How to Catch a Sinful Marquess

by Amy Rose Bennett

  He raised his head and cradled her face. Looked deeply into her eyes and searched her gaze. His brows plunged into a frown. “Olivia, lass. If we do this, I won’t spend inside you. I’ll have to pull—”

  He broke off as a high-pitched scream pierced the turret room.

  CHAPTER 17

  Suddenly I heard a shrill and dreadful scream.

  Mary Shelley, Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus

  What on earth?

  Olivia’s heart froze, and Hamish swore beneath his breath.

  “That sounded like Tilda.” He stepped back, adjusting the fit of his kilt and waistcoat, and Olivia slipped off the desk.

  Apprehension, colder than a dousing with seawater from the Minch, sluiced over her, dampening all desire. “Something’s wrong. Dear God, I hope she’s not hurt.”

  “Aye.” Hamish strode to the jib door and threw it open. Tilda’s wails grew louder. “Come, lass, we’d best see what’s happened.”

  Olivia followed him into the library. And then she stopped dead in her tracks.

  Lady Isobel stood by the main door with Nurse Swan, who was holding a distraught Tilda in her arms. The child’s face was buried in the older woman’s shoulder as she clung like a muslin-clad, curly-haired limpet to her neck.

  But that’s not why Olivia froze or why her breath caught in her chest. No, she was startled to stillness because there was someone else in the room. The exact same figure who’d visited her bedchamber and the nursery last night.

  The woman in black.

  “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, wee child,” the strange woman cried, wringing her gloved hands in front of her black bombazine skirts. “I did not mean to frighten you. Look, I’m wearing my veil again.” She raised a visibly trembling hand to the heavy lace concealing her face. “See . . .”

  “Mother.” Hamish advanced across the floor and laid a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “It will be all right.”

  Mother? This mysterious, extremely anxious individual was Hamish’s mother?

  To say Olivia was shocked would be an understatement.

  As Olivia slowly made her way toward the fireplace on the other side of the room, her gaze riveted to the visibly agitated woman, Hamish crossed over to Tilda and took the child from the nurse’s arms.

  “Hush, mo chridhe, hush,” he crooned, gently stroking her hair. “There’s no need to be afraid. This is my mama. Isobel’s and Angus’s too. She won’t hurt you. I promise.”

  “Yes,” agreed Isobel. “She’s kind and lovely and very sweet. Don’t be scared.”

  Tilda’s sobs began to subside, and she lifted her head to glance at Hamish’s mother. Her face was red and tearstained, her gaze suspicious. “Is . . . is that really your mama?” she whispered to Hamish.

  “Aye. Her name is Margaret, Lady Sleat.” His gaze darted to Olivia for the first time since they’d reentered the library. “Or should I say, Margaret, the dowager Marchioness of Sleat?”

  Hamish’s mother turned to face Olivia where she still waited uncertainly on the edge of the hearthrug. Even though the woman’s heavy black veil concealed her countenance, it was clear she had dark red hair just like her daughter. Besides the fact that she was tall and slender, nothing else about her appearance could be easily discerned.

  “Lady Sleat.” The dowager marchioness’s voice quivered. “I did not mean for us to meet this way. Believe me, it was never my intention to alarm the bairn, or you, my new daughter-in-law. Olivia, isn’t it? I must apologize for creating such a fuss.”

  “I . . . I . . .” Olivia had no idea what to say or do. Should she curtsy to the woman who’d visited her bedchamber and the nursery like a ghostly sneak thief in the middle of the night? Confusion assailed her. Hamish had introduced her to his brother and sister. Why would he keep his mother’s existence a secret? Not once had he spoken of her. Was the woman eccentric? Or perhaps even mad?

  But Hamish told Tilda there was no need to be afraid.

  Before she could dredge up some sort of response that wouldn’t be a tangled mess, Hamish spoke. “Aye, I’m sorry it has come about this way too,” he said gravely. He passed a much calmer Tilda back to Nurse Swan, then joined Olivia on the hearthrug. He took her hand and pressed it between his own. “I should have introduced you to my mother sooner.”

  “I d-don’t understand,” murmured Olivia. “You never said a word . . .”

  Hamish’s brow creased. “There’s a reason for that . . . but first things first.” He tucked Olivia’s hand into the crook of his elbow and led her closer to the other Lady Sleat of Muircliff Castle. “As I said, this is my dear mama, Margaret.”

  “My lady . . .” Olivia bowed her head and dropped into a curtsy. “I’m . . . it’s such a pleasure and . . . and an honor to m-meet you.”

  “Likewise, dear child.” The dowager marchioness tilted her head. Her hands were still clasped at her slender waist but she no longer seemed to be trembling like an autumn leaf in a gale. “Hamish has told me so many wonderful things about you.”

  “He has?” Olivia aimed a puzzled look at her husband, who seemed to have more secrets than she’d hitherto realized.

  “Oh, yes. Angus has too. And Isobel told me that she was most eager to meet you this afternoon.” Margaret gestured toward her daughter with a gloved hand. “Didn’t you, my dear?”

  Isobel inclined her head and smiled warmly at Olivia. “I did indeed.”

  While Olivia felt at a disadvantage—it seemed the entire MacQueen family had been discussing her behind her back—she was also wildly curious about this woman who’d given birth to Hamish. She suddenly wanted to know about so many things. What was he really like as a little boy? Was he always a rapscallion? Did she think he was noble and kindhearted too? What was he like before he was injured at Waterloo and began to suffer from terrible dreams?

  Why doesn’t he want an heir when it’s clear he would be a wonderful father?

  “Speaking of Angus . . .” Hamish frowned at the library door. “You’d think he would have emerged by now given all the kerfuffle. Could you not find him, Nurse Swan?”

  “Nae, my lord. And Tilda and I couldna get Shadow to help, could we, my bonnie lassie?”

  Tilda shook her head. “But I did count to ten, didn’t I?” she said solemnly.

  “Aye, you did. Several times.” Nurse Swan gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You’re a clever thing. Ye take after yer fa—” The nursemaid broke off and blushed beet red. Her panicked gaze darted from Hamish to the dowager marchioness to Olivia and then back to her master again. “Och, my lord. I dinna mean to suggest tha’ you . . .”

  Hamish held up a hand. “It’s all right, Nurse Swan. A slip of the tongue, I expect.”

  “Hamish, is there something you’re not telling me about the situation with your ward?” asked Lady Sleat in a querulous tone.

  Hamish traded a glance with Olivia before he answered. “You know about as much as I do, Mama,” he said with a heavy sigh, “which is very little, all things considered. As I explained yesterday evening, it’s a highly unusual situation. But I hope to get to the bottom of the mystery soon.” He cocked an eyebrow. “I think, for the bairn’s sake, we should talk about this later . . .”

  His gaze connected with Olivia’s again, and she offered him a smile. She’d try to glean further details about Tilda’s mother by spending more time in the nursery. Other than that, there wasn’t much else she could do.

  As they all began to troop out of the library, Lady Sleat drew close to Olivia. The scent of her rose perfume was as thick and heavy as her veil. “I won’t dine with you tonight, my dear, as it is my custom to have a tray in my suite,” she said as they entered the hallway. “However, I’d be most honored if you would accept my invitation to take tea with me in my sitting room tomorrow afternoon. I’m sure you’re abuzz with questions just like I am.”
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br />   “I-I would like that.” She noted Hamish was conversing with Isobel and out of earshot before she added, “And yes, I do have quite a few things I’d like to talk to you about. So thank you. Very much.”

  At that moment, Angus appeared around the corner, yawning and rubbing his eyes. “So the party moved to the library, did it? Oh, and Mama has joined in on all the fun and games too.” He approached Tilda and gave her a gentle chuck on the chin. “You took so long to find me, I drifted off.”

  She giggled. “You’re a sleepyhead.”

  “Guilty as charged,” Angus said. “I hope dinner won’t be too late tonight, as I fear I won’t be able to stay awake past eight.”

  “You want dinner after all the cakes and pastries you just ate?” asked Isobel. Her expression was aghast. “No wonder you fell asleep. Your body went into hibernation to digest everything.”

  Olivia smiled. How wonderful to be part of a family who played games and teased each other in a good-natured way. They might have their differences of opinion—Hamish was still against the idea of his sister marrying Brodie MacDonald—but at the end of the day, it was obvious they all held a great deal of affection for one another. Even Lady Sleat, despite her forbidding garb and eccentricities, seemed like a lovely woman.

  Olivia had another burning question to add to the list she would put to her mother-in-law when they took tea on the morrow. . . . Why did Hamish dread Muircliff when he had such a caring family? After living for five years with an extended family who despised her, Olivia missed her parents so much, it hurt. She’d do anything to be part of a loving family again.

  She’d do anything to create a loving family with Hamish.

  If only he would give their marriage a chance.

  * * *

  * * *

  Hamish, why didn’t you tell me about your mother?” asked Olivia, her gentle tone laced with quiet reproach. Perched on the edge of a settee in the drawing room, she put down her postprandial cup of tea and regarded him with dark, solemn eyes. “I mean, when you asked me to be Isobel’s chaperone, I assumed she must have passed away . . . And even though she resides here, we hadn’t been introduced. In fact, no one’s spoken a word about her. It’s almost as if you’ve been hiding her away. And I’m wondering why.”

  Hamish grimaced inwardly. “No, I didn’t say anything,” he admitted, thanking God they were alone. He didn’t need Isobel or Angus to weigh in on any of this. “And I’m sorry for that,” he added. “But there is a reason for all of the subterfuge.”

  Actually, there were many reasons. However, he needed to arm himself with a drink—something stronger than tea—before he could muster his courage to venture into the fraught territory of his family history. His heart drumming, his mouth dry, he was as skittish as a soldier before his first battle. He also needed to keep his wits about him so he could answer Olivia without betraying too much. It was a blasted conundrum. Just like his entire life.

  Stalling for time to gather his thoughts, Hamish crossed to the oak sideboard where several crystal decanters sat upon a silver tray, and reached for the cognac. All through dinner, he’d been waiting for Olivia to ask him this particular question. In fact, he’d been so preoccupied with turning over various ways to respond, all the food tasted like dust and he’d only half listened to the conversation going on around him.

  Isobel and Angus both accused him of being as staid as a maiden aunt, but he didn’t much care.

  Returning to the fireside, he claimed a wingback chair of oxblood leather.

  Olivia watched him as he sipped his drink, a frown creasing her brow. Her fingers toyed with the silver locket resting below her delicate collarbones. “Your mother came to my bedchamber, you know . . . in the middle of the night. I thought it was a strange dream or a ghostly visitation until Tilda told me she’d seen a similar figure in the nursery as well.”

  Hamish took another sip of his cognac. He wasn’t altogether surprised. Although he was surprised Olivia hadn’t said anything to him this morning, and he said as much.

  Her mouth twitched with a wry smile. “I thought you might think I was being fanciful or, worse, going m-mad.”

  Sadness weighed heavily upon Hamish’s heart. His new wife didn’t trust him with her confidences, and he supposed he couldn’t blame her. He’d done everything he could to discourage this growing intimacy between them. Although, considering what had taken place in the turret room earlier, it seemed he was fighting a losing battle.

  Aloud he said, “I would never think that. And I’m sorry if you or Tilda was alarmed. And I do owe you an explanation about why my mother is the way she is. And why I kept her existence from you . . .” He expelled a shaky sigh. “You may have noticed this afternoon that my mother is an anxious, flighty woman. She keeps to herself a great deal. In fact she, rarely leaves her suite of rooms. And she never ventures outside of the castle. She seems to be possessed by a mortal fear of open spaces. She once told me that she’s terrified the earth will open up and swallow her whole, or she’ll somehow fall into the sky and disappear.” He shrugged. “I know that probably doesn’t make much sense, but for my mother, these fears are all too real and they govern every aspect of her life.”

  Concern was etched into Olivia’s every feature. “My goodness, how awful,” she murmured. “I can’t even imagine feeling that way.”

  Hamish was relieved Olivia seemed to understand. “My mother is also quite fearful about encountering new people and avoids all social gatherings unless they are of an intimate nature with those she knows well. Mariah MacDonald, the local reverend’s wife, is one of the few women she will receive. And I imagine that’s why she paid a nocturnal visit to your room and the nursery. She wanted to see you and Tilda before she met you. Like me, she often has trouble sleeping and is prone to wandering the halls of Muircliff at night.”

  “That’s . . . that’s so sad . . .” Olivia’s frown deepened. “So is that why she wears a veil? To shield herself from the eyes of others?”

  Hamish was impressed by Olivia’s compassion. “Not exactly. She does wish to shield herself from scrutiny, but not because of her timidity . . .” He blew out a sigh and caught Olivia’s gaze. “When I went to meet with my steward and the stonemason this afternoon, I mentioned that the south tower had been damaged.”

  Olivia nodded. “Yes . . .” A shadow of apprehension—or was it foreboding?—passed across her face. “Wh-what happened, Hamish?”

  “My parents once shared a suite of rooms in that tower. But one night, ten years ago, there was a terrible fire. It started in my mother’s room and spread quickly, engulfing their whole floor. Indeed, if it weren’t for a change in the weather—a storm blew in from the sea and with it came a heavy deluge—the whole castle could have burned to the ground. My mother only just survived. But my father—his name was Torquil—died.”

  “Oh, dear God. How tragic.” Olivia blinked away tears. “I’m . . . I have no words.”

  Hamish swallowed past a hard, boulder-sized lump in his throat. “Aye,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “It was tragic. Sadly, my mother sustained burns to one side of her face, her neck, and her hands. That’s why she wears a veil and gloves. To hide the scarring.”

  Olivia shook her head. “I can’t even begin to comprehend what she must have been through.” Her voice was thick as she wiped her eyes with trembling fingers. “And how this terrible tragedy must have affected all of you. Isobel and Angus. And you, Hamish.”

  “I’ll admit it hasn’t been easy for any of us. But it’s my poor mother who’s suffered the most. She’s not the woman she used to be.” Hamish’s fingers tightened around his glass. “If it weren’t for my fa—” He snapped his mouth shut. He’d almost said too much. “I hope you can see why Isobel will need your help when she makes her debut in London. Our mother’s fears are so debilitating, she cannot leave the castle.”

  “But, Hamish
. . . are you sure Isobel really wants a Season? If it means leaving your mother here, I could understand her not wanting to wed and move away—”

  Hamish stood abruptly, and Olivia broke off.

  Curse all these women trying to talk him out of doing what was right. Isobel was the sister of a marquess, for Christ’s sake. She deserved to marry an upstanding gentleman of rank. Someone from her own class, not some good-for-nothing, fortune-hunting scoundrel who had pretensions of grandeur.

  When he’d spoken to his mother yesterday evening, she’d all but changed her mind and given her blessing to the match between Isobel and Brodie, which irked Hamish no end. She’d argued that Brodie MacDonald came from a fine family and had studied at the University of Edinburgh. Apparently, he’d also begun assisting MacArthur with duties about the estate. The elderly steward, who’d been in the family’s employ for years, had become forgetful of late and had begun making mistakes, so she’d asked Brodie to step in and help. By all accounts, he was doing a very good job.

  But then, their mother had an ulterior motive in singing Brodie’s praises. She didn’t want her daughter to leave Muircliff.

  “Even though you’ve only just met Isobel, you seem to be set on taking her side too,” Hamish said with such gruffness, Olivia winced. Guilt made him temper his tone as he added, “Isobel needs to see the world. Meet other people. It’s not fair that she feels she has to stay here, trapped by obligation. While I have the utmost sympathy for my mother and her situation, Isobel should have a chance at finding true happiness.”

  He refilled his glass with cognac, and when he returned to his chair by the hearth, Olivia was staring into the fire, watching the tongues of flame licking at the logs. Her fingers toyed with her locket again.

  “We cannot help whom we love, Hamish,” she said sadly. “At the risk of provoking your ire again, may I ask, what if you’re wrong about Isobel and Brodie?”