How to Catch a Sinful Marquess

by Amy Rose Bennett

  After carefully closing and locking her own bedchamber door behind her to make sure Tilda would be safe, she hastened to the marquess’s door and rapped. “Lord Sleat,” she called in a hushed but urgent tone. “Are . . . are you all right?”

  The moaning stopped abruptly, but then there was a loud thump and a smashing sound like glass breaking. Panic flared anew inside Olivia.

  “Lord Sleat!” She hammered on the oak door again, not caring if she disturbed anyone else now. “If you can hear me, p-please let me in—”

  At that moment, the door flew open, and she was dragged inside by a dark looming figure. Lord Sleat?

  Oh, thank God, it was. Even though the marquess’s face was in deep shadow, a branch of candles on the mantelpiece and a low fire in the grate gave off just enough light for Olivia to discern that it was indeed her employer.

  As the door shut behind her, she sagged against the wooden panels. The relief flooding her body turned her knees to water and made her head spin. “M-my lord,” she breathed. “I . . . I thought . . . I was worried . . .”

  Lord Sleat’s long fingers were still wrapped tightly around her upper arm. His grip loosened, but instead of dropping his hold, he slid his hand up to her shoulder. His touch was hot, burning her flesh through her night rail, making her shiver. Beneath the flannel fabric covering her chest, her nipples pebbled in the most alarming way.

  “Miss Morland. What in the devil’s name are you doing here?” The marquess’s voice was low and hoarse, roughened by sleep and perhaps those awful cries he’d made.

  Olivia swallowed. “I . . . I came to see if you n-needed assistance. You woke me, and then I heard something smash—”

  “My apologies.” Lord Sleat spoke with such deliberate slowness, Olivia wondered if he was more than a little foxed. “I have bad dreams sometimes . . .” With his free hand, the one that wasn’t resting upon her person, he pointed to the scarred side of his face. It was then that Olivia realized the marquess wasn’t wearing his eye patch. However, the fall of his tousled, overly long hair and the shadows shielded the worst of the damage.

  “Oh . . . oh, I’m so sorry.” Olivia’s heart clenched with sympathy. The marquess was such a powerful, confident, vital man, one wouldn’t suspect that he’d suffer from any sort of mental or emotional affliction. Clearly the injuries he’d sustained during his time in Wellington’s army weren’t just physical.

  Lord Sleat sighed heavily and swayed closer. “It’s no matter,” he murmured, his warm breath fanning across her cheek. “And I’m sorry for disturbing you.” He gestured to a patch of the floor beside his bed where shards of broken glass and a pool of liquid glittered in the dying firelight. “It seems I thrashed about a bit and knocked over a bottle.”

  Oh, my goodness. She’d been right. The marquess was foxed. Olivia could hear that his speech was slightly slurred. Smell the alcohol on his breath. And there were other scents—cigar or wood smoke, perhaps, and exotic spices like clove and sandalwood and musk. A heady blend of masculine fragrances.

  Olivia clutched her shawl more tightly about her shoulders as her awareness of Lord Sleat’s inherent maleness flickered to life. She was in a scandalous state of dishabille, and when her gaze fluttered downward, her breath quickened. The marquess was barely dressed as well.

  Indeed, he wore nothing but a pair of snug buckskin breeches and a dark blue velvet banyan. It hung open, revealing a wide expanse of muscular chest scattered with dark hair and, below that, an intriguingly ridged torso.

  The marquess was breathing heavily too. His large hand, which had remained on her shoulder all this time, skated up the side of her neck. Curled around her nape beneath her braid. And then his strong fingers speared into her hair, cradling the back of her skull, angling her head. Holding her steady. All his attention seemed to be focused on her mouth . . .

  The air caught in Olivia’s lungs, yet her heart bolted clean away.

  Was Lord Sleat going to kiss her?

  While a wholly feminine part of Olivia yearned to succumb, to simply close her eyes and give in to wicked temptation—just as she’d done countless times in her dreams—a sane part of her mind asserted this was a very bad idea. For so many reasons. She listed them in her head.

  Lord Sleat was inebriated and not making sound decisions.

  He was her employer.

  She was deceiving him.

  If he kissed her, she might not want him to stop . . .

  Swallowing past a throat tight with nerves and longing, Olivia forced herself to speak. “F-forgive me for saying so, b-but I think you’re a little drunk, my lord, and—

  Lord Sleat’s wide, chiseled mouth tilted into a smirk. “Aye, I am indeed, lass,” he said, his voice as rough as gravel. “Actually, it might surprise you to know, I’m not drunk enough.”

  Not drunk enough? Olivia’s mouth dropped open. The man was as drunk as a wheelbarrow. Or three sheets to the wind, as her father used to say.

  “Now, now, now, Miss Morland. Don’t go all mish . . . I mean missish on me. I can see by your expression that you’ve already passed judgment on my character. On my insalubrious ways and ungentlemanly conduct. If I were your guardian . . . well, if you had a guardian,” he amended, “I’d tell you to run a mile.”

  “I’m . . . I’m not being missish,” she protested, crossing her arms over her chest.

  Lord Sleat continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Not that I would blame you if you did decide to run a mile. I mean, look at me. I’m an utter disaster. Inside and out.” All at once he stepped away and raked his hair back from his brow, revealing the full extent of his damaged face; his left eye was still intact but clearly sightless, the orb glowing a strange milky white in the lambent light of the candles and dying fire. The jagged scar that bisected his eyebrow also pulled down the corner of his eyelid before taking a slashing turn across the crest of his cheek.

  Olivia tried to but failed to suppress a gasp; she wasn’t horrified or revolted by the sight of his injuries, just shocked. Unbidden tears brimmed in her own eyes. To think of the terrible pain Lord Sleat must have endured. No wonder he suffered from nightmares.

  The marquess’s mouth twisted into a sneer of a smile as he dropped his hand and his hair tumbled back into place. “So, my bonnie wee lassie, now that you’ve seen this particular beast in his true natural state, unfettered and unhinged, I suspect you’d like to go.”

  Olivia frowned. “I’m not frightened, if that’s what you’re thinking, my lord. And I won’t leave, not until I know you are all right. Can I get you anything? Summon Hudson? Help clean up the broken glass?”

  Lord Sleat waved a dismissive hand. A scowl replaced his smile. “There’s no help for me I’m afraid, Miss Morland. And as for the glass, don’t worry about it. You should go back to bed. Get some sleep.” He suddenly yawned and scratched the dark stubble on his jaw. “Christ knows I need some,” he muttered.

  Olivia worried at her lower lip, not at all convinced the marquess didn’t need some kind of assistance. But what could she do if he was going to reject any and all offers of help? So she released a defeated huff and said, “Well, if you’re sure then . . .”

  “I am.” Lord Sleat leaned past her and opened the door. “Good night once more, Lavinia Morland. I wish you nothing but sweet dreams.”

  Back in her own room, Olivia stoked the fire to life. Tilda stirred a little, then rolled over and began to suck her thumb.

  A wistful sigh escaped Olivia. If only she could sleep so soundly. But that wasn’t likely now that she’d learned something truly shocking. Despite the marquess’s intemperate tendencies, mercurial moods, and deeply wounded spirit, she couldn’t deny that she wanted him even more than she had before.

  Because in those tense moments when she’d been pressed against the door with the marquess only inches from her, her fingers had itched to push aside his robe and explore every
inch of his muscular body. Her lips had tingled at the thought of him kissing her. In fact, they still did.

  Olivia touched her mouth with trembling fingers and stared into the bright, dancing flames of the fire. How she’d summoned the strength to resist Lord Sleat when he’d held her in his handsome grip, she really had no idea.

  Yes, if the marquess had thought to scare her off by revealing his “beastly self” to her, he’d been sadly mistaken. Because the only thing truly frightening about that whole encounter had been how much she truly desired Lord Sleat.

  * * *

  * * *

  Good morning, Miss Morland. I trust you slept well.”

  Standing beneath the Hart and Hare’s portico, Tilda’s hand in hers while she waited for the carriage to be brought around, Olivia turned away from her examination of the muddy inn yard and the teeming rain, and dipped into a curtsy. “Lord Sleat. I did, thank you.” What did one more lie matter when she’d told a countless number already?

  “I’m very pleased to hear it,” Lord Sleat replied smoothly as he adjusted the angle of his beaver hat and then tugged on black leather gloves.

  From beneath her eyelashes, Olivia studied the marquess’s appearance. By rights, the man should be bed-bound with a frightful megrim, considering the amount of alcohol he’d imbibed last night. But then again, perhaps he was practiced at hiding how unwell he felt. He’d all but admitted to her that he habitually overindulged.

  However, aside from a slight tightening of the skin across his cheekbones and a deepening of the grooves around his mouth, he seemed perfectly hale and hearty. He certainly wasn’t pasty or green about the gills.

  Thanks to Hudson, his valet, he was freshly shaven, and above the collar of his great coat, she could see a glimpse of a starched snowy white cravat. While his leather eye patch was in place again, his right eye was a clear gray and his gaze steady as he finished adjusting his attire and turned to regard her face.

  Drat, he’d caught her examining him with unseemly interest. Embarrassed, Olivia looked quickly away and began to fuss with the ribbon ties on Tilda’s dimity cap.

  But she needn’t have worried that the marquess might tease her with a flirtatious remark or a smile. It seemed the wild, hot-blooded Highlander of last night had vanished and the nobleman with the practiced manners was back. “We’ve a fair way to travel today,” he said in a matter-of-fact yet perfectly polite tone of voice. “I’d like to cross the border into Scotland and spend the night at Gretna Green if at all possible.” His gaze returned to the rainy aspect. “Weather permitting of course.”

  For some reason she couldn’t quite explain, Olivia was irked. “Yes, of course.”

  The carriages rolled into the yard, and Lord Sleat beckoned over one of the footmen holding an umbrella. As the young man approached, the marquess tilted into a slight bow and gave her another perfunctory smile. “Daniels will assist you and Tilda from here, Miss Morland.”

  When the footman handed her into the carriage, Olivia realized why she was so annoyed. It was almost as though she and Lord Sleat were distant acquaintances—perhaps even strangers—exchanging inconsequential pleasantries. Perhaps he’d been so deep in his cups last night, he’d forgotten about her visit to his room. Or maybe he recalled everything that had occurred but had decided it was best to dismiss the whole incident and pretend it hadn’t happened. That he hadn’t tried to kiss her.

  Olivia sighed as the carriage door closed. In any event, she supposed it was better this way. She was used to being disregarded most of the time. After all, she was nothing but a lowly nursemaid. Someone of little consequence. An employer should keep his distance.

  Oh, but why did Lord Sleat’s sudden indifference hurt so much?

  Because you might just be starting to fall in love with the real man—with all of his flaws, and all of his scars—not just the make-believe hero of your daydreams.

  To think she might be genuinely developing true feelings for Lord Sleat, after only a very short span of time, was sobering indeed.

  To keep Tilda amused, and to take her own mind off the marquess and the long journey ahead, Olivia dug out several illustrated volumes from the concealed compartment beneath the opposite seat. The one Tilda chose to look at featured the fauna of Scotland, and Olivia proceeded to spin fanciful tales about all manner of creatures: eagles and stags, badgers and seals, wildcats and mountain hares. Tilda particularly liked it when she made up funny voices for each of the characters—a squawk for the eagle, a snuffling sound for the badger, a deep cultured voice like Lord Sleat’s for the stag, and a honking tone for the seal. To hear the child giggling warmed Olivia’s heart.

  When her ideas for storytelling ran dry, she sang songs and recited nursery rhymes until she heard Tilda’s tummy grumble. Then she opened up the basket of food that Lord Sleat always had stowed in the carriage, and they both dined on cheese and gammon sandwiches, crisp apples, and sticky jam tarts.

  Eventually, Tilda began to yawn and to rub her eyes; wrapped up in a tartan blanket, she curled up on the bench and fell asleep with her head resting in Olivia’s lap. Olivia stroked her bright curls and watched the raindrops sliding down the glass panes of the carriage windows.

  They’d been traveling for hours but the bad weather hadn’t abated, and their progress along the muddy country roads was slow. She felt sorry for the coach drivers, attendant footmen, and outriders. Being constantly lashed by the chill wind and persistent heavy showers would not be comfortable by any means. It seemed Lord Sleat really was determined to reach Skye as soon as possible.

  Not for the first time, Olivia ruminated about the nature of the urgent matter Lord Sleat needed to attend to at Muircliff. He never spoke of it, and it wasn’t her place to question him, but she did wonder if it might have something to do with his family. Because surely an estate matter could be handled by his steward or a man of affairs.

  She supposed she would soon find out.

  Lulled by the rocking of the cab and the sound of the rain drumming on the roof, Olivia soon felt her eyelids begin to droop as well. It wasn’t until the carriage was drawing to a stop at a busy coaching inn that she was jolted awake. Lord Sleat appeared at the slightly fogged window with his wide umbrella.

  “Where are we, if you don’t m-mind my asking?” said Olivia in a voice croaky with sleep when he opened the door and admitted a rush of cold air. “I’ve been dozing . . .” Indeed, the side of her face had been squashed against the leather squabs, and she had a horrible feeling there were crease marks on her cheek and that her hair was a frightful mess.

  But then again, the marquess had hitherto seen her in worse states of dishevelment and undress. Stuck on a wall with torn skirts and soiled stockings. Barefoot and wearing nothing but a nightgown and shawl . . .

  Lord Sleat’s gaze traced over her blushing countenance, but he replied to her question matter-of-factly enough. “We’re in Carlisle. We’ll change horses here even though we only have an hour or so to go until we reach Gretna Green. I’m concerned there might be flooding that will prevent our traveling farther if we don’t press on. I also thought you and Tilda might like a break.”

  Within a half hour, they were back on the road again, and the rain seemed to grow heavier with every passing mile. The windows kept fogging up, and Olivia had to wipe the glass clean periodically so she could take in the passing scenery. When they rumbled across a stone bridge and Olivia glanced downward, she was alarmed to see how swollen the river rushing below it had become; the brown, turbulent waters were flowing so swiftly, one would surely be swept away within seconds if one fell in.

  Somehow, she also felt reassured. They were almost in Scotland, and no one knew where she was. She would be hidden.

  She would be safe.

  The carriage’s progress slowed to a snail’s pace whenever they forded a section of low-lying road that lay underwater or if the muddy surface was part
icularly churned up. Lord Sleat had told Olivia before they’d quit Carlisle that she’d know they were very close to Gretna Green when they crossed a russet-bricked bridge spanning the river Sark.

  So when the horses picked up their pace and Olivia spied the Sark Bridge through her window, she leaned forward in her seat, eager to see her first glimpse of Scotland. Lord Sleat had also informed her that they’d be staying at Graitney Hall, a well-appointed inn on the northern edge of Gretna Green. She couldn’t wait to sit before a toasty fire, warming her stiff, cold fingers about a hot cup of tea—

  The carriage suddenly gave a violent pitch forward as though the horses had bolted, and then slid sideways through the mud before hitting a grassy embankment.

  Tilda squealed with terror, and Olivia clutched frantically at the little girl to stop her from flying off the seat. But it was to no avail. The carriage bounced and skidded back onto the road before careening off the opposite bank . . . and then the whole cab listed sideways and began to topple over. Someone screamed, glass shattered, and Olivia hurtled headlong into a deep black void . . .

  CHAPTER 7

  Receiving no answer, he went to the carriage, and found her sunk on the seat in a fainting fit.

  Ann Radcliffe, The Mysteries of Udolpho

  The English-Scottish Border, Cumberland . . .

  A frantic series of shouts followed by the scream of a horse and a resounding crash made Hamish start, tearing him out of the self-inflicted, self-pitying doldrums he’d been wallowing in for most of the day.

  What the bloody, blazing hell had just happened?

  Terror gripped his gut, but before Hamish could look back through the rear window—the horrendous sounds had come from behind—or direct his driver to stop, his carriage lurched to an abrupt halt.