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 delectable 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