How to Catch a Sinful Marquess

by Amy Rose Bennett

  “Lord Sleat,” de Vere intoned in a deep voice, and puffed out his barrel chest in a display of bellicose bravado. “So you’re the cur who eloped with my niece. I’m sure you’ll understand if I don’t offer you my hand.”

  “And I wouldn’t have bothered to take it if you had,” replied Hamish with a calculated curl of his lip. He approached de Vere’s desk but didn’t take a seat. “I’m sure you know why I’m here.”

  Olivia’s uncle snorted. “Your letter and your solicitor’s correspondence were quite clear. But if you think for one minute that I would sign over my niece’s entire fortune to a blackguard like you—”

  “Well, considering I’ve just learned George Thackery’s son and your son, Felix, have embezzled thirty thousand pounds and have scarpered off to God knows where, how can I trust you or Olivia’s trustee to manage her fortune? So yes, I do expect you to sign every last penny over to me.” Leaning forward, Hamish added in a low voice, “I have deep pockets myself, de Vere, and I will make your life a living legal hell unless you do as I say.”

  Reginald de Vere blanched. “You know about all that?”

  “Aye,” said Hamish. “And I also know about your son’s rampant gambling and that various creditors are after him.”

  “Oh, my God.” Reginald de Vere’s countenance turned a sickly green shade that brought to mind pea soup. He plopped into his chair. “Oh, my God.”

  Hamish folded his arms. “You obviously know about Felix’s dissipation and the dire financial straits he’s in too?”

  Reginald de Vere ran a shaking hand through his thinning blond hair. “Are you trying to blackmail me into handing over Olivia’s fortune? Is that why you’re here?” he snapped.

  Hamish cocked an eyebrow. “Make no mistake, I’ll get my hands dirty if I have to, de Vere. I’m certainly not above spreading a rumor or two about your son. Such a salacious scandal would completely ruin your daughters’ chances of securing good marriages next Season, don’t you think?”

  Olivia’s uncle sneered. “You’re bluffing. How would it look if word got out that the Marchioness of Sleat’s cousin is so immoral?”

  Hamish shrugged. “I live on the Isle of Skye a good deal of the time, where there’s not a newspaper to be had, and most of the population speak Scots Gaelic anyway. It will hardly bother me or my wife. You, on the other hand . . .”

  “Christ.” De Vere dropped his head into his hands. “Felix will be the death of me. I swear to God.”

  “Where is he, by the way?”

  “Gone,” said de Vere dully. “When one of the creditors from that vile establishment Birchmore House turned up on the doorstep looking for payment . . .” A violent shudder shook the man’s body. “Needless to say, I threw Felix out. Disowned him. He and George Thackery’s son can go to the devil for all I care.”

  Hamish stroked his chin as he contemplated the man slumping in his chair. Just the threat of disclosing all these secrets should be enough to obtain de Vere’s cooperation. “So your son and Giles Thackery both disappeared a week ago, as soon as creditors began dogging their heels. And just recently, they also stole an additional twenty-five thousand pounds from my wife. I’d say they’ve both run off to the Continent to avoid being arrested and sent to debtors’ prison, wouldn’t you?”

  Reginald de Vere’s mouth twisted. “It would seem so.”

  “Well, here’s what’s going to happen now so this appalling scandal doesn’t end up in all the papers,” said Hamish. “Tomorrow, my own solicitor, Mr. Walter Faraday, is going to deliver a contract to the offices of Norton, Lyle, and Thackery. And when you and Mr. George Thackery sign it, and the entirety of Olivia’s inheritance has been deposited into my bank account at Drummonds, I will continue to let you live here in this town house—which I now own, by the way—free of rent until your daughters are both wed. Think of it as noblesse oblige.”

  If Hamish had thought Reginald looked ill before, it was nothing compared to how he looked now. Sweat sheened his brow, and his countenance was as green as the leather blotter on his desk. “All right,” he muttered from between clenched teeth, “all bloody right.”

  “Excellent.” Hamish grinned and tapped his leather eye patch. “I’m glad we see eye to eye. I’ll see myself out.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Rumor has it that a certain marchioness has just celebrated her twenty-first birthday. And what better way to mark one’s coming of age than to share a decadent ice or two with one’s closest friends at London’s premier tea shop?

  The Beau Monde Mirror: The Society Page

  Gunter’s Tea Shop, Berkeley Square, London

  October 15, 1818

  I . . . I can’t quite believe you’re all here to help me celebrate my birthday,” said Olivia in a voice that was more than a little choked with happiness. Tears misted her vision as she looked upon all her darling friends—Charlie, Sophie, and Arabella—sitting around her. They’d gathered at Gunter’s for tea and cake and ices. To laugh and reminisce.

  “There’s no place we’d rather be,” said Charlie, reaching out across the table past their half-drunk cups of tea to squeeze Olivia’s hand. Her topaz brown eyes were suspiciously bright too.

  “Aye,” declared Arabella, digging in her fashionable beaded reticule and pulling out a fine lawn kerchief for Olivia. “And you mustn’t cry, because then I will too. And I don’t want to fog up my glasses. You know, when one is a countess, one must keep up appearances. Stiff upper lips must be maintained at all times.”

  “Yes, it’s mandatory, even for viscountesses,” agreed Sophie with mock graveness. “And I would say it’s especially the case for marchionesses.”

  Olivia laughed. “Oh, how I’ve missed you all,” she said, dabbing at her eyes. “You always make me feel so much better.”

  “That’s what friends are for,” said Charlie. She sat back and smiled. “I’m especially proud that my three best friends in all the world have found the men of their dreams. If I ever wed, we’ll have to rename our group the Society for Enlightened Young Married Women.”

  “It will be your turn next, Charlie,” said Sophie. “We’ll make it our mission to help you find a love match next Season, if not before.”

  “Well, if not, I will not despair,” said Charlie. “I shall simply become a daring bluestocking, beholden to no man. I’ll travel and take lovers, and when I’m home, I shall be a doting aunt to all of your lovely children.” She cast a knowing smile at her sister-in-law Sophie.

  Sophie promptly blushed bright red. Her cheeks matched the raspberry-hued velvet of her spencer. “Yes, I’m increasing,” she whispered. “And I know you’re all going to ask when the baby’s due so I’ll tell you straightaway that it’s March.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful,” cried Arabella softly. Despite her earlier pronouncement that she was determined not to cry, her eyes brimmed with tears of happiness. “Congratulations.”

  “Yes,” agreed Olivia, and pressed Arabella’s kerchief back into her hands. “Con-congratulations.” She tried not to feel a stab of envy. She was truly happy for sweet Sophie and Nate.

  “Olivia, what’s wrong?” asked Charlie gently. “I thought you were a little subdued when Sophie and I took you shopping last week. Now I’m convinced something is not right.”

  Curse her friend’s hawklike perceptiveness. Olivia forced a smile. “I assure you, nothing’s wrong.”

  “Yes there is,” said Arabella, studying her through her spectacles. “You can’t fool us, Olivia. We know you too well.”

  “I’m . . . I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” murmured Olivia, capitulating a fraction under all their concerned gazes.

  “But you must,” declared Sophie. “How are we to help you if you don’t?”

  Olivia glanced about the bustling tearoom. She oh so wanted their advice. But what could she tell them without betraying Hamish’s confidence?
She’d already told Sophie and Charlie that she’d met Hamish while trying to retrieve Peridot and that Hamish had offered to marry her to save her from Felix. And because she’d only been twenty, they’d eloped to Gretna Green.

  But she’d let them believe that it had all been romantic and wonderful. She hadn’t told them her marriage to Hamish was actually supposed to be one of convenience only. That he didn’t want an heir. That they hadn’t even consummated their union, and once Hamish had secured her fortune for her, they’d likely divorce so she could find happiness with someone else.

  But she had no one else to turn to, and if she didn’t seek her friends’ help, she feared her heart would surely break.

  She could trust Charlie, Sophie, and Arabella. She absolutely knew she could. They’d been through thick and thin together. Weathered scandal together. Made plans together and shared all their hopes and dreams and fears.

  She drew a steadying breath and, in hushed tones, confessed all.

  “Lord Sleat is right about one thing,” said Arabella when Olivia had finished. “Laudanum is a dangerous concoction. But he’s wrong about everything else. Just because his father was a despicable tyrant, it doesn’t mean he will be.”

  “Yes,” agreed Charlie. “Everything else he believes about himself is erroneous.”

  “What’s most important, Olivia,” said Sophie, “in fact, the only thing that really matters, is that you love each other. Because if you love him and he truly loves you, you will find a way to overcome any and all obstacles.”

  “I’m so glad you agree.” Olivia smiled at her friends. “I do love him, with all my heart. And I know he cares for me, too, even if he hasn’t said so yet. I . . . I think he’s afraid to.”

  “Yes, men often are,” agreed Sophie. “Nate certainly was.”

  “And Gabriel was too,” added Arabella.

  “And now they’re absolutely besotted with you both,” concluded Charlie.

  Olivia sighed. “I’ve been racking my brains for days and days, trying to come up with ways to change Hamish’s mind and convince him we can be happy. But he’s as stubborn as a Highland bullock.”

  “Well, now we’re here to help you,” said Arabella. “I feel a scientific and methodical approach is required. Irrefutable logic and a sound plan of attack will sway him, I’m sure of it.” She reached for one of Gunter’s printed menus of the day and turned it over to the blank side. “Does anyone have a pencil?”

  “I do,” said Charlie, reaching into her reticule.

  “Excellent.” Arabella fixed her intelligent gaze on Olivia. “So the first topic that needs addressing is, how can you get this stubborn-as-a-Highland-bullock husband of yours to make love to you?”

  “Yes, consummating your marriage should be at the top of the agenda,” agreed Sophie. “And there are ways to safeguard against conception if he’s not quite ready to become a father yet.”

  “That’s very true,” agreed Arabella. “Of course he’d be well aware of those methods, so perhaps you’ll just need to reassure him that you are quite fine with his taking precautions if they’re necessary to maintain his peace of mind. Another point you can argue quite successfully is that sexual congress doesn’t need to take place in a bed. Especially if he’s worried about falling asleep all the time.”

  There was a knowing twinkle in Sophie’s eye as she said, “You could always suggest that you only make love during daylight hours. Or even out in the open.”

  “And you could always tie him to the bedposts,” Charlie offered with an arch smile. “Just in case he does fall asleep.”

  “All good points,” said Arabella. “Let’s make a list.”

  “I can’t quite believe we’re having this deliciously wicked conversation in Gunter’s Tea Shop,” murmured Olivia as Arabella began to write.

  Charlie laughed. “If anyone did overhear, wouldn’t it make a wonderful article in the Beau Monde Mirror? I can see it now: ‘Former “Disreputable Debutantes” provide expert advice on how to effectively seduce one’s husband.’”

  “Perhaps we should write a book,” said Sophie, her blue eyes alight with mischief. “The Diary of a Disreputable Debutante; or, The Memoirs of an Enlightened, Blissfully Happy, and Thoroughly Pleasured Married Woman. I’m sure it would sell very well.”

  Sleat House, Grosvenor Square

  Olivia’s twenty-first-birthday gift—an enormous bunch of hothouse roses—sat on the low oak table beside Hamish’s brown leather wingchair in the drawing room of Sleat House.

  Hamish sighed heavily and touched one of the dark crimson, satiny petals with a fingertip. He wasn’t even sure whether Olivia liked roses. Or if she did, what color she preferred. He always pictured purple blooms in his head—heather and lavender and violets—whenever he thought of her.

  Tucked in among the roses was a handwritten promissory note for three hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Olivia’s uncle and her trustee had made good on their promise to deposit all of the funds in his bank account. And as soon as Olivia gained her independence, he would transfer the entire amount into her very own account.

  He’d been preparing what he should say to Olivia all morning. He’d risen late, and as he’d breakfasted alone in his room, Hudson informed him that his wife’s friends, Lady Charlotte, Lady Langdale, and Lady Malverne, had whisked Olivia away to Gunter’s Tea Shop to celebrate her birthday.

  He was pleased her friends were all back in town, spoiling her. Indeed, last night he’d spent quite a few hours at White’s with Nate, Gabriel, and Max, catching up on all the latest news. Of course, he’d declined Max’s invitation to pay a visit to the gaming-hell-cum-brothel the Pandora Club. Like Nate and Gabriel, he headed home. But unlike Nate and Gabriel, it wasn’t to join his lovely young wife in bed.

  A pang of envy penetrated Hamish whenever he thought about what he was missing out on. He’d give anything to sleep beside Olivia. To wake up with her head upon his chest. To run his fingers through her dark, unbound hair and feel her naked, luscious body pressed against his.

  Even worse was the gnawing feeling of jealousy that had taken up residence in his gut when Nate had announced to them all that his wife, Sophie, was with child.

  Lucky bastard. Since Tilda had departed with Mia, Hamish felt the little girl’s absence keenly. Her smiles and giggles. Her warm hugs. Of course she belonged with her mother, but now there was a fresh hole in his heart that he suspected could never be repaired. His gaze strayed to the sideboard where his decanters of whisky and brandy sat, and a heavy sigh escaped him. No amount of alcohol could quell this yearning deep inside him. Or the ache in his chest at the thought that Olivia would be free to find love with another man and bear his children after they went their separate ways.

  But would she? At Muircliff, she’d declared that she loved him.

  And then he’d rejected her.

  Hamish raked his fingers through his hair, then dropped his head into his hands, his elbows resting on his buckskin-clad thighs.

  Christ. She had to leave. He had to break this off. Divorcing Olivia was the right thing to do. The old, familiar litany played in his head: You’re tainted; you’re dangerous; she deserves better.

  Even to his own ears, those words rang hollow.

  The door snicked open. Light footfalls approached.

  “Hamish?”

  He lifted his head and dredged up a smile. God’s teeth, Olivia was beautiful. He hadn’t realized until this very moment how much he enjoyed the sheer, simple pleasure of taking in the sight of his wife. He could wallow in the feeling forever and a day.

  Perhaps because it was her birthday, she’d taken extra care with her appearance—not that he cared, of course. She could wear a potato sack and she’d still look gorgeous. His gaze greedily combed over her. Her dark brown hair had been curled and gathered into some sort of fashionable pile at the back of her shapely head. Her de
lectable figure was displayed to perfection in a well-cut, elegant gown of purple silk—he supposed the modiste who’d fashioned it might dub it “amethyst.” At her throat she wore her mother’s silver locket, and below her delicate earlobes danced pearls shaped like teardrops. Contrary fool that he was, he was also inordinately pleased to see that she still wore his signet ring.

  While he blatantly perused her body, Olivia’s gaze settled on the bunch of roses.

  “Are . . . are those for me?” she asked softly.

  “Aye,” he said gruffly. Picking up the bouquet, he rose to his feet. “Happy birthday, Olivia.”

  She drew closer, and her violet-and-vanilla scent mingled with that of the roses, making his mouth water. “Thank you,” she murmured. Her fingers brushed his as she took the bunch from him, and he had to resist the familiar urge to drag her into his arms and ravage her sweet mouth.

  When she plucked the promissory note from among the bloodred blooms, she frowned. And then her eyes widened. “What’s this?” she breathed.

  “Your inheritance. Your uncle and the trustee, Mr. Thackery, handed the funds to me on a silver platter.” Drawing a deep breath, he plowed on with the hardest thing he would ever have to say. “After we divorce, I’ll transfer the entire sum to you,” he said through stiff lips. Each horrid word of the prepared speech he uttered felt like a lash to his soul. “The whole three hundred and fifty thousand pounds. We’ll have to set up a bank account in your name, of course. But before that happens, we’ll need to return to Scotland. You’ll then be able to sue me for divorce on the basis of adultery, just as we discussed. I expect it won’t take long for it to all go through. I’m afraid there’ll be a dreadful scandal, but in time it will die down. You’re young and wealthy and beautiful. You’ll soon find someone else.”

  But Olivia shook her head and placed the roses and the promissory note on the table. “Hamish,” she said gently. Stepping forward, she clasped his hands and looked up into his face. Her dark, velvet-soft gaze connected with his. “I thank you for everything you’ve done for me with my whole heart. But I’ll never want anyone else. You know I don’t want a divorce. And I don’t think you really want one either.”