How to Catch a Sinful Marquess

by Amy Rose Bennett

  Olivia nodded. Her thoughts strayed to Tilda and how her mother had felt compelled to give her up. She must have been in an impossible situation to do such a thing. And then Olivia thought of her own mother and how much she missed her. Dropping her gaze, she picked up her tea and took a sip to conceal her own sadness.

  Margaret offered a plate of delicate cucumber and salmon sandwiches to Olivia. When she politely declined, the dowager marchioness continued, “It goes without saying that I’m looking forward to becoming a grandmother, too, one day.” Sliding off one of her gloves, she selected a sandwich for her own plate. “It’s lovely having Tilda here in the nursery, but I do long to hold my own wee grandchild in my arms.” She caught Olivia’s gaze. “Not that I mean to put undue pressure on you and Hamish, of course. I know you’ve only just wed. There’s plenty of time.”

  Olivia felt herself blushing. What could she possibly say? “Your son doesn’t want to have children with me”? “In a few short years, if not sooner, we are going to get divorced”? She needed to steer the conversation in another direction, and quickly. “Actually, I’ve been wondering what Hamish was like as a boy,” she ventured. “Yesterday he admitted to me that he was rather mischievous.”

  Margaret laughed. “Oh, yes. He was indeed a scamp. And a rumbustious and willful adolescent too. But he’s grown into a noble man. A man I’m proud of.” Her expression changed. A shadow passed across her gray eyes. “Unlike his father . . .” Her gaze met Olivia’s directly. “I thought you should know that, in case you hear any rumors. Which you are sure to.”

  “Oh . . .” Olivia put her tea down and folded her hands in her lap. “Hamish hasn’t told me all that much other than his father perished in . . . in the fire here. I gather it’s a topic that is difficult to revisit . . . for both of you.”

  Her mother-in-law nodded. Her scarred hand fluttered to the high neck of her black wool gown. “Yes. But I’d prefer you hear the details from me rather than anyone else, especially the servants. You see, Torquil—I suppose Hamish had told you his name—was not a good man. In fact, one might even venture to say he was cruel.” Her mouth twisted with bitterness. “He had a bad temper, and the worst thing was, I never quite knew when he might have an outburst. He would just . . . explode over the smallest things that displeased him, and I could never tell what it would be that would trigger his anger. I was always walking on eggshells around him. Needless to say, we did not have an amicable relationship. He was not a good father either . . .”

  Her fingers touched the scars on her neck, and her gaze grew distant. “In fact, the night of the fire, we fought. Most viciously. For the life of me, I can’t even recall what it was about. But Torquil did come to my rooms and—” She swallowed, and when she spoke next, her voice trembled. “I’m afraid my recollection is somewhat hazy, but what I do know for certain is that if it weren’t for Hamish, I would have died that night. I’m told that Hamish risked his own life to save mine. That he carried me out of the conflagration with only moments to spare before the tower collapsed.”

  “Oh, heavens. I had no idea,” breathed Olivia. “Hamish didn’t share those details with me. But your disclosure doesn’t surprise me. I’ve already seen how loyal and protective he is of those he cares about. He truly is a brave man.”

  Margaret smiled. Tears glazed her gray eyes. “Yes, he is. And I can see how much he cares for you, Olivia, just by the way he looks at you. I never thought my braw, fearless lad would fall in love but—”

  At a knock on the door, Margaret broke off. “Ah, that might be Isobel. She mentioned she might join us.”

  But it wasn’t Isobel. It was Hamish who entered. Olivia’s pulse sped at the sight of him in his kilt, just as it always did.

  “Mother, I apologize for interrupting.” His gaze skipped to Olivia before returning to the marchioness. “But I need to have a word with you.”

  “Of course,” she replied. “Why don’t you join us for afternoon tea?”

  Olivia, still astonished by Margaret’s pronouncement that Hamish cared for her, gave herself a mental shake. Hamish’s expression was so serious, she wondered if he would prefer to speak with his mother alone. “I’d be happy to leave if you’d like some privacy,” she murmured as he settled into a dainty shepherdess chair beside her.

  “No, it’s quite all right,” he replied in a somber tone. “You should hear this too.”

  Well, that sounded ominous. Indeed, as Olivia studied her husband, she sensed he was quite agitated. Beneath his kilt, his muscled leg jiggled with impatience as he watched his mother reach for another cup off the silver tea tray.

  As Margaret began to pour the tea, he said in a low voice, “So, dear Mama, when were you planning on telling me that Isobel and Brodie were betrothed and that Reverend MacDonald has already begun calling the banns?”

  “Oh . . .” Margaret’s panicked gaze flew to Hamish’s face, and she almost dropped the teapot. “Yes . . . did . . . did Isobel tell you? Or Angus . . . ?”

  Oh, dear. Olivia’s fingers curled into her navy wool skirts. The tension in the room was palpable.

  “No. It was Brodie himself,” continued Hamish, depositing two lumps of sugar in his cup. “I’ve just returned from a visit to Dunmuir Kirk.”

  Margaret’s countenance paled. “Oh, I see.”

  “I must say, I’m more than a wee bit hurt that you, Isobel, and Angus kept me in the dark about all this.” Hamish stirred his tea carefully, then placed the silver spoon upon his saucer. “When Brodie told me what was going on, I felt like the biggest fool on Skye.”

  “I’m so, so sorry, Hamish,” Margaret said in a breathless rush. “But Isobel and I have been so nervous about telling you . . . we . . . we kept putting it off. Because we knew you’d be angry.”

  “I might look like an ogre, Mama, but it seems you thought I might behave like one too.” Remorse tightened Hamish’s features. “As I rode back to Muircliff, I couldn’t stop going over my own role in all of this. And it crushes me to think you were all so afraid of my reaction that you couldn’t tell me the truth. And that’s what cuts the deepest. In my pigheaded pursuit of trying to do what I thought what was best for Isobel—by believing my opinion was the only one that mattered—I’ve become that which I despise. A tyrant. A man to be feared. Someone like my father.”

  “Oh, my sweet lad.” Margaret rose from her seat and enveloped Hamish in a warm embrace. “Nothing could be further from the truth. You were motivated by love to protect Isobel. Nothing else. You’re not like your father. Never, ever think that.”

  Hamish’s strong arms came around his mother’s frail, slender frame as he hugged her back. And this time as Olivia watched, there was simply no way on earth that she could keep her own tears at bay.

  CHAPTER 19

  Drink to me only with thine eyes,

  And I will pledge with mine.

  Ben Jonson, “Song to Celia”

  What a merry party it is, thought Olivia glumly as she glanced around Muircliff’s dining room. She could still hardly fathom Hamish’s complete change of heart where Isobel and Brodie were concerned. But she was glad for Isobel’s sake that he had come around. The clearly besotted pair had decided they would wed without delay in two days’ time.

  If only Hamish would have a change of heart about our marriage, Olivia thought despondently.

  Seeing Isobel and Brodie together made her own situation feel that much worse. She, Olivia, was hopelessly in love with a man who steadfastly refused to take her to bed even though he clearly desired her. Who only yesterday professed that he needed to taste her more than he needed his next breath.

  Yet he maintained he would never give her children.

  And she was only just beginning to understand why.

  For some reason, Hamish feared he might take after his wicked, brutish father. The things he’d said two days ago when they first arrived at Mu
ircliff—that he’d burn her, that he wasn’t worth it—suddenly made sense. And the words he’d said to his mother this afternoon were also telling.

  I’ve become that which I despise.

  A tyrant. A man to be feared.

  But he wasn’t. Anyone could see it. But how could she convince him otherwise?

  Conversation ebbed and flowed around Olivia like a babbling burn as she took a sip of champagne, hoping the fizz of the alcohol through her bloodstream would quell her altogether disorderly and disconsolate thoughts. Isobel chatted animatedly with Angus and her handsome fiancé, Brodie; Lady Sleat spoke with Reverend MacDonald’s wife, Mariah, at Olivia’s end of the grand oak table; and at the other end, Hamish conversed with the good reverend himself.

  Although, there were moments when her husband’s attention wandered down the table and she sensed his gaze upon her, hot and heavy like a physical touch. She wondered if it was because she’d taken extra care with her appearance tonight. Lady Sleat had been true to her word. After Margaret spoke with Mrs. Boyd, the housekeeper had procured a young maid named Eliza to assist Olivia. The girl had apparently worked alongside Isobel’s lady’s maid on the odd occasion, and it showed; Olivia discovered Eliza had a deft hand when it came to arranging hair.

  Olivia also wore one of Isobel’s fine evening gowns for the occasion. When her sister-in-law discovered Olivia had but a meager wardrobe, she’d loaded her up with a pile of clothes—gowns, a riding habit, and undergarments she professed she never wore—and Olivia was most grateful.

  Although the scooped neckline of her borrowed gown was quite low and revealed a good deal of the tops of her breasts, the silk was a lovely deep rose color, and Olivia felt quite the princess with her hair curled and piled atop her head. Every time she glanced in her husband’s direction and she discovered him watching her, awareness shivered along Olivia’s skin, and longing whispered through her veins. But then, at other times, it seemed he barely noticed her at all. It was most disconcerting. And exceedingly frustrating.

  Her confusion about Hamish’s hot-and-cold demeanor persisted when they all repaired to the drawing room after dinner. He’d escorted her to the fireside, and his hands had caressed her all-but-bare shoulders as she sat, but then he removed himself to the other side of the room, where he stood in the shadows armed with a glass of whisky. Isobel played the pianoforte, and then Angus regaled them with several tunes. The lad possessed a handsome voice—not quite as deep as Hamish’s, it had a pleasing timbre nonetheless—and Olivia enjoyed his performance greatly in between sneaking looks at her husband.

  At the end of Angus’s third song after the applause died away, Hamish spoke. “I think my lady wife should sing for us.”

  Olivia jumped in her seat and then blushed as all eyes focused on her. “I-I couldn’t.”

  “Yes you could,” said Hamish. “I’ve heard you sing before. You have a beautiful voice.”

  Olivia’s cheeks felt as if they were ablaze. He must be referring to that time at the Hart and Hare when she’d sung Tilda a lullaby.

  “Yes, please do sing for us, Olivia,” entreated Isobel. “I’m tired of Angus’s tuneless droning in my ear. Do you know ‘Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes’?”

  Olivia would be lying if she said she didn’t. “Y-yes.”

  Isobel smiled. “Wonderful.”

  Angus claimed a seat beside Brodie, and it seemed Olivia had no choice but to take his place at Isobel’s side at the pianoforte. She cleared her throat several times and made herself draw a deep, calming breath. She would do this for Hamish because he’d asked her to. At least she knew she probably wouldn’t stammer.

  Fixing her gaze on the dancing flames of the fire and nothing else, she sang the familiar, terribly romantic air.

  Drink to me only with thine eyes,

  And I will pledge with mine;

  Or leave a kiss within the cup.

  And I’ll not ask for wine.

  It wasn’t until she finished the last verse that she dared herself to steal a glance at Hamish. And the sight of him watching her stole her breath away. His hot, smoky gaze fairly smoldered, burning her, even across the room.

  Hamish wasn’t just drinking to her with his eyes. He had the look of a man who was desperate to devour her. In that moment, it was as if everyone else in the room faded into the shadows and only she and Hamish remained.

  Olivia’s heart began to pound wildly with equal amounts of trepidation and anticipation.

  Tonight she wouldn’t be put off. Tonight she would go to Hamish’s room and entreat him to make love to her. He’d almost done so in the turret room.

  Even if they didn’t consummate their union tonight, there were other things they could do. Things she’d once read about in an erotic set of memoirs. Things she’d glimpsed in salacious pictures three years ago at a young ladies’ academy.

  Things her married friends Sophie and Arabella had whispered about in quiet moments and hinted at in their letters.

  She might be a novice when it came to bed sport, but somehow, some way, she would seduce her husband. And perhaps, just maybe, he might admit that he’d fallen in love with her.

  * * *

  * * *

  An hour later, after the party had dissolved, Olivia sat at her dressing table and closed her eyes as her new maid Eliza pulled a brush through her unbound hair. Her stomach was awhirl with butterflies, but she wouldn’t let a bout of nerves sway her from her purpose. Even Hamish’s perfunctory good-night kiss a short time ago—a mere brush of his lips against her temple before he disappeared into his own room—wouldn’t deter her.

  Because she knew he wanted her.

  Eliza spoke, pulling Olivia away from her musings about what she would say and do when she crept next door. “Would you like me to braid yer hair before bed, my lady?”

  Olivia caught the girl’s eye in the gilt-edged dressing table mirror. “No, I shall do it myself,” she said. “You may go now, Eliza. I won’t need you until morning. Thank you.”

  The maid couldn’t quite suppress her knowing smile before she turned away. “Aye, my lady. And good night.”

  Of course, it was obvious what the newly married Marchioness of Sleat’s objective was tonight. Instead of putting on her plain flannel night rail, Olivia opted to don another one of Isobel’s castoffs—a robe of antique gold satin with touches of frothy cream lace at the sleeves. And because seduction was on her mind, she wore nothing underneath. Well, nothing but a dab of scent. Once Eliza was gone, Olivia applied the perfume to her wrists, behind her ears, and even between her breasts.

  Hamish was about to get a visit from his near-naked wife, and she wanted to make sure he knew exactly what she was about. She was a married woman, and she was so very sick and tired of being treated like a virtuous maiden. A slip of a girl who needed protecting from her husband’s base urges.

  Well, this virgin bride had some base urges, too, and despite the riotous fluttering in her belly, her blushes, and her stammering, she was about to vanquish her very own beast.

  Rising from her seat, Olivia made sure her robe was sufficiently cinched at the waist—she didn’t want to expose too much flesh until she knew for certain that Hudson had retired for the night—then with her heart in her mouth, she pushed through the jib door into her husband’s bedchamber.

  And she wasn’t disappointed. It was as though Hamish knew she was coming.

  Her magnificent husband, wearing nothing but a midnight blue banyan and his eye patch, was sprawled in a wingback chair before the fire. In one hand, he held a tumbler of whisky. In his other, he held a leather-bound book. But upon seeing her, he sat up straight and deposited both the book and glass onto a nearby table. His gaze dragged over her before connecting with her eyes.

  “Olivia, lass,” he said, his dark brows knitting into a frown. “What are you doing here? Is everything all right?
”

  Ignoring his questions, Olivia padded across the carpet, her bare toes sinking into the plush pile. “Is . . . is Hudson here?”

  Hamish’s gaze narrowed. “No, I dismissed him.”

  “Good.”

  She moved closer, and Hamish stiffened. “I think you should go back to your room,” he said in a voice laced with warning.

  “Really?” She stopped before him, and for once he had to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact with her. Lowering her voice, she continued, “Are you certain that’s what you want?”

  Her hands moved to the sash at her waist, and she loosened the knot. Even though she trembled inside and her knees felt weak, she could do this. She had to, for both their sakes. “Because I know exactly what I want. And I mean to have it.”

  Hamish’s tongue darted out to swipe along his full lower lip, and his long fingers curled around the arms of his chair. “You know I want you, lass. But it’s not as easy as—”

  She placed a finger against his wide mouth. His lips were firm yet satiny smooth, his breath hot. “Yes it is, Hamish. I want you. You want me. We’re married. We can do whatever we like.” Tugging the sash loose completely, she opened it so he could see her. All of her. “We can strip bare and pleasure each other with nothing but our hands and mouths like lovers do,” she murmured. “There’s no one to naysay us.”

  Hamish swallowed, and his gaze grew heavy-lidded as he studied her body. Her naked breasts with their tightly furled, dusky pink nipples. The softly rounded swells of her hips and belly. The dark triangle of curls at the apex of her thighs.

  At the sight of her husband’s hunger, Olivia felt a dark thrill arrow through her, straight to her sex. Her folds pulsed with longing.

  “How do you know about things like that?” he whispered hoarsely.

  She laughed, suddenly feeling powerful. Hamish was becoming aroused too. Already she could see his member stirring beneath the quilted satin of his banyan. He clearly liked what he saw.