Olivia caressed his beloved, smiling face. “Then say it again, my darling husband.”
“I love you.” He turned his head and pressed his lips to her palm. “I love you.” He brushed a strand of hair away from her flushed cheek. “I love you.” And then he dipped his head, and words were no longer necessary as he showed her how much she truly meant to him with his kiss.
EPILOGUE
Give me but a little cheerful company, let me only have the company of the people I love, let me only be where I like and with whom I like, and the devil take the rest, say I.
Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey
16 Grosvenor Square, Mayfair
October 18, 1818
Lady Sleat to see you, ma’am.”
Olivia smoothed her snowy muslin skirts and lifted her chin as she passed Mr. Finch and entered the drawing room of the town house Hamish now owned—a residence that had never, ever felt like home while she’d lived there.
She’d dressed with care for this occasion. Creamy pearls—another birthday gift from Hamish—adorned her throat and her ears, and her cherry red velvet spencer brought out the auburn tints in her dark curls. At least her lady’s maid, Eliza, had told her so as she’d put the finishing touches to Olivia’s Grecian-inspired coiffure.
To her surprise, Aunt Edith, Patience, and Prudence all curtsied with due deference when she paused on the edge of the Persian rug. Even more astonishing was the sight of Agnes Bagshaw, who presently lingered in a far corner of the room, dipping into a grudging semblance of a curtsy too. The woman’s expression was sullen, but Olivia really didn’t care. Not anymore.
“Oliv . . . I mean, Lady Sleat,” said Aunt Edith, drawing her attention. “Welcome home.”
“Yes, welcome,” chimed in Prudence, and curtsied again, quite unnecessarily. When Aunt Edith jabbed her with her elbow, her cheeks grew bright with color.
“You look well,” offered Patience. Her face was set in a perfectly polite expression, but her blue eyes dipped to Olivia’s throat. No doubt she was coveting Olivia’s pearls.
Olivia inclined her head in acknowledgment and attempted to calm her racing pulse and quickened breathing. She might be a wealthy, well-connected marchioness now, but that didn’t erase the ingrained feeling of inadequacy that knotted both her tongue and her belly as she prepared to speak. It shouldn’t matter that she stammered, but she knew how much her family looked down upon her because of it.
And then she remembered that Hamish and not a single one of her real friends cared a jot. They loved her all the same. They were her family and all she’d ever need.
The thought of their smiling faces lent her strength as she said with deliberate slowness, just as she’d rehearsed in front of her dressing table mirror, “Thank you for seeing me at such short notice. I . . . I won’t stay long as I’m sure you’re all rather busy.”
“Oh,” said Aunt Edith in the precise tone of one who’s been taken aback. “Are you certain? I’m sure Cook can prepare afternoon tea in a jiffy. And we still have a touch of a very nice Lapsang souchong in the tea caddy.”
“That all sounds lovely,” said Olivia. “But I’m afraid I have another en-engagement with Lady Malverne, Lady Langdale, and Lady Charlotte Hastings. You might recall we all attended Mrs. Rathbone’s Academy for Young Ladies of Good Character together?” She only felt a trifle guilty that she’d deliberately listed off the names of all her aristocratic friends.
Her aunt’s brow furrowed. “Oh . . . oh, of course.” She wrung her hands in apparent agitation. “So . . . so if you don’t mind my asking . . . I mean, I do not wish to appear rude . . . But what is the purpose of your visit, my lady? If . . . if there’s anything you need—although I believe your maid and housekeeper have removed everything from your old room—you only have to say so and I will endeavor to do my best to accommodate you. Indeed, your uncle and I are most grateful that Lord Sleat is content to let us reside here for the time being.”
Olivia smiled inwardly. She’d never thought she’d see the day her aunt would be fairly groveling at her feet. But she did not wish to prolong this interview. She had other, better things to do. “Lord Sleat is a most magnanimous man, and I’m blessed indeed to have met him. I could not wish for a more loving and attentive husband. But I digress. The purpose of my visit is to simply reassure you all”—Olivia caught the eye of her aunt, and her cousins in turn—“that I bear none of you any ill will despite your ill treatment of me.”
“Oh, that’s a bit much,” began Prudence, but Aunt Edith elbowed her again.
“Please disregard Prudence. She has no idea what she’s saying,” said Aunt Edith.
“I’m sure she does,” returned Olivia, “but I’m going to ignore her slip of the tongue.”
Prudence blushed, and Olivia continued. “Prudence and Patience, I also wish to inform you that I will sponsor your debuts next Season. But . . .” She paused, waiting for her cousins to stop squealing. “My charity will extend no further. I will not be taken advantage of.”
“Of course,” said Aunt Edith. “We wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing. Would we, gels?” She shot meaningful looks at her daughters.
“No, no we wouldn’t,” agreed Patience.
“We’ll be most grateful,” added Prudence.
“Yes, I’m sure you will.” Olivia replied with a tight smile. “Well, as pleasant as this . . . this reunion has been, I really must bid you all adieu. Until we meet again . . .” Olivia tilted her head, and her aunt and cousins curtsied once more.
“Good day, Lady Sleat,” they chorused as Olivia turned and quit the room. She couldn’t resist swaying her hips a little as she walked. She was married to a wicked rakehell after all, and he’d expect nothing less.
* * *
* * *
As soon as Olivia stepped across the threshold of Sleat House, Hamish emerged from the library, and despite the fact that there were servants present, he swept her up into his arms. “How did your meeting with your aunt and cousins go?” he asked after he’d finished giving her a resounding kiss.
Olivia smiled up into her devastatingly handsome husband’s face. Since they’d consummated their love and affirmed their mutual and undying devotion, she’d noticed a brightness in his expression and a spark in his eye that hadn’t been there before. It warmed her heart immeasurably to see that he was so happy. “It went well enough,” she replied, adjusting the fall of his cravat. She’d managed to dislodge some of the artful folds during their rather amorous embrace.
“One would hope they were suitably contrite.”
Olivia arched a brow. “I think we reached an understanding.”
“Excellent.” Hamish tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and escorted her toward the stairs rather than the drawing room, where she’d been intending to go.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked.
He grinned. “Upstairs. To our bedroom.”
“But Charlie, Arabella, and Sophie will be here soon. They’re going to help me plan the menu for tomorrow night’s dinner party. And it needs to be perfect. Aside from the fact Nate, Gabriel, and Max will be here, Lady Chelmsford and Lord Westhampton are going to attend too.”
“How soon is soon?”
“Half an hour.”
“That’s plenty of time for what I have in mind,” Hamish murmured, dropping a whisper-soft kiss beside her ear. “I swear to you, you won’t regret it.”
Olivia laughed as a heady mix of joy and desire brimmed inside her. “My darling husband, if you are making such a heartfelt promise, I’m absolutely certain that I won’t.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
An enormous thank-you must go to my brilliant editor, Kristine Swartz. I’m deeply grateful for your clear insight and patience, and for your ongoing faith in my stories. As always, I’d like to thank the dedicated staff at Berkley Romance, including my fab
ulous copy editor, the publicity and marketing teams, and also the design and cover art teams—my goodness, I fairly swooned when I first saw the cover for this book. Thanks to all of you from the bottom of my heart.
Of course, I also want to thank my amazing agent, Jessica Alvarez. I’m so glad I threw my hat into the #PitMad ring, and I’ll be forever grateful that you took a chance on me and this series.
And finally, I must thank my wonderful family once again for listening to my endless book talk, for your understanding and unfailing support, and, of course, for all the cups of coffee, both fresh and reheated. You know I could never have accomplished any of this without you.
TURN THE PAGE FOR A LOOK AT
THE FIRST BOOK IN AMY ROSE BENNETT’S
DISREPUTABLE DEBUTANTES SERIES . . .
HOW TO CATCH A WICKED VISCOUNT
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Disreputable Debutantes in the making!
A shocking scandal of epic proportions at a certain London school for “Young Ladies of Good Character” shakes the ton.
Does your genteel daughter attend such a den of iniquity? Read on to discover ten things one should consider when choosing a reputable academy . . .
The Beau Monde Mirror: The Society Page
Mrs. Rathbone’s Academy for Young Ladies of Good Character, Knightsbridge, London
Midnight, February 3, 1815
Heavens. Take care, Charlie.” Sophie Brightwell winced as her friend entered her bedroom and carelessly pushed the door shut with her slippered foot. The resultant bang was decidedly too loud in the relative silence of the dormitory wing of the Hans Place town house. “You’ll wake Mrs. Rathbone for sure. If she finds out what we’re up to . . .” Sophie couldn’t suppress a shiver.
Lady Charlotte Hastings—or Charlie to her friends—threw her a disarming smile as she deposited a large bandbox of contraband and a battered leather satchel on the end of the single bed. “Don’t worry so, darling Sophie,” she said as she untied the black satin ribbon securing the box’s lid with a flourish. “I just passed her bedchamber and she was snoring like a hold full of drunken sailors.”
Arabella Jardine, who was perched on the edge of a bedside armchair, pushed her honey-gold curls behind her ears and then smoothed her robe over her night rail. “Aye, ’tis true, Sophie,” she agreed in her soft Scots burr. “I suspect she’s been into the sherry again.”
Sophie pressed her lips together to suppress a small sigh. Even though she loved Charlie like a sister, the earl’s daughter didn’t have as much to lose as she did, or indeed their other two partners in crime this night—Olivia de Vere and Arabella—if they were caught flouting the young ladies’ academy’s strict rules. So while it was quite true that Mrs. Agatha Rathbone, the apparently upstanding, middle-aged headmistress of her eponymous boarding school, was fond of a tipple—or ten—on Friday evenings, and nothing short of an earthquake or a herd of rampaging elephants was likely to rouse her, Sophie was still anxious about the whole idea of a midnight gathering—especially because it was occurring in the room she shared with Olivia.
Sophie’s pulse leapt once more as the door opened again, this time admitting her roommate, bearing a tray of mismatched china teacups.
“Ah, perfect timing, Miss de Vere,” Charlie remarked as she lifted two dark glass bottles from the bandbox and brandished them in the air. “So what poison will you choose, my lovelies?” she asked, her topaz brown eyes dancing with merriment. “French brandy or port?”
Olivia carefully placed the tray on the cherrywood bedside table then tossed her dark braid over one slender shoulder. “Wh-what do you r-recommend? I h-haven’t tried either one.” Her manner of speech was an unusual combination of the lyrical and the discordant, her tone low and melodious with an appealing smokiness. Yet it was her stammer that drew attention; Sophie knew it tended to emerge when Olivia was nervous or extremely fatigued.
“My grandfather let me try a wee sherry at Christmas,” added Arabella. “But I’ve never tasted brandy or port wine.”
“Hmm. The port is probably a little smoother for unseasoned drinkers. But I’ve heard my brother Nate say French brandy is excellent. Perhaps we should all begin with that.” Charlie turned her bright gaze on Sophie. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes.” A burst of curiosity overcoming her trepidation, Sophie leaned across the quilted counterpane to examine the jumbled contents of the box. “So, what else have you smuggled in here?”
An enigmatic smile tugged at the corner of Charlie’s mouth. “Oh, this and that,” she said as she passed the bottle of brandy to Olivia to dispense. “All will be revealed after we raise our glasses—or I should say cups?—in a toast.”
“A toast to what?” Arabella asked as she took her brimming teacup from Olivia. Beneath her gold-rimmed glasses, her pretty nose wrinkled when she sniffed at the amber liquid. “You are being altogether too mysterious, Charlie.”
“To us, of course. And our new society.”
Sophie arched an eyebrow. “And does this society have a name?”
“It certainly does.” Charlie handed a teacup to Sophie and then beamed as she added, “Right, my darling girls. From this night on, we four shall henceforth be known as the Society for Enlightened Young Women, a society that will aim to provide its members with a stimulating education in all manner of worldly matters not included in this academy’s current curriculum. Such knowledge will, of course, be invaluable when each of us leaves here and is subsequently obliged to embark on a quest to secure an advantageous match during the coming Season. And as we all know how cutthroat the marriage mart can be, I, as head monitor, feel it is my incumbent duty to begin your supplementary tutelage sooner rather than later.” Her gaze touched each one of them. “If we are all in agreeance . . .”
Olivia nodded, Arabella murmured yes, and Sophie’s brow knit into a suspicious frown. “What worldly matters in particular?” she asked.
Charlie cast her a knowing smile. “Why, matters that all men, young and old, know about, but we, as the fairer, weaker sex, are supposed to remain ignorant of until we are wed. But by that time, I rather suspect it is too late. To my way of thinking, it would be much better to enter into marriage with one’s eyes wide open. And dare I say it, perhaps we might have a little fun along the way too?”
“Are . . . are you referring to sexual c-congress?” whispered Olivia, her doe brown eyes widening with shock.
“Yes, I am. Among other things. The art of flirting is also an essential skill any wise debutante should have in her arsenal, and naturally, it is a precursor to any activity of an amorous nature.” Charlie turned to Sophie and raised a quizzical brow; her eyes glowed with anticipation. “What say you, my friend? You haven’t responded yet.”
Sophie worried at her lower lip as she considered Charlie’s proposal. Even though she hailed from Suffolk and possessed a rudimentary knowledge of “sexual congress”—as it pertained to the mating rituals of farmyard animals, at least—there was still much she did not know about the ways of the world—and the male of the species—compared to Charlie.
Indeed, Lady Charlotte Hastings was the only one in their close-knit group who had several brothers—one of whom was a well-known rakehell. And she also had a bluestocking aunt who was purported to be a “liberal thinker” and “a woman ahead of her time.” For these reasons, Sophie didn’t doubt for a moment that Charlie possessed unique insights into the male mind and a singular knowledge of taboo topics.
Unlike her confident, highborn friend, Sophie was not a member of the haut ton. But if Charlie was prepared to equip her with the skills and knowledge of a sophisticated debutante, she would be an avid pupil. She’d much rather possess a modicum of self-assurance attending ton social events when the Season began in earnest. Heaven forbid that she should come across as a naive and nervous bumpkin who blushed and stammered whenever an eligib
le gentleman asked her to dance or even cast a glance in her direction. “Your idea has some merit,” she at last conceded with a smile. “After all, forewarned is forearmed. How often will we meet?”
“Oh, once a week, I expect,” said Charlie with a wave of one elegant hand. “And only when we are certain Rathbone is as drunk as a wheelbarrow. Which always seems to be on a Friday.”
Sophie inclined her head. “Then I agree too.”
“Excellent.” A spark of mischief lit Charlie’s eyes. “Now, if we were male students, at this point we’d no doubt plight our troths by doing something dreadful like expectorating across the room or slicing open our palms to make a blood oath, or at the very least we’d all expel some kind of foul air from an orifice we shall not speak of.”
A delighted bubble of laughter escaped Arabella. “Oh, Charlie. I suspect you are quite right. But I think your original suggestion of a toast will suffice.”
“Yes indeed,” agreed Sophie.
Charlie’s smile widened as she moved to the center of the worn hearthrug. The firelight limned her unruly chestnut hair in gold, and in that moment, Sophie couldn’t help but think her friend bore more than a passing resemblance to a fiery Valkyrie or Artemis, the huntress—she was a determined young woman on a mission and she would not be thwarted.
Lifting her chipped Spode china teacup, Charlie caught all of their gazes and led the toast. “Well then, without further ado, let us all raise our cups and drink to the Society for Enlightened Young Women. Long may we prosper. And may we all find happiness wherever life takes us.”
Sophie, Olivia, and Arabella raised their cups and in unison proclaimed, “Hear, hear,” before they each took a sip of brandy. Then Olivia coughed, Arabella gasped, Sophie’s eyes watered, and Charlie laughed.
How to Catch a Sinful Marquess Page 32
