would do this for Hamish because he’d asked her to. At least she knew she probably wouldn’t stammer.
Fixing her gaze on the dancing flames of the fire and nothing else, she sang the familiar, terribly romantic air.
Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss within the cup.
And I’ll not ask for wine.
It wasn’t until she finished the last verse that she dared herself to steal a glance at Hamish. And the sight of him watching her stole her breath away. His hot, smoky gaze fairly smoldered, burning her, even across the room.
Hamish wasn’t just drinking to her with his eyes. He had the look of a man who was desperate to devour her. In that moment, it was as if everyone else in the room faded into the shadows and only she and Hamish remained.
Olivia’s heart began to pound wildly with equal amounts of trepidation and anticipation.
Tonight she wouldn’t be put off. Tonight she would go to Hamish’s room and entreat him to make love to her. He’d almost done so in the turret room.
Even if they didn’t consummate their union tonight, there were other things they could do. Things she’d once read about in an erotic set of memoirs. Things she’d glimpsed in salacious pictures three years ago at a young ladies’ academy.
Things her married friends Sophie and Arabella had whispered about in quiet moments and hinted at in their letters.
She might be a novice when it came to bed sport, but somehow, some way, she would seduce her husband. And perhaps, just maybe, he might admit that he’d fallen in love with her.
* * *
* * *
An hour later, after the party had dissolved, Olivia sat at her dressing table and closed her eyes as her new maid Eliza pulled a brush through her unbound hair. Her stomach was awhirl with butterflies, but she wouldn’t let a bout of nerves sway her from her purpose. Even Hamish’s perfunctory good-night kiss a short time ago—a mere brush of his lips against her temple before he disappeared into his own room—wouldn’t deter her.
Because she knew he wanted her.
Eliza spoke, pulling Olivia away from her musings about what she would say and do when she crept next door. “Would you like me to braid yer hair before bed, my lady?”
Olivia caught the girl’s eye in the gilt-edged dressing table mirror. “No, I shall do it myself,” she said. “You may go now, Eliza. I won’t need you until morning. Thank you.”
The maid couldn’t quite suppress her knowing smile before she turned away. “Aye, my lady. And good night.”
Of course, it was obvious what the newly married Marchioness of Sleat’s objective was tonight. Instead of putting on her plain flannel night rail, Olivia opted to don another one of Isobel’s castoffs—a robe of antique gold satin with touches of frothy cream lace at the sleeves. And because seduction was on her mind, she wore nothing underneath. Well, nothing but a dab of scent. Once Eliza was gone, Olivia applied the perfume to her wrists, behind her ears, and even between her breasts.
Hamish was about to get a visit from his near-naked wife, and she wanted to make sure he knew exactly what she was about. She was a married woman, and she was so very sick and tired of being treated like a virtuous maiden. A slip of a girl who needed protecting from her husband’s base urges.
Well, this virgin bride had some base urges, too, and despite the riotous fluttering in her belly, her blushes, and her stammering, she was about to vanquish her very own beast.
Rising from her seat, Olivia made sure her robe was sufficiently cinched at the waist—she didn’t want to expose too much flesh until she knew for certain that Hudson had retired for the night—then with her heart in her mouth, she pushed through the jib door into her husband’s bedchamber.
And she wasn’t disappointed. It was as though Hamish knew she was coming.
Her magnificent husband, wearing nothing but a midnight blue banyan and his eye patch, was sprawled in a wingback chair before the fire. In one hand, he held a tumbler of whisky. In his other, he held a leather-bound book. But upon seeing her, he sat up straight and deposited both the book and glass onto a nearby table. His gaze dragged over her before connecting with her eyes.
“Olivia, lass,” he said, his dark brows knitting into a frown. “What are you doing here? Is everything