Secrets of an Accidental Duchess

by Jennifer Haymore

  “I sincerely doubt she’s frigid,” Max responded before he thought better of it.

  Fenwicke’s eyes narrowed. “Do you?”

  Max met the man’s steely glare head-on. “Perhaps you simply don’t appeal.”

  Fenwicke snorted. “Of course I appeal. I’m a marquis, to begin with, and the heir to—”

  “Perhaps,” Max interjected, keeping his voice low, “she possesses no interest in engaging in an adulterous liaison, marquis or no.”

  At his periphery, Max could see Fenwicke’s fists clenching. He braced himself for the man’s lunge, but it never came. Damn it. If Fenwicke had attacked first, it would have given Max a good reason to throttle him.

  Fenwicke gave him a thin, humorless smile. “I would beg to differ.”

  Max shrugged. “Perhaps we should agree to disagree, then.”

  “If she did not succumb to my charms, Hasley, then rest assured, there’s no way in hell she’ll succumb to yours.” Fenwicke’s voice was mild, but the cords in his neck bulged above his cravat.

  Max shook his head, unable to prevent a sneer from forming on his lips. “You’re wrong, Fenwicke.”

  Fenwicke’s brows rose, his eyes glinted, and a sly expression came over his face. He leaned forward, greedily licking his lips.

  “Would you care to place a wager on that?”

  Chapter One

  Sussex,

  Two Months Later

  Sussex in autumn was beautiful. Having spent most of her life on a small island in the West Indies, Olivia Donovan had never experienced the seasons in such dramatic fashion. The bracken surrounding the estate that belonged to her brother-in-law had turned a deep russet color. The brush bordering the forest abounded with the bright red berries of rosehips and haw, and the trees displayed a wealth of browns, reds, and yellows—deep, homey colors that gave Olivia a sense of peace and security. Antigua had never shown varying colors in such brilliant display.

  Olivia turned from the drawing room window to smile at her sisters. It was so good to be together again, and it never failed to send happiness surging through her when she saw the three of them huddled together.

  Serena—who’d changed her name to Margaret, or Meg—had married, and so had Phoebe, who was, at twenty, a year younger than Olivia. Phoebe had arrived in England with Serena last year. Jessica and Olivia hadn’t arrived until late July this year. They’d gone straight to London and had plunged into the frenzy that was the Season.

  Jessica had met droves of potential suitors. Olivia hadn’t met anyone, though if you asked her three sisters, they’d all say it was entirely her fault.

  She was too picky, they said.

  She was too quiet.

  She was too shy.

  What she’d tried to tell them, over and over, was that perhaps she was picky, quiet, and shy, but none of that really mattered. What was most important was one simple fact that her sisters seemed either unwilling or unable to comprehend: No gentleman would have her, not once he learned about her ailment. Gentlemen wanted sturdy women, women who were capable of bearing strong, strapping sons. They didn’t want women who could fall ill from a relapse of malaria and die on a moment’s notice. Not pale, thin women prone to fainting and fevers.

  She’d been aware from a young age that she was destined to be alone. It didn’t matter. Knowing that they weren’t in the cards for her, she had given up pining for marriage and children long ago. She was truly happy—no, utterly fulfilled—as long as she was surrounded by her sisters.

  “Oh, drat,” Phoebe muttered, glancing up at the mantel clock. “I must go. Margie will be hungry soon, and I simply can’t abide it when her nurse feeds her.”

  Margie was Phoebe’s eight-month-old daughter, a lovely child with the strongest lungs Olivia had ever heard on an infant. She took after her mother in temperament, though she possessed her father’s strikingly dark hair and eyes.

  Olivia smiled. “Give my darling niece a big kiss from her Auntie Olivia, will you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Must you go, Phoebe?” Jessica complained, waving her cards. “We haven’t finished the game.”

  They’d been playing cribbage while Serena was embroidering a bonnet for Margie.

  Phoebe crossed her arms tightly across her chest. “You can’t understand, Jess. What it’s like to be a mother. I can tell when she needs me. I can feel it.”

  “How perfectly ghastly.” Jessica grimaced at Phoebe’s bosom. “I hope I never have children and never, ever feel any such thing.”

  “You can’t mean that!” exclaimed Olivia. “What about all your suitors, Jess?”

  All three of her sisters swung their heads around to stare at Olivia and she took a step back, feeling the window ledge push into her spine. “What?” she asked. “Why are all of you looking at me like that?”

  “Suitors don’t necessarily translate into motherhood.” Serena’s lips twitched. She was obviously fighting a smile.

  “Well, they translate into proposals of marriage, eventually. Then engagements and weddings. And those, in turn, translate to motherhood.”

  “Pfft,” Jessica hissed. “Not true. Not at all true.”

  Serena raised a brow at Jessica. “Care to explain how that works, Jess?”

  Jessica shrugged and turned up her nose in a particularly Jess-like expression. “Not really. I just happen to know that there are ways to prevent conception.”

  “Ways that are utterly deadly to both mother and child,” Phoebe muttered, frowning.

  “Not necessarily,” Jessica said, looking superior.

  “If that’s so,” Serena said, “we don’t want to hear about them. In any case, you’re scandalizing poor Saint Olivia.”

  Their gazes all turned to her, and Olivia felt the burn of a flush crawling over her cheeks. “You’re not scandalizing me!”

  “Oh, yes we are,” Phoebe said in the tone of a wizened old man. “There are certain topics best not discussed in Saint Olivia’s presence.”

  Jessica shook her head soberly. “You’re red as a lobster, Liv. Obviously this conversation is distressing you.”

  “It is not.” Olivia pressed her hand to her heated cheek. “Not at all.”

  Jessica turned to Serena and Phoebe. “I think we’d best let her continue to think that suitors mean eventual motherhood.”

  “But will that make her more likely to seek one?” Serena asked.

  Jessica turned back to her. “Well, Liv? What do you think? No suitors and no motherhood, or shall we find you a suitor forthwith so you can start popping out litters of babies?”

  Phoebe wrinkled her nose. “Jess! Is it possible for you to be any more indelicate?”

  Jessica snapped back, “And who are you to speak of indelicacy, Mrs. Run-off-to-Gretna-Green-with-the-first-man-you-meet Harper?”

  “Oh, stop it, both of you,” Serena said. “Before this escalates into a silly argument, I have something to tell you. Something important.” As the sisters turned to her, Serena looked down at her embroidery, scarlet spreading across her cheeks. “Well, Jonathan and I haven’t been trying to prevent anything.”

  As Olivia frowned at her, trying to understand what on earth she was talking about, Phoebe dropped her cards and jumped out of her chair. “You’re pregnant!”

  Pressing her lips together, still staring downward, Serena nodded.

  “Oh, Serena,” Olivia breathed. “Really?” Serena had been hoping to conceive ever since Olivia and Jessica had arrived from Antigua.

  “Yes,” Serena whispered. “I’m sure of it. But you forgot to call me Meg again.” The smile on Serena’s face told Olivia she didn’t really care this time. Olivia found it so difficult to call her sister by her new name. She’d always be Serena, her oldest, wisest sister, no matter what everyone else thought.

  “I’m so happy for you, Meg,” she murmured, grinning.

  “Another niece or a nephew for us! How perfectly lovely.” Jessica seemed to have forgotten her annoyance at Mar
gie’s demands upon Phoebe.

  Jessica, Phoebe, and Olivia gathered around Serena, embracing her as one, kissing her cheeks and pressing their hands over her still-flat stomach.

  “Are you happy?” they asked her.

  “Are you excited?”

  “Are you afraid?” Jessica asked.

  “Yes, I’m excited and happy, and no, of course I’m not afraid.”

  Phoebe kissed Serena’s cheek and rose. “I really must go feed Margie,” she said softly. With a special smile at Serena, she took her leave.

  Olivia spent most afternoons walking the grounds of Jonathan’s vast estate. Some might say that Jonathan’s lands were overgrown and dilapidated, but the area was so full of delights and treasures, Olivia found her new home to be utterly marvelous.

  Jonathan had only recently moved back to Sussex and begun taking care of the property again, and he and Serena had just begun the work of refurbishing the house and grounds. Serena always laughed when she said that after having lived in Sussex for less than a year, she was glad she could walk from the front door to the carriage door without getting pricked by thorns or tripping over a fallen branch.

  Some afternoons Olivia walked with Jonathan’s mother, the dowager countess, a lovely, cheerful woman, and others she walked with her sisters. But she was diligent about taking the time to walk daily, and most of the time she ended up on her own.

  In Antigua, Mother had rarely allowed her to step foot outside, because Olivia’s doctor had always said that taking outdoor exercise would be detrimental to her weak constitution. But Mother wasn’t here. This wasn’t Antigua, this was England, and the climate, flora, and fauna were very different. If anyone objected to her walks, Olivia would simply say she was certain she was safer here.

  Today, wearing her usual plain brown wool walking dress and sunbonnet, she ventured into the woods deep within Jonathan’s properties. The terrain was more uneven out here than it was nearer to the house, but paths wound through the trees, one of them leading to a natural spring wedged between two rock outcroppings.

  Olivia breathed in the fresh autumn air and gloried in the crackle of dry leaves and brush beneath her boots. Before she’d left the house, she’d tucked a loaf of stale bread beneath her arm—she came in this direction every few days to feed a gaggle of gray geese that had made its home by the spring.

  Humming under her breath, she descended the curve in the path that led to the spring. Glancing up from her feet, where she’d been looking to prevent herself from tripping over the rocks, she jerked to a stop, leaving a broken note hanging in the air.

  A man—a man surrounded by eager geese—was crouched by the water.

  He looked back over his shoulder at her. Obviously he’d heard her crackling and humming her way toward him. She hadn’t been attempting stealth.

  Her pulse throbbed in her chest at a sudden realization. She was alone in the forest with a stranger. A man.

  She licked her lips nervously, watching him rise to his feet. Trying not to watch the way his black Wellingtons encased his strong calves and his leather breeches clung to his muscular thighs.

  It wasn’t polite to stare at a strange man’s thighs, she reminded herself sternly. Forcibly, she yanked her gaze upward.

  He wore black gloves, and he gripped a small round burlap bag, likely food for the geese, one of which was pecking hungrily at it, trying to open it to spill out its contents. The bag hung at the man’s side, and he didn’t seem to notice the goose at all.

  Olivia dragged her gaze farther upward. A richly tailored coat—like something made by a fine London clothier rather than the shabby homespun most men wore in Antigua—clung to broad shoulders.

  A firm, square jaw, dusted with the growth of afternoon whiskers. Lush but stern lips. A strong nose. Dark hair that swooped across his forehead in a soft curl.

  And… oh, those eyes. Penetrating, startling green. Staring at her.

  Olivia managed to stifle her gasp. She recognized this man. This gentleman, she corrected. She’d seen him before, at the last ball she’d attended in London before coming to Stratford House. How could she forget?

  “I’m sorry.” Her voice emerged in little more than a breathy whisper. “I didn’t realize the spring was… occupied.”

  Those stern lips tilted upward. Was he smiling? Was he laughing at her?

  Heat rushed over her cheeks, followed by annoyance. She turned to leave.

  “Wait.”

  Goodness, that voice! It was a low baritone, smooth as honey. She stopped midstep. Leaves crackled as he moved closer to her.

  “There’s room for two.”

  When she didn’t respond, he added, “I can’t possibly satisfy these greedy fiends. Look, they’re already after your bread.”

  It was true. One of the geese had seen her bread and was warily walking closer, a hungry glint in her eye. “That’s Henrietta,” Olivia said softly. “She’s always the first to want her dinner.”

  “Henrietta,” the man said, “already ate half my bag of grain. She needs to give her brothers and sisters a chance.”

  Obviously, the man didn’t know these geese very well. “Here, now.” She broke off a chunk of bread and waved it at Henrietta. “It’s the end. Your favorite part.”

  When the goose made a lunge for the piece of bread, she threw it directly into a cluster of haw bushes. Henrietta, who wasn’t the smartest goose, waddled after it and began rooting around in the brush.

  Olivia smiled at the stranger. “That’s how you get her to leave the others alone. Otherwise, she’ll bite them and scare them off and take the entire loaf for herself.”

  “Or the entire bag of grain, no doubt.”

  “No doubt,” Olivia agreed.

  His eyes twinkling, he opened his bag, took out a handful of grain, and scattered it over the ground around him. The geese partook happily.

  “Poor Henrietta,” Olivia said. The silly goose hadn’t found her chunk of bread yet, and was unaware of her siblings feasting not three yards away from her.

  “You’re Miss Olivia Donovan, aren’t you?” the stranger said.

  His use of her name made Olivia freeze again. Trying to infuse some moisture into her dry throat, she said, “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, sir.”

  “I’m Max.”

  She stared at him dumbly. Max? Just… Max? Surely that wasn’t right!

  He must have recognized the confusion in her eyes, because he corrected himself hastily. “Maxwell Buchanan.” He bowed slightly, took her hand, and squeezed. She could feel the strength of his fingers through the layers of the leather of their gloves as her own fingers slipped from his.

  “It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Buchanan.” She tilted her head at him. “I’m certain I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?”

  “You remember?” His emerald eyes held steady on her face.

  “It was in London, at Lord Hertford’s ball.”

  He smiled, showing deep dimples, a startling contrast to his rugged features. And so handsome.

  Olivia mentally swatted herself. She’d been startled by the sight of him at the ball, and she’d thought of him a few times since, because it was quite possible that she had never in her life seen anyone quite as physically commanding as this man. Men like this were an uncommon sight in her sheltered world, but she couldn’t forget that he was still just a man. A human being, just like her.

  Honestly, her reactions were utterly foolish. Next, she’d probably slap the back of her hand to her forehead and swoon.

  “I remember,” he said softly, and his voice stroked down her spine, licked across her chest—for heaven’s sake, it felt like his voice caressed her.

  She took a deep breath. “It’s… good to see you again,” she said. “But why are you here? Are you a neighbor?”

  He chuckled. “Oh, no. I’m a guest of Stratford’s.”

  Her brows shot upward. “You are?”

  “Indeed. I just arrived this afternoon. Thought I’d go
for a walk before dinner.”

  “And you just happened to bring some food along for any geese you might encounter?”

  “The stable boy gave me the bag. Said there were loads of geese and ducks out here this time of year. Turkeys, too. He said I might lure them and perhaps shoot one.”

  Only then did she notice the rifle lying across a flat stone that lay near the water. She looked back at Mr. Buchanan, eyes wide. “You planned to shoot my geese?”

  He laughed easily. “Your geese?”

  “I’ve been feeding them for a month.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t say I’ve fattened them up just for you.”

  He looked like he was fighting another laugh. “Very well. I won’t say it, then.”

  The geese had finished the grain and were eyeing both Mr. Buchanan and Olivia, waiting for their next course. Even Henrietta had consumed her bread and was now shifting assessing looks between Olivia and Mr. Buchanan, apparently wondering which of them would be a better target to accost for more food.

  Mr. Buchanan solved the dilemma, first by distracting Henrietta with a small handful tossed into the deep patch of grass nearest her, then scattering a larger handful nearby for the other geese.

  “You do know,” he said, “that the reason Stratford invited us here was to hunt with him?”

  She blew out a breath through her lips. “I know,” she said softly, and looked down at her bread. She tore it into small pieces, slowly and deliberately tossing them to the insatiable geese.

  “You don’t approve of hunting?”

  “I just…” She shrugged. “I don’t like killing God’s creatures. That’s all.”

  Mr. Buchanan’s features softened. “Ah.”

  “But I understand that it’s a necessity for human nourishment and survival. I can’t say I approve of it as a sport, however.”

  “I’ll tell you a secret.” Mr. Buchanan leaned forward conspiratorially. “I am not an avid hunter. In fact, I’ve never shot at any living thing in my life.”