Secrets of an Accidental Duchess

by Jennifer Haymore

  Something in her chest had tightened into a knot.

  Today was blustery and cold, but sunny enough. Olivia had spent most of the night with Max, and she’d slept in this morning. Her maid, Smithson, told her that Serena, Phoebe, and Jessica had all gone to Lady Fenwicke’s house for a visit, and the men were off hunting. But when she came down to breakfast, Max was reading the newspaper at the breakfast table, a cup of steaming coffee in front of him.

  He rose when she entered the room. “Miss Donovan.” He smiled at her, his green eyes twinkling.

  “Good morning, my lord.”

  She sat, feeling suddenly shy. It felt so awkward to speak to him outside of the privacy of his room or their walks. She must pretend he was simply a friend, and it made her uncomfortable. A silly, wanton part of her wanted to sit in his lap and smack a kiss on his cheek. But a servant or someone else could walk in at any time, and she just couldn’t allow herself that level of unseemliness. Not in her brother-in-law’s house.

  Max’s low, silky voice washed over her. “So you slept late this morning, too?”

  Turning from the sidebar, she raised her brows at him. “I did. I was told the men had already gone off hunting.”

  “They did. I woke too late and discovered they’d gone without me.”

  She gathered her plate and sat across from him, nodding at the footman who came to offer her chocolate. “And my sisters went to Lady Fenwicke’s house.”

  Max folded his paper and looked at her. The corners of his mouth lifted upward in a smile. “It’s just you and me, then.”

  Oh, there was so much sin buried within that seemingly innocuous statement that a delicious shiver rushed through her.

  She cocked her head. “Perhaps I can interest you in a walk after breakfast, my lord?”

  He chuckled low and nodded, as if to say, I’d had other plans—wicked plans—but I suppose a walk will do.

  She returned his smile, and they simply sat for a long moment, grinning at each other. Anyone who walked into the room at this moment could see very well what besotted loons they’d become.

  She broke the look first, conscious of the servant who’d just walked into the room to bring her chocolate and to refresh the dishes at the sideboard. She gazed down at her cup, circling its rim with her fingertip. Finally, she looked up at him.

  “Tell me, my lord, where in England did you grow up?”

  “Not too far from here. In Hampshire. My uncle’s seat, Forest Corner, is located there.”

  “So you spent your childhood there?”

  “After my mother died, my father spent most of his time at my uncle’s house. My cousins lived there, too. During my years at Eton, it was where I returned during school holidays.”

  “A place to go,” she murmured, “but not home.”

  “Not home,” he agreed softly. He took a contemplative sip of his coffee. “Forest Corner is a vast, cold place. It’s scrubbed until it shines daily. It was entirely different from the house my mother kept. Entirely different from this house, for that matter. Every carefully rendered detail is for aesthetics rather than comfort.”

  “I understand. It does sound cold. And yet it will belong to you someday, won’t it?”

  “I suppose it will.”

  “But you said you had cousins. Are they all girls?”

  “No. My uncle fathered one daughter and two sons, and all three died of influenza one year. The eldest of them was twelve, the youngest was six. Their mother caught it too. I’d been gone at Eton that autumn, and when I arrived at Forest Corner for the winter holiday, they were all… gone.”

  “Oh,” Olivia murmured, “how horrible.”

  “Yes.” There was a hint of desolation in Max’s expression as he gazed down at his coffee cup. He grasped it between both palms. “It was a long time ago… but my cousins were my closest companions during my childhood. I miss them.”

  “I’m so sorry, Max. I can’t imagine.” A part of her felt hollow inside, thinking about how much loss this man had suffered. At least he still had one family member remaining. “What about your uncle? Did he take you under his wing after that happened?”

  Max pressed his lips together and shook his head grimly. “Not at all. He never believed I could be as good a Duke of Wakefield as Charles or Henry.” He took a slow breath, then looked up at her. “He told me once that he wished it was me who’d died rather than his sons.”

  She flinched, but he shrugged. “I cannot blame him, really. He lost two sons, a daughter, a wife… I never wanted a dukedom, and I wasn’t raised to be a duke. But Charles and Henry were his heir and spare—both born and raised to perform the job.”

  Olivia nodded.

  “My uncle was in London when they became ill. He was in Town with my father and their mistress.”

  “Their mistress?” Olivia repeated, her eyes widening.

  He nodded, then swallowed the rest of his coffee. “Yes.” His voice lowered. “I told you they shared almost everything, didn’t I?”

  Olivia couldn’t do anything but stare at him, completely aghast.

  “When I was nineteen,” Max said softly, “I called my uncle to task for that and for his many other crimes against his family while they were alive. We haven’t spoken since then.”

  “Oh Max. I’m so sorry. That is a horribly tragic story….” With a horribly tragic ending.

  “It was a long time ago. Most of it happened almost twenty years ago. The years since haven’t been all bad.”

  “Well, I think the years have treated you quite well,” she said before she could think to recall the words. Her face went instantly hot, and she realized that she’d called him by his first name, too. And in the presence of a footman standing near the door.

  “Care to explain what you mean by that?” Max drawled.

  She sent a quick glance to the footman, who stared straight ahead. Then she narrowed her eyes, ever so subtly, at Max and said, “Well, you’ve told me you spent many happy years in London doing…” Doing what? She gave an offhand flick of her wrist. “Whatever it is that men do.”

  “Mmm, yes, very true, Miss Donovan.”

  She looked down at her empty plate. The toast she’d buttered at the sideboard was long since gone. She placed her napkin on the table and rose. Max’s chair scraped against the floor as he rose along with her.

  “Please excuse me, my lord. I’ll go upstairs and prepare for our walk.” She’d asked Smithson to ready her bath while she was having breakfast. She’d be quick about that, then change into her walking clothes so she didn’t keep him waiting too long.

  “Please,” he said with utter straight-faced politeness, “allow me to escort you upstairs.”

  The mere idea that he’d “escort her upstairs” to her bedchamber made her blush deepen. He walked around the table and held out his arm for her. When she took it, he pulled her against his body—a touch more tightly than was strictly polite—and she felt him shaking with laughter. As they exited from the breakfast room, she sent a glare up to him that promised retribution.

  When they were out in the corridor, he lost the battle with his twitching lips and broke into a broad grin. He bent his head down and whispered into her ear, “You’re adorable, Olivia.”

  “And you’re wicked,” she said primly. But she was fighting a smile herself.

  “Hm… and what, pray, did you really mean when you said the years have treated me well?”

  “You know very well what I meant,” she hissed as they turned the corner to mount the curving staircase. “I meant you’re enormously, impossibly handsome, of course.”

  “I’m glad you think so.” His expression was smug, and she couldn’t help it. She had to physically restrain herself from pressing her lips to those deep, delectable dimples of his and kissing that expression off his face. Turn it into one of desire. Of need.

  She shuddered. She’d thought she’d hidden it, but he tensed against her. “What is it, sweetheart?”

  “Max,” she groan
ed softly as they reached the top of the stairs. “Please. We can’t talk this way. Not anywhere but in your—” She broke off.

  He raised a brow. “In my bedchamber?”

  “Yes.”

  And they were approaching her bedchamber. She slowed her step, drawing her arm from his. “Thank you for walking me up here.”

  Max looked pointedly at the door, and she leaned on her tiptoes and whispered, “You cannot come inside. My maid is in there!”

  Max sighed. “Unfortunate,” he murmured. Then he bowed. “I’ll see you downstairs, then?”

  “Yes. In an hour?”

  “Of course.”

  He bowed, and when she opened the door he gave her a nod and turned away. As she walked inside, clicking the door shut, she saw a final glimpse of his tall, broad form retreating down the corridor.

  Smithson helped her remove her clothing and take down her hair, and Olivia stepped into the tub. She sank deep into the piping hot water on a sigh.

  “Would you like me to wash your hair for you, miss?” The young maid’s freckled face swam in front of her half-lidded gaze.

  “No, no, that’s all right. You may go. I’ll call when I’m ready for you.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  She heard the click of the door as the maid left, and sank deeper into the water. It was tempting to relax until the water was lukewarm, but she couldn’t dally today. She took the soap and washcloth from the small bronze tray left on the table beside the bath. When the cloth was fully lathered, she started at her feet and had begun to work her way upward when she heard the click of the door again.

  “What is it, Smithson?”

  “Who’s Smithson?” asked a very low, decidedly male, voice.

  She whipped her head around, holding the washcloth to her chest. It did little good covering her, considering that it was nothing more than a tiny square of cloth.

  “Max,” she breathed out. “What on earth…?”

  He was standing in the center of her room, calmly removing his coat. “I thought there ought to be more locations where we can speak freely with each other.” He looked up from his task for a moment to give her a lopsided grin. “This seems like a good place to start. And when you opened the door to come here, I saw the bathwater steaming up behind you.” He shrugged out of the coat. “Did you think I’d be able to resist?”

  Before she could say a word, he’d untied the string at his neck and had pulled his shirt off, leaving his torso deliciously bare.

  “Max!” she squeaked. Good heavens. It was broad daylight. There was no lock on her door. Her sisters and the gentlemen could return anytime, although she didn’t expect them until later this afternoon. But servants could—and would—walk in at any moment. “You can’t… someone might… oh…”

  She still held the cloth against her chest. It was growing cold, and she looked down at it hopelessly. In two strides, he’d approached the tub and knelt at its side.

  “Allow me.” He gently pried the cloth from her resisting fingers and turned to resoap it.

  “A servant could—”

  “Don’t worry,” he said softly. He dipped his fingers in the water, stretched her leg long, and began to wash it.

  Oh, Lord. There was something far, far more erotic about being cleaned by a handsome, shirtless man than cleaning oneself….

  “No one will come in. The chambermaids work on your room in the afternoon, and none of the other servants have any reason to come here, do they?”

  “Smithson.”

  “Ah, the mysterious Smithson.” Max’s green eyes focused on her, and his hands stopped their gentle ministrations. “My unknown competition. Tell, me, Olivia, does he touch you like I do?”

  His tone was jesting, but something in his expression was not.

  “Max,” she breathed. “Surely you’re not jealous. Smithson is the maid!”

  His lips twitched. “Ah. The lady’s maid. Did you tell her to return?”

  “Yes, when I call her.”

  “Well, then.” He raised his brows. “Since I doubt you’ll be calling her while I’m here, it seems we’re safe. But if you’re concerned, I’ll block the door with your desk chair.”

  She glanced at the door, imagining servants hovering outside, gripping the door handle, preparing to open the door. If he slid the chair in front of the door, it would take a few seconds for them to get in. A few seconds in which she could… Do what?

  She blew out a breath. “No, that’s all right. You’re right. No one’s coming in here. Not until later.”

  “Much later,” he corrected.

  “Yes,” she agreed, “much later.” She stretched out her other leg in a not-so-subtle hint for him to wash it.

  “Good.” He went to work, rubbing soapy circles all over her skin. She crossed her arms over her chest and lay back, closing her eyes and sinking into the soft comfort of his strokes. She felt him tugging at her arms, trying to uncross them, and she released them, knowing she was exposing her breasts to him and not caring. In fact, she was curious whether he’d clean them, and if he did, how it would feel.

  The cloth moved up her stomach, gentle but not light enough to tickle her. She sighed in bliss. “Mmm, it feels so good when you touch me like this.”

  “Does it?” he murmured. “I’ll do it more often, then.”

  And then the cloth brushed over her breast. She gasped lightly. He didn’t clean the area in smooth, swift strokes. He paid special attention to her breasts, cupping each in his palm, swiping the cloth over it, softly squeezing her nipple between his fingers in that way that made her womb clench with longing.

  And then he moved up to her shoulders and neck, exerting a little more pressure with the cloth in this area.

  “Sit up and I’ll wash your hair.”

  She hadn’t planned to wash her hair, but she didn’t resist. She scooted her bottom forward and sat upright. Using the large ladle on the table, he wet her hair and then soaped it. His fingers pressed firmly into her scalp as he rubbed and washed, taking his time to clean each strand.

  Closing her eyes, Olivia sighed in pleasure. He left her hair for a moment to wash her back using the same firm strokes that seemed to permeate through her tight muscles and soften them.

  “Oooh,” she murmured. “You’re going to put me to sleep.”

  He chuckled softly. “Not precisely my intention.”

  “No?”

  “No.” He resumed rubbing her head and then asked her to tilt back so he could rinse. When all the soap was washed away, he rinsed her back, then poured water over her front. As the stream flowed over the sensitized tips of her breasts, she instinctively arched her body for more. Max didn’t hesitate. He refilled the ladle and poured it over her again, sending sensation so deeply through her body that her toes curled.

  “Stand up, sweetheart.”

  “Mmm. All right.”

  She rose, her legs feeling rubbery, but Max caught her as she wavered, wrapped a towel about her, and lifted her from the tub. She pressed a kiss against his neck as he walked her toward the bed.

  “Thank you for that.”

  “I should thank you.”

  “You’re the one who did all the work.”

  “I was also the one who was able to see your beautiful body dripping wet.” He laid her on the bed. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more arousing.”

  “I don’t think I’ve felt anything more arousing,” she murmured. And she wanted more. She reached both arms up, welcoming him to lie beside her. “There are so many things we’ve done in the past days that I never dreamed I’d ever have the opportunity to do.”

  Lying beside her, he pushed a damp strand of hair off her face. “Are you glad to have had the opportunity?”

  “So very glad,” she said. And she was. Now, she couldn’t imagine living her life without the brand of Max’s touch on her skin. And it was a brand. Invisible to others, but she knew she’d feel it for the rest of her life.

  He smiled
down at her, but there was a dark edge to his appearance that she noticed for the first time. She hadn’t really been studying him in the bath—her eyes had been half-lidded and she’d been so focused on her own pleasure that she hadn’t seen what was now so obvious in his expression.

  “Max… is something wrong?”

  He nodded, and her heart clenched hard.

  “What is it?” she breathed.

  “I have to leave. I’m needed in London.”

  She went cold. “No.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He took a shuddering breath. “But it’s something I can’t avoid.”

  “What is it? Has something terrible happened?”

  Leaving the bed for a moment, he retrieved his coat and withdrew a folded sheet of stationery. “A letter from London. It arrived just before I returned to your bedchamber.”

  Returning to bed beside her, he handed her the letter. She rolled over onto her side and propped herself up on an elbow as she unfolded it.

  There wasn’t much to it:

  Hasley,

  I am dying. I’m told, much to my dismay, that it is an event that is likely to occur sooner rather than later. Since you are the wastrel who is to take my title as your own upon my demise, I demand your presence at my London house immediately. I have a great deal of instruction I must impart to you prior to my passing.

  Wakefield.

  “Oh, Max,” she whispered, looking up at him through damp lashes.

  Max stared down at the note. “My uncle never speaks to me.”

  She nodded.

  “He never sends me letters.” Max’s Adam’s apple moved up and down as he swallowed. He stared at the letter for a long while, unmoving, unspeaking, and then he said, “Odd that the first time I speak of him in months is the first time I receive any correspondence from him in years.”

  Finally, Olivia asked, “Is this unexpected?”

  “By all accounts, he has been very healthy,” Max said. “I assumed he’d live forever—or at least a very long time. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d outlived me.”

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

  He still gazed down at the letter, his distress evident from the grooves creasing his forehead and the flat line of his lips. “I must leave immediately. Today.”