He jerked to a stop halfway down the stairs. Olivia stood at the bottom, looking up at him. Her hair had been combed and it was piled on her head in sunlit glory. She wore a dress with an intricate deep purple print—butterflies and flowers. As always, her bosom peeked over the top, a tantalizing hint, but not enough. He wanted to see more. To touch that skin…
But he wouldn’t compromise her. He’d be damned if he’d be the one to make her feel as though she’d been disgraced. He’d be damned if he brought out that look of absolute revulsion that had been on her face when she’d talked about Fenwicke.
If he ever touched her, it would be under far different circumstances. She’d have to consider his caress as something honorable, something real, something special. Never something impure or dirty. Never a disgrace. Never something comparable to what that bastard had thought of doing to her.
“Jonathan and Jessica are already in the carriage,” she said. “I asked to go along, too.”
“Will you be warm enough?”
“It’s not so bad outside, as long as we remain dry. The cloud cover has made it warmer than usual.”
“Still…”
He’d reached the bottom of the stairs, and she slipped her arm into his. “Don’t tell me you’re going to become as overprotective as a brother,” she murmured.
He swallowed down a choking noise. “Brotherly, Miss Donovan,” he murmured for her ears alone, “has nothing to do with the way I feel about you.”
She pressed her lips together and looked away, but he didn’t miss the hint of a smile curving her lips.
Her maid entered holding a blood-red cape, and she pulled it over her shoulders. He watched her adjust it, smiling a little as the slightest tinge of pink traveled across her cheekbones. When the maid left, she whispered, “Why are you watching me like that?”
He considered his answer. Definitely not to embarrass her, even though he loved it when color lit her pale cheeks. “Because I like to watch you,” he said simply. And that was the truth.
Outside, twilight was giving way to night. The mist had stopped falling and a sliver of moon peeked from behind a cloud, lending a dim silver glow to the wet lawns. Max helped Olivia into the carriage, then took the backward-facing seat beside the earl.
They remained quiet for most of the ride. Jessica stared out the window, on alert as if she thought she might find Lady Fenwicke collapsed somewhere along the side of the road.
“That’s odd,” Jessica murmured as they made the final turn onto the long driveway that led to Brockton Hall.
“What’s that?” Stratford asked.
“The house. It’s all lit up. Usually Beatrice doesn’t bother with so many lights. She thinks it’s a waste when it’s only her in residence.”
Max looked at Olivia, meeting her eyes, registering the alarm in them before she returned her gaze to her lap.
She knew what this meant as well as he did. Damn it. This was a bad idea. He hadn’t been thinking when Jessica said her friend hadn’t come. He should have known.
“Someone must have seen us coming,” Jessica said. “The front door has opened.”
Max snapped his mouth shut. He’d been about to suggest they turn around.
The carriage drew to a halt. Stratford stepped out and reached up to hand Jessica down. As she stepped out of the carriage, Max murmured to Olivia, “We can stay here, if you like.”
Olivia’s eyes widened at him, then she slid toward Stratford, who was already holding his hand out for her. She didn’t speak, just gave a quick shake of her head and reached for Stratford’s hand.
Max followed close behind her as they mounted the steps, where a tall, thin servant of middle age awaited them. Max hadn’t seen this man the last time they’d come to Brockton Hall.
“Good evening,” the man said, but by the way he elevated his nose, he made it clear that he didn’t think it was good at all.
“We’re here to see Lady Fenwicke,” Jessica said.
In a very haughty voice, the servant said, “Lady Fenwicke is not at home, ma’am.”
Jessica frowned. “Well, where is she?”
Max winced. Clearly, Jessica wasn’t familiar with the true meaning of “She’s not at home,” which was, “She’s here, but she won’t be seeing you.”
The servant gave her a baleful stare. Stratford took her arm. “Will you inform her that the Earl of Stratford, his two sisters-in-law, and the Marquis of Hasley called?”
“Of course, my lord.” The man sounded like he was huffing with every word he said, as if it were painful for him to appear polite.
Frowning, Jessica looked between Stratford and the snobbish servant. “But where is she? I didn’t see her along the road.” She focused on the man at the door. “She was due at Stratford House earlier today, and I am so very worried she might’ve fallen and broken her leg, or got lost, or was kidnapped—”
“I assure you, ma’am, she is well,” the servant said.
“Come, Jessica.” Olivia said quietly. “Let’s go home.”
“But—”
They all turned toward the click-clack of shoe heels on the marble floor, approaching from the western wing. As the figure came into view, Max repositioned himself behind Olivia in time to see the slight ripple of her shoulders beneath the red cloak as her back stiffened.
Fenwicke.
His cold silver eyes surveyed the crowd gathered at his door. His gaze lingered on Max for a time, the challenge in them obvious. Then he took in Olivia. Max fought a snarl as his gaze swept over her from crown to foot.
If the bastard touched her…
Max had moved so close to her, her bottom nudged his thigh. Olivia hadn’t told him everything that had transpired between her and Fenwicke, but she’d given him enough information to make it clear that Fenwicke had attempted to use her very poorly indeed. That infuriated Max beyond reason.
Fenwicke raised his brows and nodded at Stratford. “Good evening, Stratford. Please come inside and out of the cold.”
After they’d clustered together inside the entry hall, he added, “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
“Good evening, Fenwicke. You know Hasley, but have you met my sisters-in-law, the Miss Donovans?”
He raised his silvery brows into peaks. “I have met the lovely Miss Olivia Donovan. And what a pleasure it is to see you again.”
Max ground his teeth as he bowed to her. She returned his greeting with strict, cool politeness.
Fenwicke then made a great production of flattering Jessica, and the naïve girl gushed about how very much she’d been looking forward to meeting their neighbor, and how she hoped he’d come call on them often. Then she said, “I understand everything now. Beatrice wasn’t expecting you to arrive today. That must be why she forgot about our dinner.”
Fenwicke tilted his head. “Your… dinner?”
“Yes,” Olivia cut in, still the vision of politeness, but now with an added crispness to her tone. “We’d planned to have her over to dine at Stratford House this evening.”
“I see,” Fenwicke said.
“Well, that’s not—” Jessica began. But Max saw Olivia squeeze her sister’s hand, hard, and she broke off.
“When she didn’t arrive at the appointed time, we were concerned,” Stratford said.
“Completely understandable,” Fenwicke said. “But you’re correct. She must’ve forgotten all about it. She was so excited to see me and relay the events of the past several weeks that she retired early this evening.”
“Oh, well, that’s too bad.” Jessica sighed. “I was so looking forward to our dinner. I hope she will come see us soon.”
“Of course.”
“Tomorrow, perhaps?” Jessica looked up at Fenwicke hopefully.
“Doubtful,” Fenwicke said, the gracious smile still plastered on his face. But a hint of annoyance flattened the edges of his lips.
“We must take our leave, then. We’re so sorry to intrude on your evening, Fenwicke. Lad
ies?” Stratford gestured for Olivia and Jessica to precede him outside, then followed after them. As Max turned to go, Fenwicke caught his arm.
“How are you faring with our little slut?” the marquis murmured into his ear.
Rage shot through Max so quickly and so intensely that he’d jerked his arm away and raised his fists before he could think of what he was doing.
Then, through the red in his vision, he saw Fenwicke leering at him, daring him to throw the first punch.
Don’t become your father, damn it!
Shoving away his anger, Max dropped his fists and shook his head in disgust. He turned his back on the bastard and followed after Stratford, hoping that he’d be able to wash the soiled feeling from his arm.
Chapter Five
Something was wrong with Beatrice, and Jessica was going to find out what it was.
She hadn’t heard from Beatrice at all during her husband’s visit, and not seeing her friend gave her a nervous, itchy feeling in her gut. Finally, several days after Lord Fenwicke’s arrival at Brockton Hall, Olivia’s maid told her that he had returned to London. Jessica would wait overnight to allow Beatrice to recover from her husband’s visit, but the following morning, she would call on her friend and find out how the visit had gone.
The weather held, a fact Jessica was grateful for, because it was awfully cold and wet here in England. As soon as she’d taken her breakfast, Jessica headed to her friend’s house alone. There was no reason to bring a chaperone—neither she nor Beatrice had bothered with one in the past few weeks. Their houses were only a mile apart, and few people traveled between them besides the residents and servants.
Less than half an hour after she’d left Stratford House, she was knocking on the door of Brockton Hall. No one answered at first, but she was persistent, and finally a man opened the door.
It wasn’t the snobbish servant who’d answered when Lord Fenwicke had been in residence. The marquis must’ve brought that man with him. Instead, it was the older servant who’d been there on her previous visits to Brockton Hall.
“Yes?” the old man said, and Jessica nearly smiled. Fenwicke’s man had made her uncomfortable, but this one… well, he was manageable. “May I help you, miss?”
“I’m here to see Lady Fenwicke.”
“I’m sorry, she’s not at home.”
She narrowed her eyes. That was the same thing the pompous servant had said. She took a deep breath and plunged into her lie. “I’ve an important message for her, and I’ve been told I can only tell it to her in person.”
She held up the reticule slung over her wrist. In truth, all that was inside the small purse was a good number of recipes Jonathan’s cook had written for Beatrice.
The old man eyed her warily. “A message?”
“Yes, indeed. A very important message.”
“From whom?”
“From… Lord Fenwicke. He stopped by Stratford House yesterday on his way back to London”—Lord, she hoped Olivia’s maid’s information had been correct—“and he told me to deliver the message first thing this morning.”
The man scowled at her openly for a long moment, then said, “One moment, please, miss.” He turned around and shuffled out of sight.
It seemed like forever before he returned.
“My mistress will see you.”
Thank goodness. Bestowing her biggest smile on the man, she went inside. He led her upstairs to a room she’d never been to before. It was dazzling—as were all the rooms at Brockton Hall, with a beautiful marble fireplace carved with cherubs, rich carpets and furnishings, and walls lined with portraits of important-looking men—probably the line of lordly gentlemen who had preceded Lord Fenwicke as owners of this lovely place.
The room was empty, though. The man gestured her inside and instructed her to wait.
Another several minutes passed before the door opened again. Jessica popped up from the chair she’d been fidgeting in. “Beatrice!”
Beatrice paused at the door. “Good morning, Jessica. I’m told you’ve a message for me from my husband?”
Jessica frowned. Beatrice wore a giant bonnet that shaded most of her face, and she was partially turned away from Jessica, obscuring her face even more. Her back was hunched, and she wore an old, plain woolen dress.
Beatrice closed the door, her shoulders shaking. Jessica hurried to her friend. “Oh, dear Beatrice. What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Do you have the message?” Beatrice’s voice was high and tinny.
“No,” Jessica admitted quietly, taking one of her friend’s cold hands and chafing it in her own. “I just wanted to see you. And that was the only thing I could think of….”
Beatrice stiffened. “You shouldn’t have done that, Jessica. You don’t—” She took a breath. “Please. I’m not feeling well. I’ll call on you next week.”
“Beatrice. Look at me.”
“No, I don’t think—”
Jessica released her cold fingers, pressed one hand on each side of Beatrice’s head, and gently turned her so they were face to face.
“Oh!” Jessica breathed. Oh no. Beatrice’s brown eyes were swollen and ringed with horrible colors: black, red, orange. Both of them. “What on earth happened?”
“I… fell.”
It was a lie. Jessica knew that as surely as she knew she took her next breath. Suddenly, a furious hatred surged through her, and tears sprang to her eyes. “He did that to you,” she choked. “Lord Fenwicke did it, didn’t he?”
“Please go home,” Beatrice whispered, still refusing to meet her eyes.
“Oh, Beatrice, I’m so sorry…”
Beatrice squeezed her eyes shut.
“I’m so very sorry.”
Beatrice sighed. “Never mind, Jessica. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have planned that dinner with you. I was overstepping my boundaries. I know he can arrive at any moment. I know I should be prepared. I should have known that that would be the night he’d choose to come home.”
Jessica grimaced. That awful man had pretended to be surprised when they’d told him about the dinner. And though she’d been leery about accepting his excuse that Beatrice was already in bed, she’d found him pleasant enough. She’d believed him. Had he beaten his wife before or after Jessica’s visit?
Fury at the marquis boiled through her, but compassion for his wife kept her in a state resembling sanity.
Tears streamed down her friend’s face. Jessica reached out and took her into her arms in the gentlest hug she could manage. Although she didn’t want to simply hug Beatrice. She wanted to grab onto her and fly. She’d take her far away from here, far away from that horrible, disgusting man.
“It’s not your fault,” she managed to grind out. “How could it be? No one deserves to be struck. No one.”
“But… but…” Beatrice sobbed openly against Jessica’s shoulder, her body shaking. “I can’t do it properly, Jessica. I’m a very bad wife. He says I’m too fat, that I’m a disgrace and an embarrassment…”
Jessica pulled away. “No! That’s not true. You’re lovely and sweet, and one of the prettiest ladies I know. You can’t be a bad wife. You aren’t. It’s simply impossible.”
Jessica untied the ridiculous bonnet and tossed it into a chair. Then she drew her friend into her arms again and stroked her hair until she cried herself quiet.
Finally, Beatrice drew away from her. Taking the handkerchief Jessica pulled from her reticule to offer her, she mopped her face with it. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m your friend. Don’t you know that? Don’t be sorry.”
Beatrice sniffed. “We’ve known each other for only a few weeks.”
Jessica smiled. “I knew from the moment I saw you that you and I were going to be great friends.”
Beatrice gave her a wavering return smile. “Really?”
Jessica nodded. “Yes. Really.” She reached down and took Beatrice’s hand. “Come. Let’s sit for a while.”
Beatrice nodded and allowed
Jessica to lead her to the elegant pale green velvet sofa. Jessica watched as Beatrice dabbed away fresh tears with the handkerchief. When she lowered the handkerchief to her lap, Jessica touched her eye gently. “How many times has he done this to you?”
Beatrice raised a shaky hand to her left eye, the one with the darker ring around it. “This?” She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Do you mean you don’t wish to tell me, or you’ve truly lost count?”
Beatrice stared into her lap. “I… I’ve lost count.”
Jessica groaned out loud.
“He has every right—”
Anger heated Jessica’s cheeks. “I suppose he tells you that?”
“But he does,” Beatrice whispered. “There is no law against disciplining one’s wife.”
“Just because there’s no law against it doesn’t make it right. No honorable husband would treat his wife in such a way.”
A tear pooled and rolled down Beatrice’s cheek. “I suppose I haven’t married a good husband, then.”
No, she hadn’t. “Oh Beatrice, you deserve so much better than this. Tell me you know that.”
“If I was prettier, if I wasn’t so fat… he’d be proud of me. He’d take me with him to London.”
Jessica took a breath. The awful man hadn’t only abused his wife—he’d convinced her that it was her fault. Jessica had never thought herself capable of such hatred before this moment.
She slid off the sofa and knelt before Beatrice, placing her hands on her friend’s knees. “Listen to me. It’s not your fault. How can I convince you that you are pretty? Tell me, how many offers of marriage did you have before you chose Lord Fenwicke?”
“Six,” Beatrice said. “But Papa said I must choose Lord Fenwicke because he will be a duke someday.”
Secrets of an Accidental Duchess Page 8