How to Catch a Sinful Marquess

by Amy Rose Bennett

  Of course there were measures Hamish could take to prevent conception if he bedded his wife. Indeed, he used French letters whenever he had casual sexual intercourse with prostitutes or even wealthy women from the ranks of the ton. Only a fool would risk contracting some horrific disease like the pox. But he didn’t want to cheapen the sexual act by using a condom with his wife. And withdrawal was not always a reliable method to prevent pregnancy. So abstinence was the only solution.

  It seemed that being sexually frustrated would be his lot in life for some time to come.

  Hudson started making noises in the dressing room, so Hamish supposed he should rise and get dressed. He needed to meet with his steward, go through a massive pile of correspondence, deal with his recalcitrant sister and his entirely too-tempting wife, who suddenly seemed set on avoiding him. Not that he could blame her. He’d been so contrary of late—behaving like a lustful brute one minute and then a cantankerous killjoy the next—even he was starting to become annoyed with himself.

  Once he’d hauled himself out of bed, he snagged a banyan off the bedside chair and then wrapped it around his naked body. And that’s when something caught his eye. Something peeking out from beneath his pillow. Reaching for it, Hamish pulled out a small nosegay of dried lavender tied with a purple ribbon.

  “Hudson,” he called. “What’s this? Why do I have flowers under my pillow?”

  His valet emerged from the dressing room. “Oh.” His cheeks reddened, and Hamish cocked an eyebrow. Hudson had once been a sergeant in His Majesty’s army. He never blushed.

  “Well?” Hamish prompted.

  “Yer wife asked me to place it there, my lord. She thought the scent of lavender might help ye sleep. And as I didna think it would do any harm . . .” Hudson shrugged a shoulder.

  “Hmph. Right.” Hamish rather thought he’d prefer to be lulled to sleep by the scent of violets and vanilla and sexually pleasured woman. But as that would never happen, lavender would have to do.

  The words of the lullaby Olivia had sung to Tilda floated into his mind.

  Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly. Rosemary’s green . . .

  What a beautiful voice the lass had. He’d missed her company at dinner last night. But he understood her need to mother Tilda. It was within her nature to care for others. Even in London when they’d first met, she’d gone out of her way to rescue that persistently mischievous cat she was minding.

  And last night, she’d sent him tea. No one had ever thought to do that for him before, and he was immeasurably touched. That sweet ache in the vicinity of his chest had started up again.

  Was this what Nate and Gabriel had experienced when they fell in love? This terrifying tenderness that threatened to unman a fellow? To overthrow any and all convictions one had to remain indifferent and invulnerable?

  Once attired in his preferred garb of kilt, boots, cambric shirt, and simply tied cravat, Hamish tucked the lavender posy into the pocket of his waistcoat before sliding on his coat of navy blue wool. Just on a whim. Not because it meant anything. It wasn’t a precious keepsake like the ones Olivia kept in her memento box. To think a hard-as-flint, battle-scarred Highlander like him would do anything that was remotely romantic or sentimental was ludicrous.

  Examining his reflection in the mirror to check that his leather eye patch was properly in place, Hamish looked himself in his one good eye and grimaced.

  It seemed the lies he was determined to tell himself were becoming more preposterous by the day.

  * * *

  * * *

  As soon as Olivia set foot in the nursery, Tilda squealed with excitement, dropped her honeyed crumpet onto her fine china plate, and rushed over to throw her chubby arms about Olivia’s legs.

  “Och, Tilda, lassie. You’ll make her ladyship’s skirts all mucky wi’ yer sticky fingers,” admonished Nurse Swan.

  Olivia ruffled Tilda’s curls. “It’s quite all right. I don’t mind.”

  Nurse Swan smiled. “Verra well. Would ye like to sit a wee while and take tea? I can ring down to the kitchen fer a pot of oolong. The mistress willna mind.”

  The mistress? Did Nurse Swan mean Lady Isobel? Of course, even though Hamish’s younger sister was only nineteen, it was only natural that she would have assumed the role of mistress at Muircliff. She would let the nurse’s slip of the tongue slide. “That would b-be just lovely,” she replied with an inclination of her head.

  Taking Tilda by the hand, Olivia returned to the table by the fire. It was a small setting of polished cherrywood with four dainty chairs, just perfect for a younger child like Tilda. Olivia carefully lowered herself onto a seat opposite her former charge. In a chair to Olivia’s left sat a lovely china doll with big blue eyes and blond ringlets. The doll was perched upon several cushions, and the skirts of her elegant lace gown had been arranged very carefully.

  “Her name is Mia,” Tilda said gravely. Addressing the doll, Tilda continued, “And, Mia, this is Lady Livvie. Now you must use your manners and curtsy.” She lifted the doll and made her perform a little dip upon the tabletop among a miniature china tea set, a jug of milk, and a plate of crumpets. “Just like that.”

  Olivia smiled and tilted her head in greeting. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Mia.” She caught Nurse Swan’s attention. The woman had settled in one of the window seats and had picked up a needle and thread to mend one of Tilda’s dresses. “I trust everything is going well?”

  “Aye, my lady. After ye left, Tilda went to sleep straightaway and I heard no’ a peep out of her. She is a verra well-behaved lassie. Bright as a button too. Just like my Lady Isobel used to be.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it.” Olivia was tempted to ask her about Hamish’s childish escapades after yesterday’s disclosure, but perhaps tales of sago pudding laced with frog spawn and other similar instances of tomfoolery weren’t fitting for Tilda’s innocent young ears.

  Tilda tugged on her sleeve and beckoned Olivia closer. “Does Lady Isobel like black dresses, Lady Livvie?” she whispered.

  The hair at the back of Olivia’s neck prickled. “I . . . I don’t know,” she replied softly. She glanced over at Nurse Swan, but her attention was focused on repairing the hem of Tilda’s gown. “I haven’t met her yet.”

  Tilda nodded. A small crease appeared between her brows. “There was a lady who came to visit last night. After Nurse Swan fell ’sleep.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “She snores like Lord Sleat . . . I mean Nurse Swan, not the lady in black.” Tilda’s bottom lip wobbled. “I didn’t like the strange lady, Livvie. I couldn’t see her face. I wondered if she might be Morag, the witch from the woods in your story.”

  Oh, my goodness. Tilda had seen the strange figure too. So it hadn’t been a dream. Not prone to flights of fancy, Olivia doubted it was a ghost. Hamish had mentioned that his sister was very upset when Lord Angus had driven her suitor away. Had Lady Isobel taken to wearing black? But how very peculiar and unnerving that she should creep into Olivia’s bedroom and Tilda’s while they were sleeping. An icy shiver trickled its way down Olivia’s spine.

  But she didn’t want to alarm Tilda, so she smiled gently and said, “It was probably just Lady Isobel who’d come to say hello but she discovered that you were asleep. I’ll make sure that both of us meet her this afternoon. Do you think that would be all right?”

  Tilda nodded and smiled. “Yes. I’d like that.”

  There was a light rap at the door, and Nurse Swan looked up from her sewing. “’Tis aboot time someone came to see wha’ I wanted,” she grumbled. “There isna tha’ many stairs to climb to the nursery.” Her shoulders rose and fell on an irritated sigh before she tersely uttered, “Weel, come in then.”

  But instead of a maid or a footman, it was Hamish who appeared in the doorway.

  Olivia’s breath caught. She hadn’t expected to see him at all this morning. When her breakfast t
ray had arrived in her room, the maid informed her that Lord Sleat was in the library, meeting with his steward about estate business and attending to correspondence.

  “My lord.” Nurse Swan rose and curtsied. Her plump cheeks had turned as rosy as apples. “I didna ken it was you. If I did, I wouldna have been so rude. What can I do for ye?”

  “I came to see how wee Tilda is faring this morning,” he said, approaching the small table. His gaze connected with Olivia’s. “And my wife.”

  “Och, weel . . .” The flustered nursemaid bobbed into another curtsy. “If ye will excuse me, my lord, I need to chase up a pot o’ tea fer her ladyship.”

  “Of course,” replied Hamish. “Tea sounds perfect.”

  As the door shut behind Nurse Swan, Hamish gestured at the empty chair at the table. “Do you mind if I join you, my fair ladies?”

  “I . . . I mean we would be most delighted. Wouldn’t we, Tilda?” said Olivia. “Only . . .” She nodded toward another larger chair by the fireside. “Perhaps you might be more comfortable if you chose a different seat, my lord.”

  “Och, no. There’s no need.”

  To Olivia’s utter astonishment, Hamish pulled out the remaining tiny chair, flipped out his coat, and then lowered his substantial yet lean frame onto the silk-upholstered seat. Because his muscular legs were so long, his kilt rode up a little and his bare knees bumped the table.

  Tilda giggled, and Olivia had to bite back a laugh too.

  “Good heavens, what on earth is so amusing?” asked Hamish, cocking an eyebrow.

  “You’re too big.” Tilda’s eyes sparkled with mirth.

  “Ah, but I’m also strong. And that’s because I drink all my milk.” With that Hamish picked up the jug and carefully poured a small amount into one of the miniature china teacups. “Would you care for some, Miss Tilda?” He glanced at Olivia. “My lady?”

  Tilda nodded and giggled again. “And some for Miss Mia, too, please.” She pushed forward a cup for the doll.

  “Of course.”

  After they were all armed with tiny cups of milk, Hamish took a dainty sip and declared it was delicious.

  “You seem in good spirits this morning, my lord,” remarked Olivia as they watched Tilda reach for her half-eaten crumpet.

  “Aye.” Hamish’s wide mouth lifted in a rare genuine smile. “And I believe I have you to thank for that, lass. The chamomile tea worked wonders, and I had the best sleep I’ve had in Lord knows how long.”

  “Oh . . .” Olivia felt a flush of pleasure warm her cheeks. “I’m so very pleased to hear that.”

  “And I trust you slept well too . . .”

  Olivia fiddled with the tiny handle of her teacup. “To be honest, not really.” She offered a weak smile. “I had a restless night. I suppose I’m not used to the sound of the sea yet.” She didn’t want to admit she’d been fretting about their marriage. Or that she’d had an odd visitation in the night, lest Hamish think she’d gone mad.

  Hamish nodded. “I’m sure you will grow accustomed to it.” He paused and took another sip of milk. “Actually, now that I’ve found you up here in the nursery, I’d like to speak with you about a particular matter or two. Nothing too serious.”

  Olivia’s curiosity stirred. “Yes?”

  “I’d like to introduce you to my sister, if I may. You and Tilda. She would like to meet you both. Very much. And I’m pleased to report she’s in much better spirits than she was when Angus first wrote to me.”

  Olivia smiled. “I’m glad to hear it. I would love to meet Lady Isobel too.”

  “Excellent. I think Isobel is arranging an afternoon tea in the drawing room for us all at three o’clock.”

  “I look forward to it. And is there anything else you wish to discuss?”

  “Aye. There is . . .” Hamish cast a look Tilda’s way before his gaze returned to Olivia’s. “I just received a letter via a courier this morning. I’m afraid the inquiry agent my man of affairs employed in London has not had any luck whatsoever in finding out about a certain someone’s parentage. Of course, the agent has only just begun his search, so it’s early days yet. But I’d rather hoped that because you’ve been spending so much time with Tilda of late, you might pick up another clue or two that would help. As I’ve said before, even the tiniest crumb of information could help.”

  Olivia nodded. “I haven’t heard anything new,” she said. “But I will keep my ears open.”

  Hamish smiled. “Thank you.”

  Nurse Swan returned with Daniels bearing a tray containing all the trappings required for tea making, and Olivia was soon busy dispensing grown-up-sized cups for Hamish and herself.

  The oolong tea was lovely and Hamish’s company lively. As Olivia watched him push Tilda on the old painted rocking horse by one of the windows, she marveled at how different he seemed today. Cheerful and playful rather than brooding. His ready smiles and deep chuckles were a soothing balm for her own spirits.

  Had a simple cup of chamomile tea and a good night’s sleep wrought such a change?

  Olivia had no idea, but it gave her a glimmer of hope for the future. Hamish maintained he didn’t want sexual relations with her because he didn’t want to get her with child—that he never wanted children, not even a male heir—but seeing how wonderful he was with Tilda, Olivia was more than a little curious and doubly perplexed.

  And still more than a little determined to find out why his conviction to remain fatherless was so steadfastly set in stone. Olivia could only hope that Lady Isobel might give her greater insight into the inner workings of Hamish’s mercurial mind.

  CHAPTER 16

  Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more deeply than he does the beauties of nature. The starry sky, the sea, and every sight afforded by these wonderful regions, seem still to have the power of elevating his soul from earth.

  Mary Shelley, Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus

  When Hamish came to escort Olivia down to Muircliff’s drawing room, she felt as if her stomach was churning even more than the constantly roiling sea below her bedroom window. How would the sister of a marquess look upon her—a shy, stammering interloper, the daughter of an erstwhile army captain turned arms manufacturer? She might be an heiress, but she really was someone of little consequence within the eyes of the ton. At least that’s what her aunt Edith always told her. Charlie, Arabella, and Sophie wouldn’t agree, of course, but they knew and loved her.

  She just prayed Lady Isobel would be inclined to get to know her rather than dismissing her outright. Because if she didn’t establish a rapport with Hamish’s sister, how on earth was she, Olivia, to fulfill her promise to Hamish? It would be difficult indeed to help Isobel overcome her heartache and assist with her debut next Season if they didn’t form some kind of amicable if not affectionate bond.

  “H-how do I look?” Olivia observed Hamish’s face anxiously. She hadn’t had time to meet with Mrs. Boyd about selecting a lady’s maid, so she’d dressed and styled her hair herself. She supposed she could have rung for a chambermaid to help, but when she had gone to her room to prepare, it had all seemed like too much bother.

  Now, as she fiddled with the lackluster curls framing her face and fretted over whether her mulberry wool gown was stylish enough and not too crumpled, she decided she really should have called for assistance.

  However, as Hamish’s gaze raked over her and she detected an appreciative gleam in his eye, she knew that her husband approved of what he saw at least. “You look very well, lass. But then you always do.”

  “Thank you,” she replied. “I’m not usually one to fish for compliments. I just want to make a good impression.”

  “Olivia.” Hamish drew close and lifted her chin with gentle fingers. “You are a beautiful young woman with the warmest smile and the kindest heart. Of course you are going to make a good impression. In fact
, I predict Isobel is going to adore you.”

  “I hope so.”

  He touched his chest. “I’m more than a wee bit hurt that you doubt me.”

  Olivia frowned. “I can’t help it. For such a long time I’ve b-been looked down upon. Well, except for those few people who are close to me. It’s hard for strangers to see beyond my halting speech. I see the pity or disdain in their eyes whenever my tongue gets tied in knots and I can’t get the words out.”

  “You’re not stammering much now.”

  She smiled shyly. “That’s because I’m getting to know you. The more time I spend with someone, the less likely it is that I’ll stammer.”

  Understanding lit Hamish’s gaze. “It might help you to know that Isobel feels a little like you when she first meets someone new.”

  Olivia gave him a quizzical look. “Does she have a stammer as well?”

  Hamish shook his head. “No. She has a pronounced limp. You see . . . she was born with a clubfoot.”

  “Oh . . .” Olivia frowned. “Is it . . . is the condition painful?”

  “No, I don’t believe so. But, like you, Isobel thinks others will judge her and find her wanting. That’s part of the reason why she’s reluctant to have a London Season. But, just like you, she’s pretty and accomplished and has a loyal, sweet nature. Any man would be lucky to have her as his wife.”

  Yet you don’t feel lucky to have me. Olivia dropped her gaze away from Hamish’s as the self-indulgent, bitter thought entered her mind. Aloud she said, “Yes. It certainly sounds that way. I only hope that I convince her that’s the case too.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Muircliff’s drawing room was located on the first floor, not far from Hamish’s library. Like most of the main rooms at the castle, lead-paned windows afforded one with spectacular views of the ever-changing sea and sky. This afternoon, bruise-colored clouds had rolled in, obliterating what little sunshine there had been earlier in the day. The turbulent sea had turned a sullen shade of dark gray.