, had been forced to wed a terrible man, and he couldn’t let that happen to Miss Olivia de Vere.

  “Besides, as I understand it, we have a fair few mutual friends,” he continued. “Lord Malverne and Lord Langdale would surely have my guts for garters if I simply washed my hands of you in your hour of need. I’m certain their wives and Lady Charlotte Hastings would make mincemeat of whatever remained too.”

  “But . . .” Olivia’s dark eyes were filled with dismay as she murmured more to herself than to him, “It . . . it’s not supposed to be like this.” Raising her chin, she added, “You might call my dreams foolish and girlish, Lord Sleat, but I’ve always wanted to marry a man who loved me. Truly loved me. Not just the contents of my bank account. Never once did I entertain the idea that a man might propose to me out of a sense of obligation.”

  “It’s true this will be a marriage of convenience, Miss de Vere. Or may I call you Olivia now? In any case, there’s every chance that a love match could be in your future.”