was it Olivia in particular he observed?
Hamish’s gaze narrowed as he joined his friend and handed him his whisky. Yes, Max was paying particular attention to Olivia. He couldn’t say that he blamed him—a man would have to be blind or on his deathbed not to notice how pretty she was.
So why was he, Hamish, suddenly experiencing this unexpected flash of jealousy?
He’d already told Max an abridged version of how he’d come to wed Olivia over the anvil. Of course, for Olivia’s sake, he hadn’t divulged all the messy details, but Max knew their marriage was ostensibly one of convenience until they divorced. He trusted his devilishly handsome, silver-tongued friend didn’t have designs on Olivia . . .
As if he’d fathomed what—or rather who—was on Hamish’s mind, Max said in a low voice, “MacQueen, are you certain you really want to let your wife go when she eventually inherits? I know your marriage was born out of necessity . . . but from what I’ve seen and heard of Olivia, she’s a dashed lovely girl. I think it would be a shame not to give it your best shot.”
Hamish sipped his whisky, relieved he wouldn’t have to maim his friend to prevent him from having an affair with his wife. While Max knew he had nightmares—his friends Nate and Gabriel did too—none of them were aware how dangerous he became when he was in the midst of one. Or that his tainted bloodline precluded him from having a child. Aloud he said, “I never thought I’d see the day when the devilish Duke of Exmoor would be dispensing marital advice.”
Max bared his perfect teeth in a wide grin. “Ah, you mistake my motives, my friend. It’s within my best interests that you stay happily wed. You see, now that Nate and Gabriel are also well and truly leg-shackled, there’ll be less competition when I go on the prowl.”
As long as you don’t go prowling anywhere near my wife, thought Hamish.
But then, one day in the not-too-distant future, some other man would be prowling around Olivia. And how would he feel then?
Hamish swallowed another mouthful of whisky to hide a snarl of frustration. The lass’s twenty-first birthday was but a week away, and in a few days’ time, he was due to meet with his own solicitor, Olivia’s uncle, and her trustee, a certain Mr. George Thackery from the law firm Norton, Lyle, and Thackery. If Hamish could secure Olivia’s money for her sooner, she could be free of him within a few short months. Perhaps even weeks.
With all his heart, he wanted to give this marriage his best shot, but at what cost to Olivia?
For her sake, it was a price he wasn’t willing to pay.
* * *
* * *
It was so quiet now that Tilda had gone, Olivia swore she could hear the ticking of every longcase and mantel clock throughout Sleat House. The little girl had bid her a sticky, tearful farewell along with a grateful Mia about an hour ago. Apparently, Hamish’s friend Max had arranged a private carriage to ferry them to Lynton Grange, one of his properties in Devonshire, because Mia would be taking up the housekeeper’s position there.
While Olivia would miss Tilda terribly, she was also profoundly happy for her and Mia. After their departure, Hamish had disclosed that Mia had been in such desperate circumstances, she’d been forced to work at Birchmore House, the same infamous brothel that Felix sometimes frequented. To think that both she and Tilda would now have a safe and happy life, thanks to Hamish and his friend, warmed Olivia’s heart immeasurably.
Less heartwarming was the fact that Hamish had also quit Sleat House a short time ago. Olivia had no idea where he’d gone or when he’d be back. She assumed he might have decided to visit one of his clubs, but she couldn’t be sure. Charlie had once mentioned that her father, Lord Westhampton, and her brother Nate—before he wed Sophie—often spent entire evenings in such places.
She supposed she would dine alone in her room once more with only her books for company.
As Olivia trailed up the wide mahogany staircase to head for the bedrooms, she buried her nose in the small bunch of lavender she’d just picked. Hamish had told her that he didn’t think chamomile tea or scented posies could cure his poor sleep and bad dreams, and while she tended to agree, there also wasn’t any harm in continuing to use them if they provided