To combat the wave of dizziness, she closed her eyes, her hands lingering about the marquess’s neck. Given that his hands remained about her waist, he didn’t seem in any hurry to relinquish his hold either.
Thick silky hair brushed the backs of her fingers. His distinctive masculine scent—a potent mix of leather, musk, and exotic spices—teased her senses, and for one mad moment, she contemplated pressing her face against his shirtfront, just so she could get closer to him.
No wonder Peridot had looked so beatific in his arms. He smelled divine.
“Are you all right, Miss Lavinia?” Lord Sleat’s voice was no longer a gruff rumble, but low and soft, like a lion’s gentle purr.
Olivia forced herself to open her eyes and take a step back. How fanciful she was becoming. Not to mention shameless. She might already have a sullied reputation in the eyes of her family and polite society, but she really shouldn’t risk making it worse. “Y-yes. I’m quite f-fine,” she stammered. Her cheeks bloomed with heat at the thought that the marquess might think she’d actually swooned in his arms.
Lord Sleat frowned down at her. “Not quite, lass,” he said, plucking her pink slipper from a nearby rosebush. Then, before she knew what he was about, he knelt on the grass, and like the prince in a fairy tale, he slid her slipper onto her foot. His touch seemed to sear through the silk of her stocking to the flesh beneath, making her shiver with awareness. He looked up at her, his mouth curving in a decidedly rakish smile as he relinquished her ankle. “Now everything’s just right.”
Olivia swallowed, and her blush deepened. “Th-thank you.” Was the marquess deliberately trying to make her swoon again? Because if he was, he was very close to succeeding.
She really should go.
Something tugged the back of her muslin gown, and when she glanced down, it was to discover Peridot had pounced on the torn flounce trailing from her hem. Naughty puss. She picked up the cat and bobbed a quick curtsy. “My lord, I thank you again for your . . . for your assistance. But it’s time P-Peridot and I bid you adieu.”
He inclined his head. “Of course.” He gestured toward the terrace and the open French doors. The shadows had lengthened, and candles and lamps glowed warmly in the elegant drawing room beyond. “Let me escort you out.”
Olivia froze. “Oh.” She shook her head. “I d-don’t think . . . Is there by any ch-chance another way? A gate leading to the m-mews? I don’t mean to cause offense, but as you are a b-bachelor, and I am . . .” She lifted her chin. “And I am unchaperoned, it m-might invite unwanted attention if I leave via your front door.” Good Lord, if her aunt and uncle’s priggish butler, Mr. Finch, caught sight of her leaving Sleat House, she’d be done for.
Lord Sleat nodded. “Ah yes, you are absolutely right. A discreet exit would be wise. Come.” He began walking with long, sure strides toward the end of the garden, and Olivia had to rush to keep up. “Let me show you something.”
He stopped before a narrow gap in a waist-high boxwood hedge. Ivy cascaded over the top of the wall like a tumbling, verdant waterfall. “See here.” With a sweep of his arm, Lord Sleat roughly pushed aside the heavy green curtain. “There’s actually a secret gate connecting these two gardens, but it hasn’t been used in years.”
Peering into the shadowed recess, Olivia blinked in surprise. “My goodness.” Sure enough, a small door of weathered gray wood had been neatly concealed in the brickwork. Ivy, moss, and lichen had crept their way over the paneling, and the ornate, wrought iron hinges were rusted with age.
Lord Sleat tugged at some of the ivy tendrils curling around the bolt. “I believe one of my wicked forebears had it installed so that he and his mistress—who resided next door—could conduct their clandestine affair more easily.” Lord Sleat flashed a grin over his shoulder. “Shocking, I know. Especially considering the lady in question was married.”
Oh.
The marquess jostled the bolt, and with a begrudging, wince-inducing grate, it slid back. Then, after delivering a small kick with his booted foot, he pushed the gate open on protesting hinges.
“There we are,” Lord Sleat said with a gentlemanly bow. “I trust this serves your needs.”
“Yes, it d-does. Most adequately.” Transferring Peridot to one arm, Olivia held her torn skirt with her other hand and dipped into another small curtsy. “Thank you again, my lord. For everything.”
“The pleasure has been all mine, I assure you.” He caught her hand and brushed a kiss over the back of her fingers, making Olivia blush to the roots of her hair. “And just in case you ever need to rescue Peridot again”—he winked—“I’ll leave the gate unlocked.”
Olivia inclined her head. “You’re too kind.”
He laughed, and mischief glinted in his eye. “You wouldn’t say that if you really knew me, lass.” Leaning closer, he added in a seductive, velvet-soft voice, “I’m afraid wickedness runs in the family, so you’d best leave before a sinful scoundrel like me is tempted to ruin more than your reputation. Farewell, my lovely Lavinia.”
Goodness. She couldn’t quite believe a man like Lord Sleat was flirting with tangle-tongued, quiet-as-a-church-mouse Olivia de Vere. She muttered a stammered farewell in return, then ducked through the small gateway and the curtain of ivy on the other side. When she emerged into the garden, she heard the door scrape shut. And her heart fell at the thought that she might never see her mysterious marquess again.
With a heavy sigh, she rounded a small knot of rosebushes and made her way back to the house with Peridot in her arms. No, she wouldn’t let disappointment weigh her down. Because even if Bagshaw tore strips off her, and her aunt and uncle locked her away in her room for the next week, she would not regret a single thing.
She’d finally met Lord Sleat, and he was everything she’d imagined him to be—ruggedly handsome and roguish, yet essentially a gentleman. A small smile played at the corners of her mouth. The memory of their fleeting yet thoroughly stimulating encounter would sustain her for many a long, lonely night to come, of that she was certain.
However, all her pleasant musings about Lord Sleat fled when she gained the upper gallery leading to the bedchambers. To avoid her aunt, uncle, and cousins, she’d given the drawing room and library a wide berth. Indeed, she didn’t encounter anyone besides a pair of housemaids lighting the last of the upstairs lamps . . . until she reached her room.
No sooner had she turned the brass handle than another door a bit farther along clicked open. And then a voice she both dreaded and loathed floated down the hall like a malevolent spirit.
“O-liv-liv-livia . . .” The singsong taunt, the mocking tone, was all too familiar. “How are you, my sweet little c-c-cuz?”
Damn, blast, and drat. Olivia opened her bedroom door and pushed Peridot inside before turning around to face her cousin Felix de Vere. The veritable bane of her existence.
The man her aunt and uncle wanted her to marry to keep her fortune within the de Vere family forever.
When pigs fly. Tamping down her dislike and dismay as best she could, Olivia pasted a neutral expression on her face as she forced herself to meet Felix’s frost blue gaze. He swaggered toward her in his perfectly tailored, ton-buck attire—purchased with her inheritance money, no doubt—then propped a shoulder against the beveled oak doorjamb. He was so close, crowding her in, attempting to intimidate her, she could smell the brandy on his breath. See the glints of gold in his evening beard.
For a man who was five-and-twenty, he was as immature as a playground bully. Not to mention as vain as a peacock.
“You, you’ve returned f-from abroad,” she stated as smoothly as she could. Considering her pulse was skittering around like a panicked field mouse about to be set upon by a weasel, she was surprised she could make her mouth work at all.
Felix smirked as he tossed a thick wave of tawny hair out of his eyes. “Clearly. But you haven’t answered my questio
n.” His insolent gaze traveled down her body, and then he laughed. “Good God, Livvie, you look like you’ve been tupped. Torn skirts. Flushed cheeks. Disheveled hair.” To emphasize his point, he plucked an ivy leaf from the top of her head and crushed it between his long fingers before dropping it on the Turkish runner. “What have you been up to?”
Olivia’s face grew hotter. Despite her best efforts to look him in the eye, her gaze slipped to his elaborately styled ivory cravat. “If you m-must know, I was rescuing my friend’s c-cat from a tree. In the back g-garden.”
“Rescuing a cat?” he scoffed, crossing one booted ankle over the other. “You must be joking.”
Olivia lifted her chin. “Of course I’m n-not. It belongs to Lady Charlotte Hastings, Lord Westhampton’s daughter and the Marchioness of Chelmsford’s n-niece. She’s away at the moment and—”
Felix raised his hand. “Enough. I don’t care who owns it or why you’re looking after it. Just make sure it doesn’t get under my feet, or I’ll snap its scrawny neck.” He clicked his fingers with a loud snap. “Like that.” Leaning closer, he lowered his voice. “You know I will, c-c-cuz.”
Olivia swallowed, and her hands curled into fists. She didn’t doubt him for a minute. She’d seen Felix kick Uncle Reginald’s hunting dogs when he thought no one was looking. Cruelty ran through his veins, of that she was certain. “You really are de-de-de—”
Before she could complete the word despicable, he gave a snort of laughter and chucked her under the chin. “Delightful. Yes, I know. Good night, c-c-cuz. Dream of me, won’t you?” He dipped his head and whispered in her ear, “Now that I’m back, you know it won’t be long until you’re mine.”
With that, he pushed away from the door and strolled back down the hall, humming an indistinct but jaunty tune.
Alone in her room, Olivia gently scooped Peridot off the damask-covered window seat and into her lap.
“Don’t worry, puss. I won’t let Felix hurt you,” she murmured. Peridot purred as Olivia ran her fingers through the cat’s soft-as-silk fur. Tears of despair burned Olivia’s eyes.
What on earth was she going to do?
Aunt Edith and Uncle Reginald had been dropping not-so-subtle hints for at least a year that the day would come when she would have to marry, and that the natural—actually, the only real—choice she had for a husband was Felix. Who else would want to marry a wicked hussy who’d been caught red-handed smoking cigars and swilling spirits while poring over shockingly lewd books and pictures at a young ladies’ academy?
After Olivia had been expelled from Mrs. Rathbone’s school, and the scandal had spread far and wide, her aunt and uncle had been so appalled and ashamed of her, she was denied any sort of real Season for three years running. And so had Prudence and Patience, much to their unrelenting chagrin.
Olivia sensed their resentment every time she walked into the room. The way they excluded her from conversations. Openly sniggered whenever she tripped over her words, which was often. She’d been relegated to the role of “poor, put-upon companion,” at the beck and call of her cousins and her aunt to perform the most menial, mundane tasks. Always overlooked, and frequently banished from their company when they grew tired of her presence.
Even then there was little reprieve, given she also had to contend with the constant scrutiny of the dour and pernickety Miss Agnes Bagshaw. While she’d ostensibly been employed as a lady’s maid for Patience and Prudence, the woman seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time monitoring Olivia’s activities and snitching to Aunt Edith if Olivia happened to “step out-of-bounds.” Ruining a gown as she’d just done would be enough to ensure she was confined to her room for at least a day with only the simplest of fare for meals.
There were times when Olivia felt as though the lowliest maid in her uncle and aunt’s household was afforded more respect and consideration. Things would have been so different if her parents were still alive . . .
Unbidden tears welled in Olivia’s eyes. They’d both been killed in a terrible carriage accident five years ago, and she missed their loving presence keenly. Indeed, it was a constant ache in her heart. She hated thinking about that day and all the might-have-beens. It hurt far too much.
Besides, dwelling on the past wouldn’t help her now.
Olivia emitted a despondent sigh and put Peridot aside. She really should change out of her torn gown and into her night rail. And then she’d attempt to remove the stains from her silk stockings before Bagshaw discovered the damage. She hadn’t any salt, but with any luck, soap, warm water, and a small soft brush would do the trick.
Settling on the low chair before her cherrywood dressing table, Olivia took down her hair. She couldn’t bear her melancholy reflection in the looking glass, so she dropped her gaze to the small pile of pins growing in front of her.
Things could be worse, she told herself. At least she had real friends in the world who did care for her. Unfortunately, the number of occasions she’d been allowed to socialize with Charlie, Sophie, and Arabella since the academy incident had been few and far between. A mere handful of rare, treasured moments that she held safe in her heart like all the precious mementos in her keepsake box.
A small, sad smile curved Olivia’s lips. Perhaps she should keep a section of her gown’s torn flounce as a special reminder of her encounter with Lord Sleat. She’d much rather marry a noble, considerate man like him.
A vivid memory of a glowing Sophie and her handsome, besotted bridegroom, Lord Malverne, suddenly entered her mind’s eye. In June, Lady Chelmsford had persuaded Aunt Edith and Uncle Reginald to let Olivia attend Sophie’s wedding at Lord Malverne’s lovely country estate in Gloucestershire. Lady Chelmsford, who’d acted as her chaperone, had promised to procure Almack’s vouchers for Prudence and Patience next Season if her aunt and uncle agreed to the arrangement. It was the perfect enticement; Aunt Edith hadn’t been able to resist.
Sadly, Lord Sleat hadn’t been at the wedding. Nor had Arabella; she’d been in Switzerland, where she met and married Gabriel, Lord Langdale. By all accounts, both she and Lord Langdale were deliriously in love. Just like Sophie and her adoring viscount.
Olivia began to ruthlessly braid her brown hair. It would not be like that with Felix. He despised her, and it was abundantly clear he only wanted her for one thing—her fortune. Marriage to him would be intolerable. But it had been easy to brush it all aside—his odious presence and her aunt and uncle’s insidious hints—when Felix was away at university, and more recently, when he’d embarked on a Grand Tour of the Continent this summer.
But now he was back . . . Olivia shuddered and gazed at her own reflection, her pale face pinched with worry, her dark eyes solemn. No one should have to marry against his or her will.
But what if Uncle Reginald and Aunt Edith do try to force you to marry Felix, Olivia de Vere? What will you do then?
The terrifying answer was: she really had no idea.
CHAPTER 2
There have been varying reports that a banshee was let loose in Grosvenor Square late on September 15 or thereabouts . . .
The Beau Monde Mirror: The Society Page
Sleat House, Grosvenor Square
September 15, 1818
God’s blood, he needed a drink.
Hamish ground his teeth together with gravel-crushing force as he sloshed whisky into a crystal tumbler. It didn’t matter that the walnut longcase clock in the corner of his library proclaimed the hour to be three o’clock in the afternoon. When faced with a fresh family crisis of this magnitude, he found that strong liquor was the only remedy that would at least partially dampen the angry fire raging through his veins. The anxiety churning in his belly.
Crossing back to his carved oak desk with his drink, he snatched up the letter the courier had delivered not ten minutes ago. Lord Angus MacQueen, his younger brother, had been quite clear. Their nineteen-year-old sis
ter, Isobel, had apparently been planning to run off with Angus’s tutor, a young man who also happened to be the local minister’s brother. Hamish had to give it to Brodie MacDonald; the young man had balls. But not for much longer.
Hamish’s mouth twisted with a sardonic grin. Not when he was done with him.
No, there wasn’t a single doubt in Hamish’s mind that he must return to his ancestral home, Muircliff Castle on the Isle of Skye, at once. Never mind that he’d been there three months ago, when everything had been quite fine. Mother had been well—well, as well as could be expected. And Isobel had seemed content enough.
However, he’d clearly been so preoccupied with battling his own demons, he failed to notice the tutor sniffing around his sister like a randy dog. And beneath his own roof!
A muscle pulsed in Hamish’s jaw. God, how he hated Muircliff, that great pile of rocks overlooking the cold, crashing sea. He didn’t want to go back. Hadn’t planned to go back until Christmastide. But needs must when the devil drives, hey, MacQueen?
Hamish drained his whisky and then replenished it. So much for his plans to have dinner at White’s with Max Devereux, the Duke of Exmoor, followed by an evening of gambling and then sampling the feminine delights on offer for the right price at the Pandora Club. Drinking and fucking half the night away were the only things guaranteed to help him sleep. If only they kept his nightmares at bay . . .
Christ. Hamish closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. A headache had begun to throb in his temple. He fervently wished he could forget. So many things.
He tossed back his second whisky in one long, smooth swallow, relishing the burn of the fiery liquid in his throat. He’d leave later tonight. According to Angus, Isobel was inconsolable that Brodie had been summarily dismissed and banned from setting foot in Muircliff Castle ever again. Indeed, she’d locked herself in her room and was refusing to see anyone or to eat anything substantial. The lad, only seventeen, had done well to avert a full-blown crisis and scandal. But it was ultimately Hamish’s responsibility to protect the family. He really couldn’t afford to delay his departure until the morrow—
How to Catch a Sinful Marquess Page 2