How to Catch a Sinful Marquess

by Amy Rose Bennett

  Yes, she needed to be realistic about her situation. She needed to firmly put aside these persistent, starry-eyed thoughts that Lord Sleat might actually be developing tender feelings for someone like her—an unqualified nursemaid who could barely get a word out most of the time, including her name, real or otherwise. And when he did eventually learn the truth about her—as he was bound to—he’d surely view her as a troublesome chit. An encumbrance or, worse still, someone who couldn’t be trusted.

  Someone not worthy of love.

  A tear slipped onto Olivia’s cheek, and she brushed it away with an impatient swipe of her fingers. Her parents had loved her, and her friends did too. She shouldn’t be so maudlin and self-defeating.

  She did deserve love. And one day, God willing, she would find a man who truly cared for her and her alone. A man who didn’t give a fig about her stammer or her money.

  Despite Olivia’s best efforts to quash the thought, her foolish heart whispered: If only that someone could be Lord Sleat.

  * * *

  * * *

  This is everything, my lord.”

  “Thank you, Daniels.” Hamish frowned as he regarded the items spread out on the oak table in his bedchamber: Miss Morland’s ruined valise and a pile of damp, muddy belongings beside it. “I’ll need you to send up one of the chambermaids to attend to the laundry. Miss Morland will need something fresh to wear.”

  “Aye, my lord. I’ll do it straightaway.”

  Daniels took his leave, and Hamish propped a hip on the edge of the table. There was also an array of miscellaneous items that had apparently been retrieved from the interior of the coach: the books he’d selected from his library at Sleat House to keep Tilda entertained; Miss Morland’s crushed straw bonnet and her soiled traveling cloak; and a small stack of leather-bound volumes with various titles—Northanger Abbey: and Persuasion. The Mysteries of Udolpho. Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus. Marmion: A Tale of Flodden Field.

  Hamish picked up Walter Scott’s book, the only one he’d read. Of course, he’d heard of the other titles, particularly Frankenstein. It seemed Miss Morland preferred romantic and gothic literature. He’d never have suspected that this quiet, sweet-natured young woman might have a taste for things that were dark and passionate. What an intriguing lass she was.

  Hamish flipped open Northanger Abbey: and Persuasion and perused the first page. And then he blinked in astonishment. The heroine’s name jumped out at him from the very first line. Catherine Morland.

  Morland.

  How odd. Of course, it could just be a coincidence that his nursemaid and the heroine of the book she was currently reading shared the same surname. Morland was a perfectly ordinary last name. And probably not all that uncommon.

  But still . . .

  Hamish frowned. From the very beginning he’d harbored suspicions about Lavinia Morland’s background. And this discovery only compounded them.

  On the table, there was one other item that intrigued him as well—a slim, rectangular box fashioned from satinwood. It was an exquisite piece of marquetry. The glossy lid was inlaid with tortoiseshell, ivory, and various types of wood veneer to create a delicate pattern of flowers, dragonflies, and butterflies. Hamish picked it up to examine the design . . . and that’s when the brass clasp came apart and the box’s contents spilled out.

  Damn. Hamish didn’t want to invade Miss Morland’s privacy—he already felt bad enough that his footmen, Daniels and MacSwain, had been handling all her clothes. But Miss Morland had suffered a shock and a knock to the head, so in all good conscience, he couldn’t have asked her to pick up her own garments off the roadway in the drizzling rain.

  Even if he hadn’t meant to look at Miss Morland’s personal effects—at first glance the items all appeared to be keepsakes—it was too late now. All manner of odds and ends were scattered across the table or had fallen onto the floor: a fan-shaped shell, a neatly folded bill of fare from Gunter’s Tea Shop in London, a scarlet ribbon, a comb inlaid with mother-of-pearl, a scrap of pink muslin (that seemed vaguely familiar, but he wasn’t sure why), a silver locket, and a kerchief. The last two items were marked with the initials GdeV.

  If Hamish hadn’t been intrigued before, he certainly was now. The locket and the very feminine scrap of fabric—a confection of fine linen and lace that smelled faintly of violets—clearly belonged to a woman whom Lavinia Morland was fond of. Someone from the de Vere family.

  Hamish suddenly wished he’d paid more attention to what MacAlister, his butler, had told him about his wealthy Grosvenor Square neighbors before he’d left London.

  Blowing out a sigh, Hamish carefully placed all of Miss Morland’s mementos back inside the box and refastened the clasp. While he’d like to find out more about the lass and her family, now clearly wouldn’t be a good time, considering the ordeal she’d just endured. It was definitely a conversation for another day.

  Although, when all was said and done, Miss Morland was doing an admirable job as a nursemaid; he couldn’t fault her dedication to Tilda. So what did it really matter if the lass was less than forthcoming about her past? She’d witnessed the loss of her parents in a tragic accident, had been forced to rely on the charity of her extended family, and was now striking out on her own. There was nothing wrong with any of that.

  Hamish’s mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. No, not everyone had a past as shameful as that of Hamish Torquil MacQueen, the Marquess of Sleat, the Earl of Eyre, Chief of Clan MacQueen of Skye, and last but not least, the most befitting title of them all.

  Inveterate sinner.

  CHAPTER 8

  A sudden scud of rain, driving full in her face, made it impossible for her to observe anything further, and fixed all her thoughts on the welfare of her new straw bonnet.

  Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey

  Gretna Green, Scotland

  September 19, 1818

  The sky was a solid iron gray, and the wind tugging at her straw bonnet was chill as Olivia set out for the village of Gretna Green on foot.

  She was grateful for several things this afternoon. Lord Sleat had quite unexpectedly presented her with a brand-new hat this morning because her leghorn bonnet had been ruined in the crash and she hadn’t another. To think he’d gone into the village and chosen something himself touched her deeply. Again she told herself that the gesture was nothing more than noblesse oblige, but she was quite certain most masters wouldn’t go out of their way to replenish the wardrobes of their nursemaids.

  The marquess had also given her a few hours off so that she might finish her letters and post them. Tilda was currently being looked after by Marjorie, one of the inn’s young chambermaids, and Lord Sleat’s footman, Daniels. He’d offered to take Tilda for a pony ride around the grounds of Graitney Hall to keep her amused, and when the little girl’s face lit up, Lord Sleat hadn’t had the heart to say no.

  The marquess had also offered to use a private courier to deliver Olivia’s letters, but she was concerned he would become suspicious of her identity when he read the names and addresses of the recipients: Deerhurst Park in Gloucestershire belonged to his good friend Nate Hastings, Lord Malverne, and Hawksfell Hall in Cumberland was the ancestral seat of Gabriel Holmes-Fitzgerald, the Earl of Langdale. And he would surely know Lord Malverne’s younger sister, Charlie, who was currently residing at her father’s estate, Elmstone Hall, also in Gloucestershire. As soon as he read the names of her friends—Lady Charlotte Hastings, Lady Malverne, and Lady Langdale—she’d be questioned and summarily dismissed. She hated being dishonest, but she just couldn’t afford to jeopardize her own safety.

  Graitney Hall’s innkeeper had kindly informed her that the proprietor of Gretna Green’s general store also served as the village postmaster. The village was small, so it would be easy enough to find. And as the rain was holding off, Olivia reasoned the fresh air and the walk would do her good. Th
e lump on her forehead was still sore to the touch and a horrid purple bruise had flowered, but she trusted the arrangement of her hair and her new bonnet would hide the worst of it. Not that she was vain by any means. She did, however, wish to avoid stares and any inconvenient questions from complete strangers about what had happened to her. She’d barely be able to get a word out, and there was nothing worse than being stared at as though one were a spectacle at a fair.

  She gained the village in good time, and once her letters were posted—she trusted that Charlie, Sophie, and Arabella wouldn’t mind paying for the postage on their end—she decided to continue her walk. Gretna Green was famous after all.

  There was the blacksmith’s forge to see, the place where so many “over the anvil” weddings took place. The Graitney Hall innkeeper, Mr. Marchbank, had also informed her that a little farther on was the hamlet of Springfield and the King’s Head Inn, where other couples sometimes opted to get married.

  Indeed, the village was a hive of activity, and on one occasion, Olivia needed to step out of the way of a carriage hurtling down the main street lest she get splashed with muddy water or, worse, run over. It drew to an abrupt halt before the blacksmith’s forge, and the young couple who alighted and hastened inside was clearly eloping. There was something wholly romantic about the idea of running away with the one you loved that made Olivia’s heart ache with longing. Imagine being so in love that nothing else mattered. That you’d risk everything to be with that one person you had a perfect affinity with. That special someone you adored with your entire being and who felt exactly the same way about you.

  Olivia continued her excursion, following a quieter country lane toward Springfield and the King’s Head. When Daniels had visited her sitting room to fetch Tilda, he’d mentioned that Lord Sleat had some business in the village related to organizing the carriage repairs. Olivia wondered if she might cross paths with the marquess during her walk, but so far she hadn’t seen hide or hair of him.

  By the time Olivia reached the hamlet of Springfield—there were but a few cottages and the whitewashed, two-story hostelry scattered along the main street—she was dismayed to see the weather had taken a turn for the worse. A light rain started to fall, and because she’d quite foolishly neglected to bring an umbrella, she was bound to get wet. A most annoying circumstance indeed considering her new bonnet was at risk of getting ruined and she was still waiting for Graitney Hall’s laundress to return the majority of her clothes.

  Dare she take shelter in the public taproom of the King’s Head until the shower passed? She had only a few coins in her purse, but she might have enough to purchase a cup of tea or a glass of small beer. There really was nowhere else to go. But it was the middle of the afternoon and surely the few patrons frequenting the establishment wouldn’t be too deep in their cups yet. She trusted that she wouldn’t be accosted by any unsavory characters and would be relatively safe.

  Decision made, Olivia pushed through the heavy black oak door into the poorly lit interior. The taproom smelled of hops, woodsmoke, and something flavorsome, like a meaty soup or stew. It wasn’t at all unpleasant. In fact, it made her mouth water.

  The middle-aged publican behind the bar looked her up and down as she approached him across the sticky wooden floor, as did a craggy-faced gentleman who was enjoying an ale and a bowl of soup at a small table by one of the sash windows. There was only one other patron—another fair-haired, younger gentleman seated by the fire who still wore his well-cut garrick coat and beaver hat. His face was in shadow, but she could see he nursed a glass of spirits. When he took a sip, the contents of his glass glowed like sunlit amber in the firelight.

  “What’ll it be, lass?” the publican asked, claiming her attention. His hooded dark eyes were hard with suspicion. “Ye canna stay here unless ye intend to purchase something.”

  “Of . . . of c-course,” replied Olivia as she dug out her coin purse from her reticule. “How . . . how much is a glass of small b-beer?”

  The publican smirked and gave her another appraising glance. Even though her stammer was an endless source of amusement for many people, and she should be used to such reactions from strangers, she still never failed to feel a hot blast of mortification; her whole face burned, and she knew that her stutter would only grow progressively worse.

  “It’s on the house fer you as I havna seen a tangle-tongued lassie who’s quite so bonnie.” The publican gave her a wink and then pulled her beer from a keg behind the bar. “Here ye go. Take a seat wherever ye’d like.”

  Olivia picked up her drink with a murmured thanks and headed toward one of the vacant tables by another window. While part of her was irked at the publican’s condescension—she would prefer to pay for her own beer—she was also grateful she wouldn’t have to head out into the rain. It had grown heavier in the last few minutes and lashed against the windowpanes in driving sheets. With any luck, by the time she finished her small beer, the downpour would have eased.

  She removed her bonnet and gloves and placed them carefully upon the vacant seat beside the window. And that’s when a long, dark shadow fell across the table, making her start.

  Had the publican changed his mind and decided to charge her for the beer after all?

  Olivia frowned and glanced up. And then her heart all but stopped.

  It wasn’t the publican.

  It was Felix de Vere.

  “Hello, dear c-c-cuz,” he murmured as he claimed the remaining vacant seat by her left elbow. His hand slid onto her thigh beneath the table and squeezed. His blue eyes gleamed with malice. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  Olivia opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Her tongue had ceased to function at all, and her breath froze in her lungs. Terror like she’d never known snaked its way down her spine and curled through her belly. Dark spots began to dance before her eyes.

  She gripped the edge of the table so tightly, the wood cut into her palms. Hold on, Olivia de Vere. Because if you do faint, all will be lost.

  Felix leaned closer, his grip tightening on her leg, and whispered in her ear, “You’ve led me a merry dance, haven’t you, you sly little bitch? But that’s all about to end. I’m taking you back to London.”

  Olivia swallowed past the boulder-sized lump of fear in her throat and forced her mouth to work. “How . . . how did you f-find me?” Her voice was little more than a hoarse whisper, but Felix understood her all the same.

  “When it was discovered you’d absconded, Bagshaw mentioned she thought she’d seen someone at the bottom of the garden in the hour or so before dawn. I found the gate you must have used to gain entrance to Lord Sleat’s residence. Bagshaw also mentioned your friend’s bloody cat had gone, so when I questioned one of the scullery maids at Hastings House, she reported that one of the marquess’s liveried footmen had dropped the cat off that very morning. One of Lord Sleat’s grooms also confirmed that his master had just departed for Skye with his newly employed nursemaid and that he would likely take the toll road passing through Gretna Green. I don’t know how you managed to persuade someone like Lord Sleat to spirit you away, Olivia, but I’ll concede it was a fine feat.” Felix’s mouth twisted into a knowing smile. “But then again, perhaps the marquess thinks you are a bonnie lassie like the publican here.” He pinched the inside of her thigh through her gown and petticoats, and Olivia gasped at the pain. “I’ve never heard the term ‘nursemaid’ used as a euphemism for ‘whore’ before, but I can well imagine you might spread your legs in exchange for a carriage ride all the way to—”

  “I . . . I did no such thing,” hissed Olivia, enraged that her cousin thought she would stoop so low as to prostitute herself.

  “Now, now. There’s no need to get so upset, Livvie. I don’t see a ring on your finger, so I’ll still marry you even if you’re no longer as pure as the driven snow. Hell, I’ll still marry you even if you’re carrying the marquess’s bastard. It wo
uld save me the chore of having to fuck you myself.”

  Olivia gaped in horror at Felix’s foul words. She’d rather die than marry this detestable, cruel man. “Fe-Felix. If you don’t take your hand off me this instant, I’ll—”

  “Scream? Cry? Throw your beer at me?” His lips curved with a sneer. “Please, spare me the theatrics. I already paid the publican a few extra sovereigns to turn a blind eye while you were choosing your seat. He thinks I’m rescuing my runaway sister from the clutches of an unscrupulous lover. And that old man over there”—Felix gestured with his chin—“he won’t lift a goddamned arthritic finger to help you either.”

  Despair crashed over Olivia in a great smothering wave. Felix was right. The elderly gentleman wasn’t likely to challenge someone as young and strong as her cousin. And she’d already sensed the publican was a mercenary type of man.

  But if she went with Felix now, perhaps there would be other opportunities to escape along the way. She also didn’t want to risk raising his ire, because then his cruel streak was sure to show itself. No, it was best that she comply. And try to keep her wits about her.

  Actually, she might just have a plan.

  “I’ll go with you, F-Felix,” she murmured. “Only, might I use the privy before we leave?”

  Felix laughed and pinched her leg again. “Do you really think I’m that stupid, Livvie? While we’re waiting for my carriage to be readied, you can lift your skirts in the alley out the back.”

  Damn and blast. This might be harder than she thought. Fighting to quell another surge of despair, Olivia donned her bonnet and gloves at Felix’s urging, and then he dragged her out of the front door into the street.

  The heavy shower hadn’t abated in the least, and within moments, Olivia was blinking stinging rain out of her eyes. Felix’s hand was clamped around her upper arm like a vise, but if she twisted away . . . His leather gloves were wet, so she might be able to slip from his grasp. Dare she make a break for it and seek shelter at one of the nearby cottages?