Felix—after Olivia’s discovery yesterday—had the most to lose and would no doubt be dogged in tracking down her whereabouts. But she was counting on the fact that no one would be able to establish a link between her and Lord Sleat. If she could just stay hidden at Muircliff Castle on Skye until she turned twenty-one in mid-October, then she would be free in a legal, if not a financial, sense. Her uncle couldn’t dictate where she lived or whom she could see. She would not need his permission to wed. Of course, both Uncle Reginald and her trustee, Mr. Thackery, might not release her fortune if they deemed her choice of husband unsuitable, but she would deal with that if and when such an eventuality arose.
Olivia’s conscience pricked more sharply than a bramble hedge whenever she contemplated the fact that she was lying to Lord Sleat about who she really was and why she’d jumped at the chance to offer her services as a nursemaid. Despite the marquess’s forbidding appearance and roguish reputation, Charlie had been correct; Lord Sleat really was a noble gentleman. He definitely deserved to be on the list of eligible bachelors, entitled “Rakes of Interest,” a list that had been compiled by the Society for Enlightened Young Women at the beginning of this year’s Season. Charlie had surmised that rakehells might be the only men in London willing to overlook all of their scandal-stained pasts. And so far, she had been correct in that regard: shy Sophie had well and truly ensnared the affections of the wicked rake Viscount Malverne, and bluestocking-to-her-very-bones Arabella was happily wed to the former libertine but now thoroughly besotted Earl of Langdale.
At long last, Olivia would be spending an inordinate amount of time in the company of the marquess she’d mooned over from afar.
Charlie had long ago suggested that the best way to snare a rake’s attention—and then perhaps win his love—was to infiltrate his natural habitats and study his interests. Indeed, Olivia suspected the main reason Charlie had asked her to look after Peridot was that her friend knew the cat would stray into her neighbor’s back garden at some point. And yes, Charlie’s plan had worked even better than expected. Olivia now had ample opportunities to learn all about Lord Sleat.
Not that it would really do her any good. Not when she was pretending to be someone else.
Olivia sighed as she drew a sleepy Tilda against her side. As she studied the streets of London, already bustling with activity in the gray early-morning light, her eyelids began to droop with weariness too. Daydreams about happily-ever-afters were all well and good, but Lord Sleat wasn’t a suitor at a ton ball and she wasn’t a debutante with an impeccable pedigree and an unblemished reputation. He was her employer, and she was practicing a terrible deceit. Leaden guilt weighed heavily upon her heart.
At some point, Olivia knew she would have to confess all to Lord Sleat. She just prayed that when the moment came, he would understand why she’d resorted to subterfuge, and forgive her. Because if the man she’d dreamed of for so long ended up despising her, she really didn’t think she could bear it.
CHAPTER 5
Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly,
Rosemary’s green.
When I am king, dilly dilly,
You shall be queen.
“Lavender’s Blue,” eighteenth-century folk song
The Hart and Hare Inn, Kendal, Cumberland
September 17, 1818
A dismal twilight was cloaking the hills in a chill gray mist as Hamish directed his driver to pull into the Hart and Hare coaching inn on the outskirts of Kendal. After traveling solidly for two days and an entire night with only the briefest of breaks to change horses and attend to the call of nature, everyone deserved a decent rest before they continued north.
Not only had Miss Morland dealt with the furious pace he’d set with a stoicism that he couldn’t help but admire, she’d also been assiduous in caring for Tilda. Even though they’d traveled in separate carriages, he’d observed that the little girl seemed content enough whenever they’d stopped to stretch their legs in an inn yard or snatch a quick meal in a taproom. There’d been no more tears—not that he’d seen, at any rate—and he was nothing but relieved that things had worked out so well given the complexity of the situation.
Of course, alone in his carriage, he’d had ample time to sift through all the names of his past paramours—at least the ones he could remember. For once in his life, he was almost ashamed of how long the list actually was. However, in the end, the exercise proved to be futile. He still had no idea if Tilda was really his. And if she was, who the hell her mother might be.
He’d also had hours and hours to catch up on slumber. But again, that proved to be a fruitless endeavor. He was a restless sleeper at the best of times, and his insomnia had worsened because he was plagued by a surfeit of entirely inappropriate and entirely carnal thoughts about the lovely Miss Morland.
Never in his life had he lusted after a female in his household staff. Nor a lass so young. Good God, he was a decade older than the wee chit. It was most unsettling that certain aspects of her figure—the shape of her long, slender legs when a gust of wind pressed her skirts against them, or the delicious swell of her hips and fulsome breasts beneath an entirely sedate traveling gown—were enough to heat his blood and accelerate his pulse; the sensation was not dissimilar to downing half a dozen drams of whisky in quick succession.
More than once he’d caught members of his own staff and male travelers at other inns casting Miss Morland sly, lascivious glances. He couldn’t really blame them, not when he was guilty of the very same behavior. But still, it gave him a peculiar sense of unease, a sharp, stabbing feeling of resentment that he suspected was jealousy, an emotion he’d hitherto been unaccustomed to.
Indeed, he was presently being assailed by the inconvenient and most unwanted feeling as he alighted from his coach and saw that his footman, Daniels, was in the process of handing Miss Morland down. The cheeky young buck even cast her a thoroughly teasing, lopsided smile and a wink before he relinquished her gloved hand and turned to pick up Tilda. As Miss Morland lifted her skirts to keep them out of the muck of the yard, Hamish approached and offered his arm. Was that a telltale flush of pleasure across her cheeks?
He gave an inward sigh. He shouldn’t behave like an aggrieved suitor. He had no claim on Miss Morland whatsoever. As long as she did what she’d been employed to do, he couldn’t really complain about a wee bit of harmless flirting. Still, he’d keep a watchful eye on Daniels and his other footmen. He’d not tolerate things going further.
Miss Morland readily tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. However, the brim of her bonnet shielded her expression from him as she murmured, “Th-thank you, my lord. How long do we have before we depart again?”
Hamish steered her around a rather unsavory-looking puddle. “Why, we have all night, Miss Morland. I’ve decided we all need a decent night’s rest. We still have a long way to travel.”
“Oh . . . oh, that’s wonderful,” she replied. “Our carriage is very well sprung, but all the same, it will be lovely to sleep in a bed tonight. I’m sure Tilda will appreciate it.”
“Aye. Indeed.” They’d gained the covered portico of the inn, and Hamish held open the door for her as he would do for any well-bred young lady. Although Miss Lavinia Morland claimed she was from a genteel yet impoverished background, he was also aware she had very wealthy relatives. And if he didn’t look out for her, who would?
Once inside, Hamish got caught up in securing suitable sleeping quarters for everyone. He also hired a private dining room. “Miss Morland, I expect you and Tilda to join me for dinner at seven o’clock sharp,” he said after he’d made the arrangements.
“Of course, my lord.” Miss Morland had taken Tilda from Daniels and had settled the little girl on her hip as naturally as any mother. The child snuggled into her nurse’s shoulder, and Hamish marveled at how quickly the two seemed to have formed an affectionate bond.
If Miss
Morland thought it odd that he’d asked her to dine with him, she didn’t show it by way of expression. Perhaps she simply thought her employer wished to spend a little more time with a child who might very well be his daughter.
As Hamish watched her follow one of the inn’s chambermaids up the stairs to the upper floor where the bedrooms lay, he couldn’t help but wonder if that really was the true motive underlying his invitation.
* * *
* * *
Olivia cast aside the Times onto the small pile of other London newspapers the young chambermaid had supplied at her request along with a pitcher of piping-hot water for washing. Alone in her room, Olivia had taken the opportunity—her first in the last two days—to quickly flip through all the pages from front to back, scanning every article in each paper, but she came across nothing related to her disappearance. Thank God.
It seemed she’d been correct in her assumption that her family would be leery of causing a great kerfuffle. Though that didn’t mean Uncle Reginald and Felix weren’t still looking for her.
The small mantel clock above the fireplace chimed the hour—six o’clock—and Olivia stirred. She needed to get herself ready. She had anticipated that she would order a tray for both her and Tilda, so it was a surprise indeed when the marquess requested their presence at dinner. It seemed highly irregular. She was certain that men like Lord Sleat didn’t routinely seek out the company of their child’s nursemaid. Indeed, if it weren’t for Tilda’s presence, Olivia and the marquess would ostensibly be alone.
Olivia’s cheeks were feverishly hot and blooming with bright color as she quickly splashed fresh warm water into a chipped ewer and washed her face and hands. She’d already helped Tilda to bathe and change into fresh clothes; Olivia also tied a pale blue satin ribbon in the child’s toffee brown curls to match the sash on her fine muslin dress. Even though Tilda’s mother had given her daughter up, it appeared she’d had sufficient funds to provide good-quality clothing for her child.
Tilda was presently curled up in an armchair before the fire, studying one of the illustrated books on flora and fauna that Lord Sleat had stowed away in their carriage to keep her entertained. To think a man like the marquess had been so thoughtful—especially given the fact that he had so much else on his mind—touched Olivia deeply.
It seemed the silly tendre she’d been harboring for a man she knew virtually nothing about—bar his wicked reputation—was beginning to grow and deepen, despite her best efforts to quash it.
Telling herself the only reason she was taking trouble with her appearance was to make herself presentable—she was dining with a marquess, after all—she spent a few minutes repinning her hair into a low and becoming chignon at her nape. Then she dug through her valise and selected a fresh gown of mulberry-colored wool. The small looking glass by the washstand revealed that her cheeks were still pink, so there was no need for her to pinch them.
Tilda appeared beside her and tugged on her skirts. “You look pretty, Miss Devinia,” she said softly. “A bit like my mama.”
If Tilda had suddenly sprouted cherub’s wings and flown about the room, Olivia would have been less surprised. For the past two days, she’d said little more than yes or no in response to any of Olivia’s questions. And now that the little girl had attempted to say her name—well, her assumed name—meant a lot to Olivia. Even more astounding was the fact that Tilda had disclosed something about her mother. Would she be able to tell her anything else?
Olivia knelt down and took the child’s tiny hands in hers. “Why, thank you, Tilda,” she said gently. “Does your mama look a little like me then?”
Tilda nodded, her blue gray eyes solemn, but she didn’t offer anything further.
“Does . . . does she have hair like mine?” Olivia touched one of the tendrils by her temple. “Is it dark brown?”
Tilda shook her head this time. “No, it’s this color.” She pointed to her own hair. “And curly.”
“Oh. And does she wear papers to bed to curl it? Or use curling tongs?”
Tilda shook her head. “No. It’s just curly.”
It wasn’t a revelation by any means, but at least it was a start. At any rate, Olivia would be sure to share this new detail with the marquess. Aloud she said, “Well, she must be very pretty indeed if her hair is like yours.”
Tilda offered a shy smile, but then tears brimmed in her eyes. “I miss Mama.”
Olivia’s heart cramped with sadness as she drew the child close for a hug. “I know, dear one,” she whispered against Tilda’s hair. “Lord Sleat and I will find out where your mama is and take you b-back to her. But first we are going on a grand adventure.”
“That’s what my mama said.”
“See, there you are.” Olivia sat back on her heels and gently wiped the tears from Tilda’s cheeks. “Everything will b-be all right.”
A small crease appeared between Tilda’s fine eyebrows. “Why is your talking so bumpy, Miss Devinia?”
Olivia smiled. She wasn’t offended at all by the child’s question. “To be perfectly honest, I’m not really sure. Talking can be tricky sometimes. And it has always been for me. Ever since I was a little girl just like you.”
Tilda nodded sagely. “It’s tricky for me too. I can never say”—her forehead wrinkled with concentration—“efe . . . efelent.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” agreed Olivia. “Though, sometimes I find it helps to break big words into smaller bits. Like this: ella . . .”
Tilda dutifully copied. “Ella . . .”
“Then you add ‘funt.’ Ella . . . funt.”
“Ella . . . funt.” Tilda smiled. “Elephant.”
“Perfect.” Olivia smiled back. “Do you think you’re ready for dinner?”
Tilda nodded. “Oh, yes please, Miss Devinia.”
Miss Devinia. Olivia didn’t have the heart to correct Tilda’s pronunciation of her name at the moment. Especially since it wasn’t even her real name to begin with. Perhaps that could be a lesson for another day.
* * *
* * *
The Hart and Hare’s private dining room was a cozy, perhaps even intimate room; the flickering light generated by the blazing fire and numerous clusters of fat beeswax candles danced about the wooden wainscoting and the low-beamed ceiling. The curtains of burgundy red velvet were drawn against the cold, drear night. The weather had deteriorated; the wind had picked up and squalls of rain hit the windowpanes, making them rattle intermittently. Thunder growled in the distance.
Hamish congratulated himself on making the decision to spend the night here as he dropped into a sturdy Jacobean-style chair of blackened oak at the dining table already set for dinner and poured himself a glass of claret. While there was a pressing need to get to Skye as soon as possible, there was no sense putting everyone in danger by continuing on through the darkness, doing battle with the elements.
He was particularly aware that he now had a duty of care toward not only Tilda but also Miss Morland. What a dashed nuisance it was that he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about the young woman in wholly inappropriate ways. The fact that he’d had been obliged to install Miss Morland and Tilda in the chamber adjacent to his wasn’t helping matters—the inn was full to its bursting point, no doubt due to the onset of the inclement weather. Of course, the presence of the child would assuredly have a dampening effect upon his unseemly desire, but just the thought of Miss Lavinia Morland next door to him in any state of dishabille was still damnably arousing.
To ensure he had any chance of sleeping tonight, it was best he get well and truly soused. To that end, Hamish promptly downed his claret and refilled his glass . . . and then there was a knock at the door. Daniels, who stood on duty, opened it to reveal Miss Morland and Tilda.
Even though Miss Morland was one of his staff, he rose as any gentleman would and bowed as she entered. “You’re early,”
he remarked as she and Tilda approached the table. The clock on the wooden mantel revealed the time to be ten minutes to seven.
“And so are you, my lord,” she replied with a shy smile. The candlelight lent her dark brown eyes a mysterious, luminous quality he found most appealing. “In any case, it would be poor f-form indeed to keep my employer waiting.”
“Indeed.”
The footman drew close, perhaps to seat the new arrivals at the table, but Hamish waved him away, yet again unaccountably disgruntled by the young man’s eagerness to court the nursemaid’s attention. “Daniels, make yourself useful and chase up our meal,” he instructed, pulling out a nearby chair for Miss Morland instead. “And then consider yourself dismissed for the evening. We shall dine à la française.”
“Aye, my lord.” Daniels’s face fell, but nevertheless he complied. However, Hamish didn’t miss the longing look he threw the nursemaid before the door closed behind him. The lad would be better off chasing the barmaids in the taproom.
Miss Morland hovered by her seat. A slight frown pleated her brow. “I suspect Tilda will need to sit upon a cushion or two to reach the table, my lord.”
“Yes. You’re quite right.” He snagged two cushions from a damask-upholstered sofa by the fireside and stacked them on another chair before lifting the light-as-a-feather child and placing her on top. “Will that do, Miss Tilda?” he asked, pushing the chair in carefully so the cushions wouldn’t wobble too much. He didn’t want her to fall.
The child stared wide-eyed at him for several seconds before nodding. “Thank you, sir,” she murmured.
An unexpected warmth spread inside Hamish’s chest. It pleased him that the bairn didn’t find him quite so frightening anymore. Perhaps she might eventually be coaxed into talking to him more about her mysterious mama. “You’re very welcome, wee one.”
How to Catch a Sinful Marquess Page 7