How to Catch a Sinful Marquess

by Amy Rose Bennett

  Mr. Marchbank cleared his throat. His face had turned bright red. It seemed that Lord Sleat had the power to make even him blush. “Shall we begin, my lord? Miss de Vere?”

  “Aye,” Hamish said, his gaze never leaving Olivia’s. She simply nodded, transfixed by the intentness of her bridegroom’s regard.

  “Weel then,” continued Mr. Marchbank. “I have some questions for both of ye before we begin.” He turned to Olivia. “Miss de Vere, are ye of marriageable age and free to wed?”

  “Y-yes,” she murmured. Hamish hadn’t relinquished his hold, and his thumb was caressing the top of her hand, distracting her.

  “And are ye, my lord?” asked Marchbank.

  Hamish’s attention flicked to the celebrant, and he smirked. “Aye.”

  “Verra good. And do ye have a ring for yer bride, Lord Sleat?”

  Hamish’s gaze returned to Olivia. “Aye. I do.” He released her hand and tugged the ruby-and-gold signet ring off his little finger.

  Olivia shook her head. “Oh . . . oh, you don’t have to—”

  “Lass, I want to.” Without the celebrant’s prompting, Hamish continued in a solemn yet smooth-as-velvet voice as he slid his ring onto Olivia’s left ring finger, “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”

  Olivia had to force herself to breathe again. The ring was warm and heavy on her finger, and the dark red ruby glinted in the firelight. For a man who’d asserted this was to be a marriage of convenience, the intensity of Hamish’s expression, the gravity of his tone, suggested otherwise. He might not love her, but he was taking this commitment very seriously. And perhaps he was simply trying to reassure her that he’d honor the deal they’d both agreed to. That he would protect her until she could claim her own independence.

  Mr. Marchbank nodded and smiled. “Verra good. Now it’s time for the handfasting.”

  Handfasting? Olivia’s interest was piqued as Marjorie stepped forward to relieve her of her heather bouquet, and the ruddy-faced celebrant pulled a long tartan sash from somewhere inside his coat. “Take yer bride’s hand, my lord,” he instructed. “And hold it between ye so that I might bind ye together.”

  Hamish immediately entwined his fingers with hers in an intimate clasp. His skin was hot, his palm calloused, and Olivia’s flesh tingled.

  If this were a real marriage in every sense, Hamish would be touching her in the most intimate of ways with those large hands of his. Worshipping her with his body as he’d just stated when he’d placed his ring upon her finger.

  Regret pooled in her chest. She really shouldn’t have stopped him from kissing her that night at the Hart and Hare.

  If he had kissed her, would their arrangement be any different now?

  Mr. Marchbank wrapped the tartan sash securely about their joined hands. “Ye need to make yer promises to each other now,” he said, then turned his attention to Olivia.

  Olivia drew a deep breath and dutifully repeated her vows as best she could. “I, Olivia Grace de Vere, here-hereby take thee, Hamish Torquil MacQueen, to b-be my husband. And thereto I plight . . . I plight thee my troth.”

  Beneath the tartan sash, Hamish gave her fingers a light squeeze. His voice was sure and strong as he declared, “And I, Hamish Torquil MacQueen, hereby take thee, Olivia Grace de Vere, to be my wife. And thereto I plight thee my troth.”

  Mr. Marchbank beamed his approval. His chest puffed out as he announced in a suitably officious tone to the small gathering, “Forasmuch as Hamish MacQueen and Olivia de Vere have consented to be wed, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth either to other, and have declared the same by the giving and receiving of a ring, and by the fasting of hands, I pronounce that they be man and wife. Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”

  Leaning forward, he winked at Hamish. “And as we like to say here at Graitney Hall, ye may now kiss yer bonnie bride, my lord.”

  Olivia’s breath quickened, and her pulse fluttered like butterfly wings against her throat. A kiss wasn’t usually part of a traditional marriage ceremony as far as she knew. But this wasn’t a regular wedding, and they weren’t in a church.

  If this was to be a marriage of convenience, this might be her only chance to share a kiss with Lord Sleat. And she’d wanted to do this for the longest time. She would be mad to pass up the opportunity.

  Olivia raised her eyes to Hamish’s face. “Well . . . well, if it’s customary, my lord,” she murmured huskily.

  His mouth twitched with a smile. “Who am I to stand in the way of a local tradition?”

  He raised his free hand and gently cupped her jaw. As the pad of his thumb stroked along her cheek, his gaze fell to her mouth, and when he began to lower his head, Olivia closed her eyes.

  The press of his lips against hers was warm and firm. A light silken brush. A tantalizing taste. Desire beckoned, and she leaned closer, curling her fingers against the silk of his waistcoat. Eager for more, her lips moved beneath his. Parted in silent invitation . . .

  And then it was over.

  Hamish pulled back, and Olivia frowned in confusion while everyone around them clapped.

  That was it? Her first and perhaps only kiss, and that’s all there was to it?

  While the kiss had been lovely, it certainly hadn’t been breath stealing. The world hadn’t tipped on its axis, and her heart hadn’t melted.

  Disappointment and frustration welled, and to hide the sudden rush of tears in her eyes, Olivia focused her gaze on Hamish’s hand still bound to hers. Hamish’s kiss had felt perfunctory. There’d been no passion behind it. Of course, others were in the room, watching, including Tilda. But wasn’t he supposed to kiss her, his bride, like he meant it? Even just for the sake of appearances?

  Apparently not.

  As Hudson offered his congratulations and Tilda claimed her attention with a hug about the legs, it suddenly occurred to Olivia that for some unfathomable reason, Hamish MacQueen, the Marquess of Sleat, the Chief of Clan MacQueen of Skye, and a former officer in His Majesty’s army, was reluctant to be intimate with her. He was deliberately holding himself back.

  It just wouldn’t do, and if they were to have any chance of forming a lasting bond, she needed to not only weaken his defenses . . . she needed to find out why he was determined to keep such a tight rein on his passions.

  * * *

  * * *

  What did you find out, Daniels?” Hamish finished pouring himself a whisky and then lounged back in the leather wingback chair by the fire in his bedchamber.

  The young footman ran a hand through his damp hair. He’d just returned from running a few errands in Springfield, and because of the nature of one of those errands, Hamish hadn’t wanted the lad to wear his livery. Evidently it was still raining outside. “It was just as you’d predicted, my lord,” he said. “Miss Morland’s. No, I mean Miss de Vere’s . . . I’m sorry, Lady Sleat’s cousin is currently indisposed with a broken collarbone. The innkeeper at the King’s Head confirmed that a physician paid him a visit late this afternoon. And apparently Mr. de Vere has rented a room for at least another two days.”

  Excellent. It looked like Felix de Vere would be receiving a visit from his cousin’s new husband in the morning. Aloud Hamish said, “Very good, lad. And what of the carriage for hire at the King’s Head? Is it suitable?”

  Daniels grimaced. “I’m afraid not, my lord. From what I saw, it was in a poor condition both inside and out. I’m not unconvinced that there wasn’t an infestation of mice under one of the seats.”

  Damn. It looked like Hamish would have to employ an alternative plan if they were to depart on the morrow. “Why don’t you go downstairs and order yourself some dinner, Daniels. And make sure you have an ale or two. I’m sure Hudson and the others are still downstairs
in the taproom celebrating.”

  The footman smiled. “Aye, my lord. And may I extend my congratulations to you on your nuptials? I’ve always thought Miss . . . I mean Lady Sleat is a bonnie—” The flustered young man blushed beet red. “I’m sorry. I shouldna have said that, my lord. I simply mean to say that I wish you both well.”

  Hamish wasn’t able to suppress his own smile. “Thank you, Daniels. I shall pass your congratulations on to her.”

  As the door closed behind the footman, Hamish sighed. The young man spoke the truth. His wife was indeed bonnie. He’d even go so far as to say she was beautiful. He hadn’t failed to notice the disappointment in Olivia’s brown eyes after he’d given her the most superficial of kisses at the end of the wedding ceremony. Or how her smiles seemed forced rather than natural.

  And no doubt it was all his fault. He grimaced and tossed back his whisky. If he weren’t such a monstrous mess, he’d be with her right now, making slow, sweet love to her, learning all the ways he could bring her pleasure, rather than spending his wedding night alone in his room with only a bottle of whisky for company.

  But things were better this way. He needed to ruthlessly crush this wave of desire and tender concern that kept threatening to rise up and swamp him. The lass was far safer if he stayed away.

  Steadfastly ignoring the fact that their rooms were connected, and only separated by a tiny sitting room, he picked up the whisky bottle and topped up his glass. Far better to focus on the good things he could do for Olivia.

  He dragged his chair closer to his traveling desk and pulled out parchment, ink, and a quill. He had several letters to write before he was too far gone in his cups. First of all, he needed to inform Olivia’s uncle that his niece was now legally wed to the Marquess of Sleat (that should get the scoundrel’s attention). And then he was going to ask his man of affairs to investigate a few matters related to Olivia’s inheritance. He’d been honest when he told her he didn’t need her money. But he wanted to ensure that Reginald de Vere and Olivia’s trustee had been managing the funds appropriately. Well, up until the time Felix de Vere and Giles Thackery had begun to siphon money off. At any rate, he wanted a full accounting of every penny spent.

  Once he’d attended to those matters, Hamish planned on getting rip-roaringly drunk. Maybe then he’d stop thinking about the young woman next door and how much he wanted her.

  CHAPTER 11

  For if it be true, as a celebrated writer has maintained, that no young lady can be justified in falling in love before the gentleman’s love is declared, it must be very improper that a young lady should dream of a gentleman before the gentleman is first known to have dreamt of her.

  Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey

  Graitney Hall, Gretna Green

  Ten o’clock

  Tucked up snugly in her pallet bed, Tilda gave a sigh and a murmur as she rolled over. The little girl had succumbed to the pull of slumber several hours ago. Unlike Olivia . . .

  Frustrated beyond measure that she couldn’t fall asleep no matter how hard she tried, Olivia threw back the covers from her tester bed and padded over to the dying fire to stir it to life. Her mind wouldn’t rest as she kept trying to work out the best strategy to employ to get closer to Hamish. To stop him from pushing her away.

  But she felt like she was floundering in the dark. She had no experience to call on. Right at this moment, she missed her friends more than ever. What would Sophie and Arabella advise her to do? They had won their husbands’ hearts. And Charlie was always full of good ideas—albeit unconventional ones. After all, she was the one who’d founded their Society for Enlightened Young Women to help them snare husbands who were love matches. Except Olivia didn’t feel enlightened at all.

  The rain still battered the hall, and the room was growing cold. After prodding the coals with the poker, Olivia threw another log into the grate, then plopped disconsolately into an armchair. Her makeshift wedding band—Hamish’s signet ring—felt odd on her finger, like it didn’t belong there. When she lifted her hand to examine it, the bloodred ruby caught the light of the fire and winked as though mocking her.

  As Olivia idly twisted the ring back and forth, her stomach growled noisily; she’d been so out of sorts this evening, she’d barely touched any of her dinner, which had turned out to be a sad affair indeed. After the ceremony, she’d dined in her room with only Tilda for company as Hamish had informed her he had “business to attend to.” He hadn’t even bid her good night.

  Olivia’s stomach protested again, and she plucked an uneaten bread roll from her dinner tray to appease her hunger. All evidence to the contrary, she wasn’t really hungry for food though.

  She craved her husband’s company. He might be in the next room, yet the distance between them felt so great, he may as well be in the antipodes, or even on the moon.

  Was he still awake? About an hour ago, she’d heard a knock on his door and a male voice. It could have been Hudson, attending his master. If so, she wondered if the valet would think it odd that the marquess wasn’t spending the night with his bride.

  Olivia tore a chunk off her roll and chewed it without enthusiasm. It just wasn’t fair. Shouldn’t a bridegroom want to bed his wife? Even the kiss Hamish had given her was lackluster. If it weren’t for Charlie’s claims that the Marquess of Sleat was a wicked rake, or the occasional reports in the Beau Monde Mirror that attested the same, Olivia could well believe she’d just married a monk. It wasn’t as though Hamish wasn’t attracted to her. She’d recognized a certain gleam in his eye when he looked her way. A gleam that made her blush and stammer all the more. It had been like that from the very first moment they met.

  And then inspiration struck. Instead of alternately fretting and moping by the fireside, Olivia had a plan. A way to bridge this distance between her and Hamish using logic, a little bit of cunning, and a great deal of spirit.

  Mustering her courage, Olivia discarded her half-eaten roll and slid on her only pair of soft kid slippers. She picked up a cashmere shawl to wrap about her flannel night rail, then dropped it on the end of her bed again. No, she wouldn’t need it. Hamish was her husband. He could see her without a stitch on and there’d be nothing wrong with it.

  Instead, Olivia untied the ribbon at the neckline of her nightgown, thus exposing her collarbones and a glimpse of cleavage. Then she loosened her braid and freed her hair.

  It fell in thick dark waves about her shoulders and down her back. She’d heard somewhere that men liked it when women left their hair unbound, and as she didn’t have any scandalous, flimsy night attire, she’d have to rely on whatever she had at her disposal to break down Hamish’s resistance. To tweak his male interest.

  She didn’t need to pinch color into her cheeks because when she glanced in the dressing table mirror, she could see they were already stained pink with excitement. Indeed, Olivia hardly recognized the brazen young woman staring back at her with fire in her dark eyes.

  After dabbing scent on her wrists and behind each ear, she was ready. Or as ready as she’d ever be. She’d best go now and knock on Hamish’s door and say what she needed to before she lost her nerve.

  It was time to deal head-on with her bridegroom’s inexplicable reluctance to be intimate with her.

  * * *

  * * *

  When there was a light rapping on the door connecting the sitting room to his bedchamber, Hamish let out a groan before lifting his head from the table that he’d been slumped over.

  God damn it. Logic dictated there was only one person that could possibly be. The one person he both wanted and feared in equal measure.

  Olivia. His wife.

  Hamish yawned, scrubbing a hand down his face. His night beard scraped his palm. Dressed only in his kilt and a cambric shirt, open at the neck with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, he didn’t much care that he was in a shambolic, inebriated state. And
perhaps his dishevelment might work in his favor. If Olivia had any sense at all, she’d go scampering back to her room as soon as she laid eyes on him.

  He squinted at the mantel clock and yawned again. It wasn’t that late, so he hadn’t been asleep for long. Although he had managed to down half a bottle of whisky in a relatively short amount of time before he drifted off.

  As he rose from his chair, the world swam for a brief moment before righting itself. He had a sudden premonition this exchange wasn’t going to end well. He hoped the interaction would be brief.

  The knock came again, and Hamish padded to the door in bare feet. “I’m coming, lass,” he called. He turned the key in the lock and opened the door. “What’s wrong?”

  And then his breath froze in his chest as his gaze dragged over his wife. Damn, Olivia would have to be wearing her night attire. Despite his best efforts to suppress his desire, interest stirred below Hamish’s kilt.

  Her dark gaze flitted over him, too, taking in his state of undress. A blush colored her cheeks. “Nothing’s . . . nothing’s wrong, Hamish,” she murmured in a voice that was noticeably husky. She cleared her throat and added, “I mean, not exactly. In . . . in any event, I do need to speak with you.”

  He frowned and leaned an arm against the doorframe, filling the doorway with his wide shoulders, barring her entrance. “Can’t it wait until morning then?”

  She lifted her determined little chin and crossed her arms over her chest. “No it can’t.”

  Hell. Couldn’t the lass take a hint? The whisky in Hamish’s veins was unraveling his good intentions, and his self-control was hanging by a gossamer-thin thread. The scent of her wafted about him—warm female and that damnably appealing vanilla and violet perfume she wore—and his nostrils flared. His mouth watered. If she came any closer, stayed any longer . . .

  Hamish gritted his teeth. He just needed to ignore the hardening in his loins and harden his resolve instead. “Very well then,” he grated out, and stepped back from the door, away from her.