Olivia suspected most of her garments would need to be laundered if that were the case, but she appreciated Lord Sleat’s thoughtfulness all the same.
Lord Sleat departed, and Olivia nursed her whisky, staring into the leaping flames of the fire.
The marquess hadn’t pushed her for too much information about her past, thank goodness. But Olivia’s guilty conscience was still a persistent worm that niggled away at her. She wanted to be honest with him, to lay all her secrets bare, but the risk was too great.
Because they were staying here in Gretna Green another day, at least she’d have the opportunity to write to Charlie—and even Sophie and Arabella—to let them all know about her situation and current whereabouts. If Uncle Reginald did decide to go to the newspapers and report that she was missing, Olivia didn’t want her friends to worry about her.
And after she turned twenty-one, she might be able to stay with one of her friends—at least for a little while—until she found a way to support herself . . . or a good man who would happily take her to wife. Her heart still longed for a love match. Surely it wasn’t an impossible dream. Her parents had been happily wed for seventeen years before tragedy struck. And, by all accounts, Sophie and Arabella were blissfully content with their new husbands.
Olivia sighed wearily. Would that Lord Sleat cared for her in a romantic way—she’d already dismissed the “almost kiss” they’d shared the night before as nothing more than a momentary lapse in Lord Sleat’s judgment because he’d been befuddled by sleep, bad dreams, and too much alcohol. And even though the marquess exercised a considerable degree of consideration following the accident this afternoon, she shouldn’t misinterpret his acts of kindness.
Yes, she needed to be realistic about her situation. She needed to firmly put aside these persistent, starry-eyed thoughts that Lord Sleat might actually be developing tender feelings for someone like her—an unqualified nursemaid who could barely get a word out most of the time, including her name, real or otherwise. And when he did eventually learn the truth about her—as he was bound to—he’d surely view her as a troublesome chit. An encumbrance or, worse still, someone who couldn’t be trusted.
Someone not worthy of love.
A tear slipped onto Olivia’s cheek, and she brushed it away with an impatient swipe of her fingers. Her parents had loved her, and her friends did too. She shouldn’t be so maudlin and self-defeating.
She did deserve love. And one day, God willing, she would find a man who truly cared for her and her alone. A man who didn’t give a fig about her stammer or her money.
Despite Olivia’s best efforts to quash the thought, her foolish heart whispered: If only that someone could be Lord Sleat.
* * *
* * *
This is everything, my lord.”
“Thank you, Daniels.” Hamish frowned as he regarded the items spread out on the oak table in his bedchamber: Miss Morland’s ruined valise and a pile of damp, muddy belongings beside it. “I’ll need you to send up one of the chambermaids to attend to the laundry. Miss Morland will need something fresh to wear.”
“Aye, my lord. I’ll do it straightaway.”
Daniels took his leave, and Hamish propped a hip on the edge of the table. There was also an array of miscellaneous items that had apparently been retrieved from the interior of the coach: the books he’d selected from his library at Sleat House to keep Tilda entertained; Miss Morland’s crushed straw bonnet and her soiled traveling cloak; and a small stack of leather-bound volumes with various titles—Northanger Abbey: and Persuasion. The Mysteries of Udolpho. Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus. Marmion: A Tale of Flodden Field.
Hamish picked up Walter Scott’s book, the only one he’d read. Of course, he’d heard of the other titles, particularly Frankenstein. It seemed Miss Morland preferred romantic and gothic literature. He’d never have suspected that this quiet, sweet-natured young woman might have a taste for things that were dark and passionate. What an intriguing lass she was.
Hamish flipped open Northanger Abbey: and Persuasion and perused the first page. And then he blinked in astonishment. The heroine’s name jumped out at him from the very first line. Catherine Morland.
Morland.
How odd. Of course, it could just be a coincidence that his nursemaid and the heroine of the book she was currently reading shared the same surname. Morland was a perfectly ordinary last name. And probably not all that uncommon.
But still . . .
Hamish frowned.