A scarlet blush marched up Olivia’s neck and across her face. “With . . . with you? I mean, I know we’ve only just met—”
“While it is true I am attracted to you in a physical sense, Olivia, and you certainly have many other qualities I admire, I’m afraid I’m not the sort of man who falls in love.”
“You’re a rakehell,” she said flatly.
“Aye. And a wicked one at that. But that’s not all.” Hamish blew out a sigh. How could he warn this young lass that he not only was inherently sinful but also constantly struggled to keep a dark and dangerous streak in check? He didn’t want to scare her, not when he was essentially offering to marry her to protect her from her predatory cousin.
“Suffice it to say, I’m not good husband material. But I have a proposition for you.”
Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “And what are the terms?”
“I’ve already told you I’m rushing home to Muircliff Castle for family reasons. You see, I have a younger sister, Isobel. And she’s become entangled with a ne’er-do-well. The younger brother of the local minister in the village of Dunmuir. According to my younger brother, Lord Angus, Isobel fancies herself in love with this fellow. But I suspect he’s nothing but a fortune hunter. As head of the family and her guardian, I believe she could do far better. And that’s part of the problem. She’s nineteen, and she’s never had a Season. She’s never seen that there are far better men out in the world. And it’s just occurred to me that you, Olivia, might be able to help introduce her to society. You and your friends.”
“What? Me? But I’m . . . I’ve never been introduced to society. I may be an heiress, but in some circles, I’m known for my disgraceful conduct more than anything else. I’m sure I would be a hindrance, not a help.”
“Disgraceful conduct? Whatever do you mean?”
“A little over three years ago, I was expelled from a well-to-do and rather exclusive young ladies’ academy in London.”
“Ah, yes. I do recall that now. Lord Malverne’s sister, Charlie, was also caught up in the scandal.”
“Yes, along with my friends Sophie and Arabella.”
“Who’ve since wed Malverne and Langdale.”
“Yes.”
Lord Sleat waved a dismissive hand. “And so now you’ll be Olivia, Lady Sleat. A marchioness. Why should you care about the opinion of polite society anymore?”
“I suppose you’re right,” she conceded. “I’ve never thought of it like that before.”
“But I haven’t finished stating my case yet,” said Hamish, pleased that he might be winning her over. “As my wife, Olivia, I would ask you to help Isobel with her debut and to assist her in finding a suitable husband. But when you turn twenty-five and inherit your father’s fortune in a little over four years’ time—if not sooner, if I have anything to do with it—I propose that you and I part ways. Then you will be free to marry whomever you choose. You’ll have your love match and your money.”
Olivia’s fine brows descended into a deep frown. “You’re saying we’ll get divorced. But I thought that hardly ever happened.”
“It’s true it’s a rare occurrence in England, but under Scots law, it’s a much easier process. A woman can sue for divorce on the basis that her husband has committed adultery. And as we’ll be wed according to Scots law, and I will agree to the divorce, I don’t anticipate that there’ll be any problem at all with terminating our union when the time comes.”
“But what . . . ?” Olivia blushed bright red. “But what if we should have children in that time period? If I’m your wife . . . and if we . . . if you . . . if you and I . . . You’re a marquess, so I’m sure you’ll want an heir. And when we divorce, won’t the children stay with you? I don’t think I could bear that, being separated from my children.”
Hamish shook his head. “I don’t want an heir. I’m happy for the title to go to my younger brother, Angus.”
“Oh . . .” Olivia frowned again. “You really are suggesting a pure business arrangement, my lord. Nothing more.”
“Aye. Nothing more.”
“I . . .” Olivia pressed a hand to her belly. “This is a lot to think on. It’s not what I would have chosen. But it seems I have little choice.”
“I’m a marquess, Olivia. And a ruthless one at that. You won’t just have the protection of my name, but my body as well. Because if your uncle or your cousin tries to steal you away, or even lay one of their dirty little fingers on you, I’ll crush them to dust.”
Olivia’s countenance paled, and Hamish felt a twinge of guilt for scaring the poor lass with his ferocious declaration. “I believe you, my lord,” she whispered.
“My name is Hamish,” he said in a gentler tone. “If we are to be wed, you may call me that.”
“Very well.” She inclined her head. “Hamish.”
“So it’s settled, then? You’ll say yes to my proposal?”
A pretty rose pink blush flared across Olivia’s cheeks. “I will.”
“Excellent.” Hamish picked up his fiancée’s hand and laid a gentle kiss upon her slender fingers. He’d never planned on getting married, so he was surprised that he should suddenly feel so inordinately pleased about it, despite the added complications it would bring to his life. “I’ll go downstairs and speak to Mr. Marchbank, the innkeeper, and ask him to make the arrangements for the ceremony. By nightfall, you’ll be Lady Sleat.”
* * *
* * *
By nightfall, you’ll be Lady Sleat.
Olivia’s free hand—the one Lord Sleat wasn’t holding—fluttered to her throat. “Wh-what? What did you say, my lord? I m-mean, Hamish?” Surely she’d misheard. “You mean to marry me this afternoon? Now?”
The marquess frowned. “Aye, of course I do. We’re in Gretna Green, the veritable capital of clandestine marriages. We’ll say our vows before a few witnesses, sign a certificate, and the deed will be done.”
“And it will be legal.” Olivia wasn’t certain if she was asking a question or making a statement.
“It certainly will be.” Lord Sleat crossed his arms over his chest. “We’re not in England anymore, lass, so Hardwicke’s Marriage Act doesn’t apply. You don’t need your guardian’s permission to wed if you’re under the age of twenty-one. And the banns don’t need to be called for three consecutive Sundays, not unless you wish to wed in a kirk. Why do you think so many English couples elope to Scotland?”
That was all well and good, but Olivia had another question. One that made her heart beat wildly. “But . . . but what about tonight? Our wedding night?” she asked. She couldn’t hide the quiver in her voice. “You said you don’t want an heir. But don’t we need to . . . to . . .” A hot blush stung her cheeks, and she dropped her gaze to the hearthrug. Even though her body thrummed at the idea of sharing a bed with Lord Sleat, her husband-to-be, another part of her was so nervous, she could barely speak. Especially when he was standing so close to her and regarding her so intently. Why, they hadn’t even shared a kiss yet.
“Och, dinna fash yourself, lassie.” Hamish grinned at her and patted her hand. “I won’t come near you tonight or any night. Besides, you certainly won’t be able to act as Isobel’s chaperone next Season if you’re increasing. That’s reason enough to keep my distance.” He placed a large hand upon his chest. “I give you my word as a gentleman, a peer of the realm, the Chief of Clan MacQueen of Skye, and a former officer in His Majesty’s army that this marriage will never be consummated.”
Olivia frowned with confusion. “I’m sorry to keep belaboring the point. But don’t we need to consummate our union for it to be considered valid?”
“Aye, ’tis true. But who would dare question the Marquess of Sleat? I can ruin a woman just by being alone in the same room with her. I’m a rakehell, and you are a bonnie lass, Olivia. Everyone will believe I’ve claimed my conjugal rights, even if I have
n’t.” He squeezed her hand. “I aim to have everything ready within the hour. Will that be enough time for you to prepare?”
Olivia bit her lip and nodded. Lord Sleat spoke sense. Yet his offer—while practical and fair—was also as cold as arctic ice. And it cut her to the bone. She knew Lord Sleat hadn’t intended to hurt her—indeed, he was doing everything within his power to protect her by marrying her—but all the same, he had.
It was clear that all the little things that meant so much to her, the special moments she’d hidden away in her heart like precious keepsakes—the flirting that had taken place when they first met, the “almost kiss” incident at the Hart and Hare, the care he’d shown her after the carriage accident—they meant nothing to him.
It’s a business transaction, nothing more.
The whole idea of it was enough to make Olivia want to hurl things and cry at the same time. A childish reaction no doubt. But damn it, her heart was cracking. Her dream was fracturing before her eyes. As she’d told the marquess only a few moments ago, it wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Was it unreasonable of her to seek the marital bliss her parents had? Or the joy Sophie and Arabella had found with their respective husbands?
Of course, love took time to grow. However, she didn’t think she was asking for the impossible.
Olivia kept up a brave face until Lord Sleat took his leave. Then she sank onto the padded stool before the small oak dressing table in her bedchamber and steadfastly crushed down the urge to dissolve into a fit of self-indulgent weeping. She didn’t have time for tears. Tilda would be back soon, and Olivia needed to make herself presentable. And somehow, she had to marshal the nerve to go through with the wedding ceremony.
But first things first. Olivia had to attend to the bird’s nest atop her head; she hadn’t had time to repair her damp, disheveled hair after she returned from Springfield, and when she took her vows, she didn’t want to look like something Peridot had just dragged in.
She grimaced at her reflection as she tugged a hairpin from a particularly stubborn snarl. Her tongue might be perpetually tangled, but her hair didn’t need to be.
As she teased each knot loose with her comb, Olivia wondered if she could work through her messy, jumbled thoughts just as easily. For one thing, perhaps it would help if she forced herself to look on the bright side rather than dwell on all the negative aspects of Lord Sleat’s proposal.
She’d only just met the marquess—Hamish, she mentally amended—but she was certain there was a spark between them. She could feel it whenever they were together. If she could just nurture that tiny spark, gently coax it and breathe life into it, perhaps it would eventually burst into flame and they’d share a grand passion that would never die.
Hamish wasn’t a coldhearted man by nature—she’d witnessed his softer side on many occasions. And he was certainly hot-blooded with a rake’s carnal appetite—or so the rumors went. So why was he so insistent that their marriage should be in name only?
It didn’t make sense.
Olivia tried to hide the cut and bruise upon her forehead by rearranging her part before repinning her hair into another simple chignon, a style she thought flattered her face.
She knew she wasn’t unattractive in a physical sense; her hair and eyes might have been an ordinary brown, but she’d always believed her complexion, physiognomy, and figure were pleasing enough. Indeed, Hamish had said as much to her. And he never remarked upon her stammer.
Olivia frowned at herself as she adjusted the Vandyke lace collar on her lavender-hued gown. So what was the problem? Why didn’t Hamish want to consummate their marriage? Why wouldn’t he want their union to bear fruit? Wasn’t that what all noblemen wanted? An heir and at least half a dozen spares?
Well, he might not want to bed her, but Olivia certainly wanted to bed him. She wanted a real marriage with lots of healthy, happy babies.
She wanted her husband’s love.
Somehow, she had to show Lord Sleat that he might want those things too . . . with her.
CHAPTER 10
With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.
The Scottish Book of Common Prayer, 1637
Graitney Hall, Gretna Green
Nightfall
When Olivia ventured downstairs an hour later, her heart was racing so fast, she thought she might expire before she even reached Lord Sleat’s side.
Tilda, on the other hand, was absolutely thrilled. Indeed, her eyes were alight with excitement as Tilda and Olivia negotiated the oak staircase together. Despite Olivia’s nervous agitation, she was touched to see how delighted the little girl was to be “Miss Devinia’s bridesmaid.” In honor of the occasion, she’d changed into her freshly laundered white muslin gown with the blue sash. Another blue ribbon and sprigs of lilac heather adorned her light brown curls. She really was the prettiest, sweetest child.
“Miss de Vere?” One of the Graitney Hall maids stepped forward from the shadows and dipped into a curtsy. Her bright red hair stood out like a flame in the gloomy vestibule. “My name is Marjorie Marchbank, and my da will be marrying ye and Lord Sleat today. And if it pleases ye”—she presented Olivia with a small bunch of purple, lilac, and white heather sprigs—“this bouquet is fer you to carry. Fer luck.”
Olivia murmured a heartfelt thanks, and then the maid escorted her and Tilda to the private parlor where the wedding ceremonies at Graitney Hall were conducted.
Hudson, Lord Sleat’s valet, waited by the heavy oak door. As Olivia drew close, he bowed. “Are ye ready, lass?”
Olivia drew a deep breath and nodded. “I . . . I think so.” In a matter of minutes, she would be wed to a powerful nobleman. A man she was willing to admit she desired and was beginning to fall in love with. A man she believed she could find happiness with.
But only until he divorces you.
What a quelling thought that was, when what she yearned for was forever.
It’s not what you’d hoped for, but at least you will be safe, Olivia reminded herself. Be grateful for that if nothing else.
And who knows, maybe Lord Sleat will fall in love with you. In time . . .
The middle-aged servant gave her an encouraging smile. His blue eyes were kind beneath the sweep of his freshly combed, graying hair. “Ye ken, I’ve served Lord Sleat for many years, as his valet and as his batman. And I can attest he’s as decent as they come.” A frown creased his brow. “So dinna ye go believing any rumors ye hear. He’ll make ye a verra fine husband, lass. There’s no need to be nervous.”
Olivia scraped together a small smile. She was well aware of Hamish’s rakish history, but she appreciated the valet’s attempt to reassure her. “Thank you, Hudson. I’ll remember that.”
She touched the silver locket resting just below her throat. It had once belonged to her mother—her initials were engraved upon the back. There was no need to hide the treasured piece of jewelry anymore, but oh, how she wished her mother were here. And her father and, of course, all her dear friends—bold-as-you-please Charlie, sweet Sophie, and clever Arabella.
But they aren’t, and Lord Sleat is waiting.
She nodded at Hudson, and he opened the door. And then Olivia’s breath caught when her gaze met her groom’s on the other side of the candlelit parlor.
Oh, my goodness. Lord Sleat had certainly dressed for the occasion.
Rather than wearing the usual attire of a gentleman, the marquess had donned his traditional clan garb. And the sight was magnificent.
Instead of breeches or pantaloons, Hamish wore a kilt of deep red and black tartan with a touch of yellow running through it. Over his white cambric shirt and black silk waistcoat, he wore a well-cut coat of black superfine that was perfectly molded to his wide shoulders. A black leather pouch hung from a belt at his waist, and below the hem of his kilt, Olivia
caught a glimpse of his bare knees before his plaid-patterned hose began. Silver-buckled shoes of black leather and a sheathed but still-lethal-looking short sword, also at his waist, completed the ensemble.
Olivia swallowed. From the top of his tousled sable locks to the bottom of his thickly muscled calves, her husband-to-be was every inch the formidable Highlander. Indeed, she was certain she’d never seen such a handsome devil in all her life.
Even the flame-haired maid who’d joined her equally redheaded father by the fireside looked like she was about to swoon at the marquess’s feet.
Tilda tugged at her sleeve, and Olivia bent down. “Why is Lord Sleat wearing a skirt, Miss Devinia?” she whispered in her ear.
“It’s called a kilt. It’s what men from Scotland wear sometimes,” she whispered back. “I like it.”
Tilda nodded. “I do too.”
Hudson, who’d also joined his master, the maid, and the beaming marriage-celebrant-cum-innkeeper by the stone fireplace, crouched down and beckoned to Tilda. She let go of Olivia’s sleeve and skipped across the polished wooden floor to the hearthrug.
And now it was Olivia’s turn to cross the room. Rain drummed against the lead-paned windows, matching the drumming of her pulse. Smoothing her lavender wool skirts with a damp palm, she started forward, clutching the bunch of fresh-smelling heather to her chest, her steps slow and measured even if her heartbeat wasn’t, until she reached Hamish’s side.
His large hand engulfed hers, and then he brought her fingers to his lips. “You look lovely, Olivia,” he said in that deep, low voice of his that reminded her of a lion’s purr.
“So . . . so do you,” she whispered back. “No . . . I mean . . .” She blew out an exasperated breath. “You look very handsome in your kilt.”
His wide mouth curved into a roguish, lopsided smile. “Och, thank you, lass.”
How to Catch a Sinful Marquess Page 13
