on the list of eligible bachelors, entitled “Rakes of Interest,” a list that had been compiled by the Society for Enlightened Young Women at the beginning of this year’s Season. Charlie had surmised that rakehells might be the only men in London willing to overlook all of their scandal-stained pasts. And so far, she had been correct in that regard: shy Sophie had well and truly ensnared the affections of the wicked rake Viscount Malverne, and bluestocking-to-her-very-bones Arabella was happily wed to the former libertine but now thoroughly besotted Earl of Langdale.
At long last, Olivia would be spending an inordinate amount of time in the company of the marquess she’d mooned over from afar.
Charlie had long ago suggested that the best way to snare a rake’s attention—and then perhaps win his love—was to infiltrate his natural habitats and study his interests. Indeed, Olivia suspected the main reason Charlie had asked her to look after Peridot was that her friend knew the cat would stray into her neighbor’s back garden at some point. And yes, Charlie’s plan had worked even better than expected. Olivia now had ample opportunities to learn all about Lord Sleat.
Not that it would really do her any good. Not when she was pretending to be someone else.
Olivia sighed as she drew a sleepy Tilda against her side. As she studied the streets of London, already bustling with activity in the gray early-morning light, her eyelids began to droop with weariness too. Daydreams about happily-ever-afters were all well and good, but Lord Sleat wasn’t a suitor at a ton ball and she wasn’t a debutante with an impeccable pedigree and an unblemished reputation. He was her employer, and she was practicing a terrible deceit. Leaden guilt weighed heavily upon her heart.
At some point, Olivia knew she would have to confess all to Lord Sleat. She just prayed that when the moment came, he would understand why she’d resorted to subterfuge, and forgive her. Because if the man she’d dreamed of for so long ended up despising her, she really didn’t think she could bear it.
CHAPTER 5
Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly,
Rosemary’s green.
When I am king, dilly dilly,
You shall be queen.
“Lavender’s Blue,” eighteenth-century folk song
The Hart and Hare Inn, Kendal, Cumberland
September 17, 1818
A dismal twilight was cloaking the hills in a chill gray mist as Hamish directed his driver to pull into the Hart and Hare coaching inn on the outskirts of Kendal. After traveling solidly for two days and an entire night with only the briefest of breaks to change horses and attend to the call of nature, everyone deserved a decent rest before they continued north.
Not only had Miss Morland dealt with the furious pace he’d set with a stoicism that he couldn’t help but admire, she’d also been assiduous in caring for Tilda. Even though they’d traveled in separate carriages, he’d observed that the little girl seemed content enough whenever they’d stopped to stretch their legs in an inn yard or snatch a quick meal in a taproom. There’d been no more tears—not that he’d seen, at any rate—and he was nothing but relieved that things had worked out so well given the complexity of the situation.
Of course, alone in his carriage, he’d had ample time to sift through all the names of his past paramours—at least the ones he could remember. For once in his life, he was almost ashamed of how long the list actually was. However, in the end, the exercise proved to be futile. He still had no idea if Tilda was really his. And if she was, who the hell her mother might be.
He’d also had hours and hours to catch up on slumber. But again, that proved to be a fruitless endeavor. He was a restless sleeper at the best of times, and his insomnia had worsened because he was plagued by a surfeit of entirely inappropriate and entirely carnal thoughts about the lovely Miss Morland.
Never in his life had he lusted after a female in his household staff. Nor a lass so young. Good God, he was a decade older than the wee chit. It was most unsettling that certain aspects of her figure—the shape of her long, slender legs when a gust of wind pressed her skirts against them, or the delicious swell of her hips and fulsome breasts beneath an entirely sedate traveling gown—were enough to heat his blood and accelerate his pulse; the sensation was not dissimilar to downing half a dozen drams of whisky in quick