Once Upon a Wicked Night

by Jennifer Haymore

  Once Upon a Wicked Night

  Jennifer Haymore

  New York Boston

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  A Preview of Confessions of an Improper Bride

  A Preview of Secrets of an Accidental Duchess

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  As the orchestra played the beginning notes of the next dance, Olivia Donovan stared at the young man standing before her, not sure why he looked so expectant.

  Serena nudged her in the ribs. “Hold out your hand,” she whispered into Olivia’s ear.

  Olivia did so, and Mr. Elward blew out a breath, apparently in relief. He took her hand in his own and bowed so low over it his blond hair brushed against her forearm. He pressed his lips to the top of her glove. “It was a pleasure, Miss Donovan.”

  With a furtive glance at Serena, who nodded in encouragement, Olivia smiled. “The pleasure was mine. Thank you.”

  The dance had been pleasurable—far more so than she’d anticipated. In her first ever foray onto a dance floor in a sparkling London ballroom, she’d maintained a proper, polite conversation with her partner while managing not to step on anyone’s toes. It had been a great success, really.

  After bowing to Serena and murmuring, “Lady Stratford,” Mr. Elward disappeared into the crowd, leaving Olivia alone with her sister for the moment. Turning to face Serena, she expelled a deep breath. Serena grinned, obviously reading her expression—Thank heavens it’s over—and thank God I managed not to do anything stupid!—properly.

  “You did it.” She spoke loudly enough to be heard over the orchestra yet softly enough that no one else could hear her. “See? It wasn’t so bad.”

  “You’re right,” Olivia admitted. “It wasn’t bad at all.” Surprising, considering that she’d been convinced she would make a fool of herself in front of all of London’s beau monde. “I have a feeling that the more I do this, the more I shall enjoy it.”

  She reached up to press her hand to her hair, which had been styled into tight curls then pinned under a feathery white bandeau. Serena had ordered Olivia’s dress from Paris, and it was the most beautiful thing Olivia had ever seen—white satin and tulle trimmed in cerulean with a wide skirt, a tight bodice, and short sleeves with such a large puff to them that Olivia couldn’t hold her hands straight down at her sides.

  Seeing Olivia’s nervous gesture, Serena smiled. “Your hair is perfect,” she assured her. “Not a strand out of place, I promise.”

  A laughing couple walked by, the lady around Olivia’s age, wearing silver and pearls, and the gentleman easily twice as old, gazing upon the young woman with fawn-like adoration.

  “I’m so glad your first dance was a success,” Serena said after they’d passed. “Jessica’s already enjoying herself as well, but then, of course, we all knew she’d assimilate easily into London society.”

  “Everything comes easily for Jessica.”

  Both sisters gazed over at the dance floor, where Jessica, their youngest sister, was talking in animated tones to her partner, a handsome, young, and quite eligible baronet, as they clasped their hands high and circled another couple.

  “I think her ease in any given situation is a product of her being the youngest,” Serena said. “But I admit I was worried about you, Olivia. I know you would have preferred to stay home tonight. I’m so glad you are having a good time.”

  “What about you?” Olivia asked, wanting to take the focus of the conversation off herself. “I saw a gentleman speaking with you earlier. When are you going to dance?”

  Serena shrugged but wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I think I’d prefer to wander about with my champagne and talk to acquaintances and watch you and Jessica.”

  Olivia narrowed her eyes. “Who was that gentleman? Did he ask you to dance?”

  Serena sighed. “That was Lord Sotheby. He came over to congratulate me on my marriage, and, yes, he did ask me to dance.”

  “And you declined?”

  “Yes.”

  Olivia hadn’t been in London long, and she hardly knew her new brother-in-law, the Earl of Stratford, who’d insisted she call him by his given name, Jonathan. But she hadn’t needed to be in Serena’s presence for more than a few minutes to realize how absolutely devoted her sister was to her new husband. Ten days ago, Jonathan had been called away to deal with a crisis concerning the rebuilding of his ancestral home in Sussex. From the moment he’d left, Serena had pined for him.

  “You know he’ll be back soon,” Olivia told her gently. “He said he’d be gone no longer than a fortnight.”

  Serena wrapped her arms around herself. “I know. It’s just that this is the first time we’ve been separated for longer than a day since last summer—almost a year.”

  “You should have gone with him, then.”

  “And leave you and Jessica all alone in London? I think not.”

  Olivia sighed. They’d been over this already. Olivia had even suggested all the sisters accompany Jonathan to Sussex, but Serena would have none of it. Olivia and Jessica had arrived in London late in the Season, and Serena thought it was important to introduce her sisters to as much of the haute ton as possible before everyone left London to spend autumn in their country homes.

  “I despise seeing you like this,” Olivia said in a low voice. She hated to see any of her sisters unhappy, but especially Serena, who had suffered tremendously for the past seven years. Only recently had she found happiness again in her marriage to Jonathan, and nothing had lifted Olivia’s heart more than to see the return of Serena’s vivacious spirit. Olivia slipped her hand into her sister’s and squeezed. “I just want you to be happy.”

  “But I am so happy! Happier than I’ve ever been. I have Jonathan now, and to have you and Jessica safely with me in London—nothing could make me more content.” Serena sighed. “I just miss him, that’s all.”

  A deep voice spoke from directly behind them. “Well, that’s good, because he missed you, too.”

  Breaking their grip on each other’s hands, the sisters spun around.

  “Jonathan!” Serena cried. She looked as though she were about to lunge at him, but she stopped short, remembering the crowd of people in the ballroom. There were certain behaviors expected of Serena now that she was a countess, and leaping into her husband’s arms in public would be viewed as gauche, an embarrassment, entirely improper.

  Olivia’s gaze flitted across the room. Serena and Jonathan’s reunion had already caught the attention of several of the guests, who were looking on with interest and whispering among themselves.

  Jonathan smiled at Serena, and in a public display of affection Olivia had not seen in London between any husband and wife, he gathered her gloved hands in his own and brought them to his lips.

  “He missed you so much, he said to hell with acquiring the Italian tiles for the entry hall. Let us walk on dirt. Instead, he came home, leaving a harried Sebastian Harper to take care of it all.” He held her hands to his mouth, his blue gaze twinkling down at her.

  Serena shrugged. “I can’t say I care about the entry-hall flooring in the least. Dirt is lovely to walk upon.” She gave him a wise look. “It is gentle on the arches.”

  Slowly, he lowered her hands, but he still kept them clasped in his own as he smiled over at Olivia. “Olivia, how are you?”

  “Better, now that you’re here,” she answered truthfully.

  “I wanted to be here.” He turned back to Serena, his voice sober. “Especially tonight. Especially here.”

  Husband and wife exchanged a meaningful glance. Olivia knew why. This was the Dowager Duchess of Clayworth’s annual ball, and this was the very ballroom in which Serena and Jonatha
n had been discovered in flagrante delicto seven years ago.

  That discovery had incited a horrible scandal and years of disgrace and unhappiness for Serena. Although she was one of the strongest people Olivia had ever known, Serena had been terrified by the thought of coming here tonight—especially without Jonathan.

  “Have you met our hostess?” Serena asked in a murmur.

  Jonathan nodded. “I did. Since I arrived so unfashionably late, I was presented to her at once so she could determine whether she should bestow upon me the honor of remaining.”

  Serena blew out a breath. “I’m glad the verdict was in your favor.”

  “Only because you’re here, and, according to the dowager, ‘looking decidedly glum.’ I have been given the task of cheering you up. If I don’t ‘improve your expression’ within the next hour, the duchess has assured me she will throw us both out.”

  Serena grimaced. “It’s a wonder she didn’t throw me out the moment I darkened her doorstep.”

  “On the contrary, love, I think she has finally accepted you. All her closest friends expect threats like that. But that’s all they are. You know you’ve fallen out of favor when the threats come to fruition.”

  Serena shuddered. “Isn’t there anyone she treats with kindness?”

  “Of course. Her lapdog, Romeo.”

  Olivia suppressed a laugh, but Serena wasn’t so successful. “A match made in Heaven, I daresay.”

  Smiling, Jonathan gazed at Serena for a long moment, then raised his hand to stroke a black leather glove–encased knuckle across the back of her cheek. “God, I missed you. Next time, come home with me.”

  Olivia suddenly felt like an intruder in a personal moment. She turned away to gaze at the dance floor. When she didn’t see Jessica right away, her eye caught on one of the four curtained balconies that swept along the upper floor along the edge of the ballroom, and she said, in an offhand manner, “I heard the upstairs galleries were lovely.”

  After a short pause, Jonathan cleared his throat. “They are. We were up there… before. I haven’t returned.”

  His voice was low and gravelly, and Olivia flinched as understanding washed through her. One of those upstairs alcoves was where Serena and Jonathan had been discovered in a most compromising position.

  Olivia didn’t know what to say. She felt foolish and awkward. How like her, to remind her sister and brother-in-law of a moment in time they’d been trying to forget for years.

  “Would you like to go up?” Serena asked her. Then, seeing the look of consternation on Olivia’s face, she gave a low laugh and spoke under her breath so that anyone standing nearby wouldn’t hear. “Honestly, it’s all right, Olivia. I think going up there again will go far in healing old wounds.”

  At that moment, Olivia saw the way to give Jonathan and Serena the few moments alone they so obviously needed. “No, no, you go,” she said. “This dance will end soon, and, remember, I have promised the waltz to Lord Fenwicke.”

  Stepping back from Serena, Jonathan frowned, seeming to notice the clusters of people surrounding them for the first time. “Lord Fenwicke? He’s here?”

  “He is.” Serena tilted her head at him. “Why? Don’t you approve of him dancing with Olivia?”

  A group of tittering young ladies approached, and Olivia, Jonathan, and Serena watched them in silence as they passed, whispering behind their fans, on their way to the punch table.

  When the ladies were far enough away not to hear him, Jonathan shrugged. “It should be all right. You do know he’s married, don’t you?”

  Olivia hadn’t known that. Lord Fenwicke was handsome in a dark and rakish sort of way, and when he’d asked her to dance, he’d looked at her like a wolf assessing whether a diminutive fox was plump and juicy enough to be its next meal. Then he’d smiled and relaxed, and she’d realized he had deemed her worthy.

  He was a high-ranking lord, a handsome gentleman, an upstanding member of London society, and he’d thought her worthy. It was a compliment to her, and it had bolstered Olivia’s ever-fragile self-esteem.

  But now, hearing from Jonathan that he was married, she was confused. She wasn’t familiar with the ways of the ton, but certainly the way he’d looked at her wasn’t the way a married man should be looking at a young female.

  Or was it?

  “Of course I know he’s married,” Serena said.

  Jonathan turned to look at Olivia with a questioning gaze, and she smiled and nodded. The confidence that had blossomed after her last dance had withered away, and once again her stomach twisted into a knot of nerves.

  She and her sisters had grown up far away in the West Indies, but their mother had always expected they would return to London. Even though she had done her best to teach them all about proper etiquette and the expectations people had of young ladies in London society, she’d failed to mention the subtleties and the intricacies of how men and women related to one another.

  Jonathan let out a breath, but for some reason he still looked worried. “It will be fine,” he mumbled, as if he were speaking more to himself than to the ladies. “It’s just one dance.”

  He was right. She’d already survived her first venture onto the dance floor—actually enjoyed moments of it—so she would survive this one as well. And it was a waltz. The waltz was her favorite dance, the one she considered herself most skilled at.

  Nothing could possibly go wrong.

  Chapter Two

  Lord Fenwicke wove through the crowd of couples, leading Olivia to the center of the congested dance floor. As he clasped her right hand with his left and settled his other hand around her waist, awareness spread under her clothing and below her skin, sensitizing it. The waltz was an intimate dance, and she’d never actually waltzed with a man before.

  His hand was long-fingered, aristocratic, and warm, even through the layers of their gloves. He held her in a firm, confident grip that felt nothing like the way her sisters had held her when they’d waltzed. He was harder, taller, so much more… masculine.

  The fingertips of her left hand pressed against his elegant black wool tailcoat just below his shoulder. His snow-white cravat was stiffly starched and tied with an expert hand, a heavy contrast to the deep black of his velvet collar. He was clean shaven, his olive-toned cheek smooth, and when she glanced down, she saw that his shoes were polished to an obsidian shine.

  Swallowing hard, she looked into his face. He was gazing down at her, a smile tugging at the edges of his thin lips and his dark eyes sparkling like his shoes.

  “I can tell you’re new to town,��� he said. “There’s a freshness about you that’s impossible to find in any jaded city woman.”

  “Ah,” she murmured. “Oh.”

  She tried not to wince at her less-than-articulate response. But how was one supposed to respond to a comment like that?

  The waltz began, and he nudged her into movement, chuckling. “You see? Your reaction proves my point. You’re utterly charming, Miss Donovan.”

  Olivia rather felt that her reaction had proved what a dolt she was, but if he found her monosyllabic, breathy murmurs charming, then she supposed she couldn’t complain.

  He squeezed her hand, sweeping her into a wide circle. The music swelled in the familiar one-two-three tempo of the waltz.

  Her skirts whooshed as he turned her in a wide arc, and she glanced up at him, her cheeks flushed in pleasure. “You are a wonderful dancer, Lord Fenwicke.”

  He chuckled. “It’s a requirement of my position. When my dear father departs from this earth, I shall be a duke, and one of the many duties of a duke is to demonstrate proficiency in dancing. Fortunately, I enjoy it, so learning wasn’t a burden to me.”

  “I enjoy it, too.”

  For a while, they danced in silence. Olivia allowed the music to flow into her and through her. She stopped thinking about where to move her feet, and her body responded to her partner’s lead by instinct, knowing exactly how to perform the steps. Lord Fenwicke’s hands we
re firm on her body, directing her every motion, and because he was such a good dancer, she gave him her trust and surrendered to his lead, allowing him to whisk her around the ballroom.

  He spun her in a tight circle, surprising her, then clasped his arm around her waist in a firmer grip.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, breathless, as the satin of her skirts swished around her calves before settling at her ankles.

  “Did you like that?” He grinned at her. She liked the way he looked when he smiled.

  “Oh, yes.”

  He spun her again, and then again, and laughter bubbled in her chest and then spilled out as they settled back into the rhythm of the waltz.

  He bent down to whisper into her ear, “Look. They’re all staring at us.”

  Olivia’s body went tight all over, and she nearly stumbled. “Oh, dear.”

  “No, no,” he assured her, quickly righting her and guiding them both back into the pattern. “It’s not that we’ve done anything wrong. It’s because they’re envious.”

  “About our dancing?”

  “Perhaps that’s why the ladies stare. I’m certain, though, that the gentlemen stare because they are envious of me.”

  “Envious of you?” She gave him a quizzical look. Because of his title, perhaps? But that didn’t make sense.

  “Mmm, yes. Envious that I am the one who has been bestowed the honor of dancing the waltz with the loveliest lady at tonight’s rout.”

  She tore her gaze from his and stared at his wool-clad shoulder. “Oh.”

  His words were simple flattery; she was well aware that she wasn’t the loveliest lady here—there were so many more beautiful and more elegant women present.

  But Lord Fenwicke was clearly flirting with her now. And he was married. Was it a normal practice for the married gentlemen of the ton to flirt with unattached ladies? Truly, she didn’t know what to do, how to respond to this behavior.

  “Does that embarrass you, Miss Donovan?”

  “Of course not,” she said in a near whisper. She wasn’t a liar by nature, but she was too disconcerted to tell him the truth. Not to mention that the truth, in this circumstance, would make her look like the inexperienced fool she clearly was.