How to Catch a Sinful Marquess

by Amy Rose Bennett

  “I’m not,” he said, sounding mulish even to his own ears. “Isobel’s young. She’s simply suffering from a bout of calf-love. That’s all.” He waved a dismissive hand. “She’ll soon get over her infatuation for this boy when she sees all the ton bucks at her first ball.”

  Olivia shook her head. “She’s not wrong to be worried about society’s cruelty. That’s one thing I’ve experienced f-firsthand. It doesn’t matter if you’re well connected, pretty, or accomplished, or even possess a fortune. If you are deemed to be lacking in some other fundamental way, you will be gossiped about and ridiculed behind fans and closed parlor doors. The humiliation can be crushing, and I can appreciate why Isobel would want to avoid putting herself in such a vulnerable position.” All at once, she stood. “I find I’m rather weary, Hamish. I hope you’ll forgive me if I bid you good night.”

  “Of course.” Hamish rose too. “We’ll talk more about it tomorrow.”

  “Yes . . .” She gave him a weak smile. “I hope you sleep well. I can arrange another pot of chamomile tea to be sent up to your room if you’d like . . .”

  “Aye, I’d like that. Good night, Olivia.”

  As he watched his lovely wife depart, Hamish gave a weary sigh and deposited himself back in his chair to stop himself from chasing after her. Christ, he was a mess.

  He rubbed his forehead, hoping beyond hope he could sort himself out. After their passionate tryst in his private study, he’d been alternately champing at the bit to drag Olivia into his arms again versus feeling angry with himself for giving in to temptation. If things had gone too far this afternoon, the lass might have lost her innocence on his bloody desk. And she deserved better than a quick, rough tup, especially for her first time.

  Her first time should be with a man who truly loved her. Who would make her feel treasured and adored. A man who would be willing to give her children.

  But alas, he was not that man. He knew it to his very bones.

  As Hamish finished his cognac, his thoughts strayed to Isobel again. One thing he could sort out was this business with Brodie MacDonald.

  His mouth quirked with a sardonic grin. Tomorrow, a visit to Dunmuir might just be in order.

  CHAPTER 18

  Was I then a monster, a blot upon the earth, from which all men fled, and whom all men disowned?

  Mary Shelley, Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus

  Dunmuir Village, Isle of Skye

  September 26, 1818

  The air was crisp and the vast sky above a bright clear blue as Hamish directed his horse onto the narrow road leading to Dunmuir. With the ragged coastline to his right, open fields, low hills, and rolling moorland stretched out before him in every other direction as far as the eye could see. Urging his mount into a canter, he relished the feel of the brine-laden wind in his face and the glare of reflected sunlight dancing upon the indigo blue sea. In the distance, an eagle soared toward the sun.

  At times like this, he loved his home. Its majesty and raw natural beauty. Given the change in the weather, he’d been tempted to invite Olivia to join him when he’d first looked outside his bedchamber window this morning—he knew she enjoyed riding—but unfortunately, this excursion was all about business, not pleasure.

  During breakfast, he’d quizzed Angus about Brodie MacDonald’s whereabouts and confirmed he was still residing at the manse with his brother, the Reverend Hugh MacDonald. Angus also confirmed what his mother had told him—that Brodie had been helping the steward with maintaining the estate’s books and even occasionally sorting out issues with some of the tenants.

  The fact Hamish had been kept in the dark about MacArthur’s decline bothered him no end. Partly because he should have noticed it himself, and also because his mother had made the decision to employ Brodie MacDonald without consulting him, the laird of Muircliff and the MacQueen of Skye’s entire estate, first.

  So to say he was in a filthy, resentful mood when he rode through Dunmuir and arrived at the village kirk would be an understatement. The manse—a single-story stone building with a slate-tiled roof—stood atop a small grassy knoll behind the church and the small cemetery. All was quiet save for the plaintive call of the gulls wheeling overhead and the rustle of the sea breeze through the bracken and a small copse of pines.

  As Hamish dismounted and secured his mount’s reins to a rusted iron ring in a low stone wall bordering the cemetery, the door to the manse opened and a lean man in his late thirties with a shock of red hair emerged. Reverend MacDonald.

  The minister called a greeting as Hamish followed a path of roughly hewn flagstones up the rise. “Good morning to ye, Lord Sleat. I wasna expecting to see ye until Christmastide.”

  “Aye,” Hamish replied, reminding himself to keep his tone civil. “I wasn’t expecting to come home in September either.”

  “And I hear ye have a bonnie wife.” An uncertain smile played about the reverend’s lips. “Congratulations, my lord.”

  “Thank you. But I didn’t drop by to chat about my bride.” Hamish halted in front of the manse and planted his fisted hands on his kilted hips. “I came here to address a matter of grave importance involving my sister and your brother.”

  “Oh . . . I see.” Reverend MacDonald made a show of hefting several books that were tucked under his arm. “I was aboot to head to the vestry. My wife is visiting some of the crofters’ wives, so I thought I’d take the opportunity to finish writing tomorrow’s sermon.” He gestured at the kirk with his free hand. “Would ye mind if we moved our chat—I mean our discussion—down there?”

  Hamish narrowed his gaze. The fact that the good reverend was trying to steer him away from the manse was telling indeed. Especially after one of the curtains in the sash window twitched. “While I always value your counsel, I’m sure you know it is not you whom I came to see.” Impatience and ill-humor sharpened his tone. “Where’s Brodie?”

  Reverend MacDonald’s Adam’s apple bobbed above his starched minister’s collar. “I . . . er . . . he’s . . .” His eyes darted toward the manse. “He’s . . . ah . . . he’s on his way to Portree to run an errand—”

  Hamish shook his head at the minister. “Really, Reverend MacDonald? You of all people are going to lie about his whereabouts?” Taking a step back, he called out, “Brodie MacDonald! Stop hiding behind your brother’s cassock and get your cowardly arse out here right now.”

  The kirkman’s countenance grew so pale, Hamish thought the man might faint. “Don’t worry, Reverend,” he said. “I only came here to talk to your brother. Not tear him to pieces. I’m not that uncivilized.”

  “Oh. Good . . .” Reverend MacDonald braced an arm against the doorjamb as if his knees were still too weak to support his weight. “That’s verra reassuring. Although, when ye use a word like arse—”

  Hamish cocked a brow. “You’re going to lecture me about my manners right now? When it’s your scoundrel of a brother who’s taken liberties with my sister? He’s lucky I didn’t come here to castrate him.”

  “Quite . . . Indeed . . .” The minister stepped away from the door. “Why don’t you come inside then? You ken where the parlor is. I’ll have my housekeeper prepare a pot of tea.”

  Hamish pushed his way inside the manse. The lintel was so low, he had to duck his head. “I don’t need tea, Reverend. Just a word with Brodie.”

  Hamish didn’t have to wait long. No sooner had he taken up a position by the sash window, which commanded a view of a grassy slope running down to a black stony beach and the Little Minch, than he heard a man clear his throat behind him.

  “Lord Sleat, I understand ye wish to speak with me.”

  Hands clasped behind his back to stop himself from planting a fist in the face of the dog who’d been doing God knew what with his sister, Hamish turned around slowly. “Aye. I do.”

  Brodie MacDonald was a tall, broad-shouldered young man w
ith a strong jaw and piercing blue eyes. From beneath a tousled sweep of bright red hair, his intelligent gaze met Hamish’s directly. Even though he’d always thought Brodie quick-witted and affable—and eminently suitable for the role of Angus’s tutor—Hamish now looked at him with new eyes. How profoundly disappointing that the cur had decided to take advantage of Isobel’s naivety and inveigle his way into her heart.

  But not for much longer.

  Brodie swallowed audibly before he spoke again. “My lord, I ken ye are no’ here to listen to me beat aboot the bush. So let me begin by saying, I am deeply in love with Lady Isobel and there’s no’ a day that goes by that I dinna regret that Lord Angus walked in on us before I got the chance—”

  “So you only regret the fact you were caught, not the fact you’ve been dallying with my sister?”

  “No. Tha’s no’ what I mean at all, my lord.” Brodie inhaled a deep breath as though he was trying to harness his own fraying temper. “Look, I ken we’ve got off to a bad start, but I’m sure we can work this out.”

  “There’s nothing to work out.” Hamish reached into the pocket of his coat and withdrew a blank banknote. “This madness ends now. Today. Name your price. How much do you want to stay away from Isobel? Ten thousand pounds? Will that do?”

  Bright color flagged the crests of Brodie’s sharply cut cheekbones. “I dinna want yer money, my lord. I want to marry yer sister. We’re both in love. It’s that simple.”

  “Twenty thousand, then? Do you have a pen or a quill somewhere?”

  Brodie shook his head. “My lord—”

  “Name. Your. Price.”

  But Brodie would not be cowed, even by a snarling, six-foot-three Highlander with a half-mangled visage and death in his glare. The young man crossed his arms over his wide chest and thrust out his jaw. “I willna. Lady Isobel and I will wed. She is of age, and we have the blessing of yer mother, Lady Sleat, even if we dinna have yours. Indeed, we could have been married weeks ago if we’d exchanged vows of handfasting. But we both wanted to wait and wed in a kirk.”

  Hamish ground his back teeth together hard enough to crush gravel. He had to give the lad credit, he had balls. “It doesn’t matter what you want—”

  “The only thing that matters”—Brodie punctuated his point with a jab of his finger—“is Isobel’s happiness. And I intend to make it my life’s work to give her whatever her heart desires. Unless ye intend to strike me down, there’s no’ a goddamned thing ye can do about it. The banns have already been called for two consecutive Sundays. And tomorrow will be the third.”

  Hamish took a step forward. “What did you just say?” His voice was a low, menacing growl.

  Fear flashed like quicksilver in Brodie’s eyes, but the young man didn’t budge an inch. “You heard me. After I was banished from Muircliff, yer sister explained the whole situation to Lady Sleat, and she now understands my intentions are true. And after I had a word with my brother, he agreed to read the banns. Isobel and I can marry tomorrow if we so choose.”

  “Are you telling me that everyone in Dunmuir, indeed, everyone far and wide, knows about this?”

  “Aye.”

  Hellfire and bloody brimstone. Hamish wheeled around and faced the window. Leaning forward, he slammed his fists onto the sill and stared out at the sea. The banknote crumpled in his grip. He felt gutted. Duped.

  There was no way he could force his sister to throw over Brodie MacDonald if the whole community knew of the impending nuptials. Well, everyone but me, he thought bitterly. No wonder Isobel had been as blithe as a bird in spring. It was a fait accompli.

  What stung the most was the deceit. His mother, Isobel, and even Angus had lied to him about what had been going on behind his back as he’d raced pell-mell to Skye.

  At least bloody Brodie MacDonald had been honest.

  “I ken it’s a lot to take in, my lord,” continued Brodie. “But I want to reassure you that I’m no’ a fortune hunter. I am no’ without means or connections or aspirations. My uncle Sir Archibald MacDonald has offered to support me should I choose to pursue further studies at the University of Edinburgh with the view to becoming a solicitor. He’ll even provide us with a town house to reside in. But I willna move away if Isobel wishes to remain here. I would do anything at all fer her, my lord. She means everything to me.”

  “Yet you won’t give her up.” Hamish turned around and sat back on the sill with his arms crossed.

  “Nae, that I will no’ do. And ye ken as well as I, tha’ canna happen now the banns have been called.”

  Hamish scowled. “Aye . . . all I can say is well played, Brodie MacDonald. You’ve certainly got me over a barrel.” He shoved the crushed banknote back in his pocket. It was true, there was no way out of this. Isobel’s reputation would be ruined if Brodie jilted her, even for honorable reasons.

  It was too late.

  “So I take it ye willna oppose our union?”

  Hamish snorted as he pushed away from the window. “As much as I hate to say it, no, I won’t. I cannot. But mark my words”—he closed the distance between himself and his sister’s husband-to-be, and looked him straight in the eye—“if you ever break Isobel’s heart, I will hunt you down and kill you. Slowly. Then feed you to the sharks in the Minch. Do you understand?”

  Brodie didn’t flinch. “Aye, my lord. But I promise you, I willna do such a thing. Ever.”

  “You’d better not.” Hamish clapped him on the back on his way out the door. “I expect to see you and your brother and his wife at Muircliff tonight,” he called over his shoulder. “Dinner is at seven o’clock sharp. Don’t be late.”

  Muircliff Castle, Isle of Skye

  “How do you take your tea, Olivia?” Lady Sleat reached for a rose-patterned cup and saucer of fine bone china. Even though the dowager marchioness’s face was shrouded by her heavy black veil, Olivia sensed the woman’s gaze on her. “I hope you don’t mind if I call you Olivia.”

  Olivia smiled. “Of c-course not. I would be honored, my lady. And I like my tea with just a little milk. N-no sugar.”

  “Lovely. And you must call me Margaret. It will be rather confusing if we insist on calling each other Lady Sleat.” With sure movements, Hamish’s mother dispensed tea from the engraved silver teapot. Unlike yesterday, she didn’t seem at all nervous. Perhaps she felt far more comfortable in her own rooms with only Olivia for company.

  The marchioness’s suite was beautifully appointed. This particular parlor was full of delicate rosewood and cherrywood furniture. The brocade curtains and upholstery and cushions on the chairs were all in shades of deep rose and scarlet with touches of yellow and gold. The thick Aubusson rug was a riot of roses in similar bright hues, and large vases of freshly cut flowers graced every tabletop and sideboard as well as the white marble mantelpiece. One set of windows looked out upon the sea, whereas another pair, directly opposite Olivia, afforded her a view of the knot garden that Isobel mentioned yesterday.

  Olivia’s gaze dropped to the marchioness’s hands as she passed Olivia her cup of tea. Today her gloves were of lace rather than leather, and the thin fabric did little to conceal the angry red weals marring the backs of her hands. Olivia’s heart clenched in sympathy. Her mother-in-law’s scars must be dreadful indeed.

  “And how are you settling in, dear?” Lady Sleat asked as she poured a cup of tea for herself. “I imagine Mrs. Boyd has been a bit prickly. I’m afraid she’s rather protective of me, so it will be hard for her to see you as the new mistress of Muircliff.”

  “Oh, I have no intention of usurping your role here, my lady . . . I mean, Margaret.”

  “I know that, dear child. But you are the new Marchioness of Sleat and should be afforded all due respect. And I’m happy to step back from some of my duties.” She reached out and patted Olivia’s hand. “But it is not my intention to throw you in at the deep end either. I’m sure we
can come to a mutually suitable arrangement about how the household should be managed.”

  “Thank you, I would be most grateful. Perhaps you might even be able to help me choose a lady’s maid. I don’t have one, and Mrs. Boyd mentioned she would think about who might be suitable for the role. But when I asked her about it this morning, I’m afraid she was . . . a little vague about it all. And I must admit, I’m all at sea.” No doubt her past history with Bagshaw had something to do with the reason she was so intimidated by the dour housekeeper. She might have the title of marchioness, but she didn’t feel like one at all. “I don’t wish to create d-discord,” she continued, “but if you could have a quiet word with her, I do believe it would help.”

  Margaret patted her hand again. “Of course. I will make sure you have a suitable maid at your disposal by this evening. Now . . . if you don’t mind, Olivia. I need to lift my veil in order to drink my cup of tea.”

  “Oh yes. Please do. Don’t worry on my account.”

  “Thank you. I thought I should warn you though. I did shock Tilda yesterday, and I should hate to frighten you.”

  “I’m sure you won’t.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

  Despite the warning from the dowager marchioness, when she raised the lace that had concealed her face and smoothed it back over her auburn hair, Olivia had to press her lips together to stifle a gasp.

  Oh, my goodness. Hamish’s mother was a beautiful woman, and the sight of the terrible scarring across her right cheek and jaw and down one side of her neck made Olivia want to weep. What pain she must have endured. And no wonder she hid herself away. Even though she tried to keep calm, tears pricked Olivia’s eyes. She blinked quickly to clear them.

  Margaret’s mouth trembled with a smile. “Don’t be sad for me, dear child. Terrible things happen sometimes. I thank God every day that I’m still here and can be a part of my children’s lives. To see them grow up, and marry, and achieve wonderful things is a blessing indeed.”