could find happiness with.
But only until he divorces you.
What a quelling thought that was, when what she yearned for was forever.
It’s not what you’d hoped for, but at least you will be safe, Olivia reminded herself. Be grateful for that if nothing else.
And who knows, maybe Lord Sleat will fall in love with you. In time . . .
The middle-aged servant gave her an encouraging smile. His blue eyes were kind beneath the sweep of his freshly combed, graying hair. “Ye ken, I’ve served Lord Sleat for many years, as his valet and as his batman. And I can attest he’s as decent as they come.” A frown creased his brow. “So dinna ye go believing any rumors ye hear. He’ll make ye a verra fine husband, lass. There’s no need to be nervous.”
Olivia scraped together a small smile. She was well aware of Hamish’s rakish history, but she appreciated the valet’s attempt to reassure her. “Thank you, Hudson. I’ll remember that.”
She touched the silver locket resting just below her throat. It had once belonged to her mother—her initials were engraved upon the back. There was no need to hide the treasured piece of jewelry anymore, but oh, how she wished her mother were here. And her father and, of course, all her dear friends—bold-as-you-please Charlie, sweet Sophie, and clever Arabella.
But they aren’t, and Lord Sleat is waiting.
She nodded at Hudson, and he opened the door. And then Olivia’s breath caught when her gaze met her groom’s on the other side of the candlelit parlor.
Oh, my goodness. Lord Sleat had certainly dressed for the occasion.
Rather than wearing the usual attire of a gentleman, the marquess had donned his traditional clan garb. And the sight was magnificent.
Instead of breeches or pantaloons, Hamish wore a kilt of deep red and black tartan with a touch of yellow running through it. Over his white cambric shirt and black silk waistcoat, he wore a well-cut coat of black superfine that was perfectly molded to his wide shoulders. A black leather pouch hung from a belt at his waist, and below the hem of his kilt, Olivia caught a glimpse of his bare knees before his plaid-patterned hose began. Silver-buckled shoes of black leather and a sheathed but still-lethal-looking short sword, also at his waist, completed the ensemble.
Olivia swallowed. From the top of his tousled sable locks to the bottom of his thickly muscled calves, her husband-to-be was every inch the formidable Highlander. Indeed, she was certain she’d never seen such a handsome devil in all her life.
Even the flame-haired maid who’d joined her equally redheaded father by the fireside looked like she was about to swoon at the marquess’s feet.
Tilda tugged at her sleeve, and Olivia bent down. “Why is Lord Sleat wearing a skirt, Miss Devinia?” she whispered in her ear.
“It’s called a kilt. It’s what men from Scotland wear sometimes,” she whispered back. “I like it.”
Tilda nodded. “I do too.”
Hudson, who’d also joined his master, the maid, and the beaming marriage-celebrant-cum-innkeeper by the stone fireplace, crouched down and beckoned to Tilda. She let go of Olivia’s sleeve and skipped across the polished wooden floor to the hearthrug.
And now it was Olivia’s turn to cross the room. Rain drummed against the lead-paned windows, matching the drumming of her pulse. Smoothing her lavender wool skirts with a damp palm, she started forward, clutching the bunch of fresh-smelling heather to her chest, her steps slow and measured even if her heartbeat wasn’t, until she reached Hamish’s side.
His large hand engulfed hers, and then he brought her fingers to his lips. “You look lovely, Olivia,” he said in that deep, low voice of his that reminded her of a lion’s purr.
“So . . . so do you,” she whispered back. “No . . . I mean . . .” She blew out an exasperated breath. “You look very handsome in your kilt.”
His wide mouth curved into a roguish, lopsided smile. “Och, thank you, lass.”
Mr. Marchbank cleared his throat. His face had turned bright red. It seemed that Lord Sleat had the power to make even him blush. “Shall we begin, my lord? Miss de Vere?”
“Aye,” Hamish said, his gaze never leaving Olivia’s. She simply nodded, transfixed by the intentness of her bridegroom’s regard.
“Weel then,” continued Mr. Marchbank. “I have some questions for both of ye before we begin.” He turned to Olivia. “Miss de Vere, are ye of marriageable age and free to wed?”
“Y-yes,” she murmured. Hamish hadn’t relinquished his hold, and his thumb was caressing