Secrets of an Accidental Duchess

by Jennifer Haymore

  They trussed him like a Christmas turkey, tying his ankles in much the same fashion as his wrists were tied. But Fenwicke was still in the room. If Max didn’t have the use of his body, he still had the use of his voice.

  “If you so much as touch her, Fenwicke, I’ll kill you.” Through his rage, the words came out icy and calm. “If you lay a hand on her, that’s the hand I’ll be cutting off. If you—”

  “Gag him,” Fenwicke snapped.

  Quickly, the men did as they were told, as if they’d been prepared for this inevitability. Within seconds, he was choking on the cloth they’d stuffed into his mouth, trying to spit it out. But they tied a strip of muslin around his mouth, holding the cloth in place, and he could do nothing but breathe angrily through his nose.

  Fenwicke stood at the door, watching him. Max saw the anger in the tightness of his cheeks and the flat press of his pale lips.

  God… oh God, he might have just made it worse for her.

  This was his worst nightmare come to life. This couldn’t be happening. He wanted to pound his head against the floor in frustration… in total failure and defeat.

  “I’m going to be busy tonight, Wakefield,” Fenwicke said quietly. “We’re going to leave you right where you are, as you are, so you can spend the night thinking about the folly of your ways while I”—his lips cracked into a smile—“plant my seed inside your pretty little whore.”

  Olivia stumbled into the drawing room, but she didn’t turn around as the maid snapped the door closed behind her.

  Even though it appeared as though he’d somehow reopened the marks she’d made on his face, Fenwicke smiled in pleasure. Olivia glared at him. He thought he’d won, the bastard.

  The harsh word spoken in her mind didn’t even make Olivia flinch. She’d scream it out loud, a hundred times, in front of all of London: Lord Fenwicke is a bastard.

  Then his expression softened until, if she didn’t know better, she’d say his face was awash with sympathy. With compassion. She did know better, though.

  “Alas,” he said sadly. “I am an honest man. I feel it is my duty to warn you of something before we begin. Something that might change your mind about your beloved duke. And, sadly, it might affect the bargain we made earlier.”

  “Nothing will change my mind.” She looked Fenwicke in the eye. Her hatred made her strong. Once she might’ve wilted like a flower being at this man’s mercy, but with every minute that had passed since she’d learned Max was here, she’d grown stronger. She knew what the stakes were now. She knew what to fight for, and she knew she could fight.

  He gave her a gentle smile, and sighed deeply. “I feel I must tell you this. For your own protection. You see, the Duke of Wakefield isn’t exactly who he seems.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He tilted his head at her. “He’s not a very good man, Olivia.”

  She made a scoffing noise. This man, telling her that Max wasn’t very good? Laughable.

  “Oh, I do dislike having to be the bearer of this news….”

  She stared at him, her lips set. She challenged him with her eyes, daring him to tell her something that would change her mind about Max, confident that it couldn’t be done.

  Fenwicke drummed his fingers on his chin. “Would you like to see him before you make your final decision?”

  “Yes!” The exclamation burst out from her before Olivia had the chance to modulate it.

  Fenwicke stepped toward the door, a sly smile spreading over his lips. “Very well, my dear. This way.”

  Gesturing at the two men stationed at the drawing room door to follow them, he led her down a long, opulent corridor lined with damask wallpaper and gilded wall sconces and into a spotless kitchen. A tall, narrow door in the wall led to even narrower stairs. At the bottom, they turned down another long corridor, this one bare, with white plaster walls and a cement floor. Two more of Fenwicke’s burly guards were stationed in front of a door halfway down the corridor.

  Olivia swallowed hard. Her heart felt like it was going to beat its way out of her chest.

  Max… she was going to see him, make sure he was all right, talk to him…

  At the door, Fenwicke hesitated. “Now, Olivia, love, I’d prefer it if my men weren’t forced to touch you, but they will do whatever it takes to ensure that you behave. Here’s how it will go: I will walk into the room. You will stop at the threshold. You may speak to the duke, but if I were you, I wouldn’t expect any answers. I’ll give you the proof that the Duke of Wakefield isn’t the man he’s feigned to be, and if your duke has any sense at all, he will corroborate the evidence I will offer you.”

  Olivia glanced from Fenwicke to the door. She was so distracted by her proximity to Max that she hardly heard what the marquis was telling her.

  He nodded at the guard closest to him, and the man drew the bolt and turned the handle.

  “Wait,” Fenwicke hissed to her as she began to step forward. The tallest of the men situated himself just behind her, ready to grab at her if she lunged inside.

  The three other guards went in first, and Olivia heard a scuffling noise. When the sounds diminished, Fenwicke glanced into the room, then gave her a crisp nod. “They’re ready for us. Come along, my dear.”

  Turning, he went through the doorway. Just inside, Fenwicke paused, and then he stepped aside so she could see into the tiny room.

  Max was sitting on a chaise longue in the center of the room, looking at the door with narrowed, angry eyes. When he saw her, he lunged up, but Fenwicke’s men were ready for that. They grabbed his upper arms, preventing him from moving toward her.

  Not that he could have moved toward her, anyhow. His ankles were bound with a rough rope and his hands were behind his back, probably bound in similar fashion.

  He looked terrible. A gag was tied tight around his mouth, and a line of dried blood descended from the corner of one of his eyes to the gag, staining the side of the dirty rag reddish brown. His other eye was swollen and bruised. His chin was covered in blood. His clothes were dirty, wrinkled, and torn.

  Olivia gave a jagged cry. “Max!” Her feet propelled her forward.

  The guard standing behind Olivia grabbed her arm and jerked her to a painful halt. She gasped.

  Max made a noise of rage and fought against the men, but he was ineffective against them without the use of his arms and legs. He was shouting behind the gag, something that sounded like, “Let her go, damn you!”

  She tried to move forward, to get to him, but the hand curled around her arm was like a shackle. She couldn’t move any closer.

  “I love reunions,” Fenwicke murmured.

  Both she and Max turned furious gazes on him. “How could you do this to him?” Olivia blurted. “Are you mad?”

  Fenwicke appeared to think about this for a moment, then he shook his head. “I don’t think so, my dear. It’s just that my enemy has driven me to extreme measures.”

  “Nothing could possibly be this extreme!” she exclaimed.

  Fenwicke shrugged. “You have spent many years away from London, Olivia. You cannot understand the effects of his slights and slander on my reputation. On my family’s status and well-being. And now I want to show you proof that you have fallen victim to this man’s conniving nature as well.” His expression gentled. “You see, Olivia, you were nothing but a wager to him.”

  Olivia snorted like Phoebe might have. “That’s a lie.”

  “Sorry. It isn’t. I was at Lord Hertford’s ball the night the duke saw you for the first time. I watched him watch you, then I took him into the gentleman’s parlor, and I made a wager with him. I bet him a thousand guineas that he wouldn’t be able to seduce you.”

  Olivia stood very still, staring at him. What nonsense.

  “He readily agreed, then set out to Sussex in hopes of luring you into his bed under your brother-in-law’s roof.”

  No. No, no, no. Impossible. She glanced at Max, who was standing very still, his green eyes pleadin
g.

  “No, Olivia—” He continued trying to speak, but she didn’t understand the words through the gag. She did understand Fenwicke’s, however.

  “And…” Fenwicke held up his hands. “He succeeded entirely. In fact, he informs me that he took you to bed more than once… perhaps… a dozen times?”

  A slow burn began to crawl across Olivia’s face. Her ears felt like they were on fire. Still, she didn’t move.

  He tilted his head at her, his eyes dark with what he pretended was sympathy but was probably something more like glee at imparting this devastating information to her… and in front of Max.

  No, it was not devastating. It was complete nonsense. She glanced at Max again, searching for verification that Fenwicke was lying, but the expression of utter defeat on his face made panic flood into her gut, sickening and overwhelming.

  It had to be a lie. It simply couldn’t be true! If it was…

  Olivia shoved away the panic. She simply wouldn’t believe Fenwicke. She had no reason to believe him… even though he somehow knew about the number of times she’d met with Max in his bedchamber. How? Surely Max wouldn’t have told him all this.

  And Max couldn’t defend himself right now—not with the gag. She couldn’t condemn him based on Fenwicke’s words and the look on his face!

  “After the duke succeeded thoroughly with you and was called back to London on account of his uncle’s impending death, he came to me. He told me of his conquest of you. I, naturally, conceded the win to him.” Fenwicke leaned toward her, clasping his hands together in front of him as if in prayer. “But I thought you should know the lengths a bored London aristocrat will go to for a little fun, Olivia. You’re an innocent miss, sheltered from the hard reality of the ton. You were a simple target for a man like Wakefield. You probably believed every bit of flattery he whispered at you.” Fenwicke shook his head sadly. “Poor dear.”

  “You’re lying,” Olivia gritted out.

  “No, my dear. I’m not.”

  She blinked hard against her stinging eyes. “Well, I don’t believe you.”

  She gazed at Max, pleading with him to assure her somehow that none of this was true. But all he did was give Fenwicke such a look of hatred, it sent an icy shudder through her body.

  She turned back to Fenwicke. “If you think I’d believe your word over His Grace’s, my lord, you are sorely mistaken.” She gestured at Max. “And I’m even more convinced that you are lying since you aren’t giving His Grace the opportunity to defend himself.”

  Fenwicke sighed. “He’s prone to ranting when I take off his muzzle. It tends to give splitting headaches to anyone in his proximity. I decided to save you the trouble, my dear. In any case, of course I don’t expect you to believe my word over his. You fancy yourself in love with the man, after all.” He gave a small grimace. “I’ve encountered ladies who thought they were in love before, who’ve lost all sense. However…” He reached into a pocket sewn on the inside of his coat. “… I have proof.”

  He pulled out a folded piece of stationery. “You see, I’m a careful gambler. I wrote down the details of the wager, and both of us signed it before he left London. As you will see for yourself.”

  He held out the paper to Olivia, and as she took it from him, she heard Max give a muffled curse from behind his gag.

  Lord Fenwicke bets Lord Hasley a thousand guineas that he shall find it impossible to seduce Miss Olivia Donovan on or before the 1st January next.

  14th August, 1829.

  At the bottom were two unreadable, scrawled signatures. The unfamiliar one was undoubtedly Lord Fenwicke’s. The other… Well, she knew it well from the letters he’d written to her before his uncle died and he’d still signed his correspondence as “Hasley.” It was Max’s.

  She glanced up at Max. They stared at each other for a long moment. She didn’t breathe. And then, very slowly, Max’s eyes closed and he bent his head.

  Yes, he was saying. It was me. I signed that wager.

  Unbidden, a tear crested and slipped down her cheek. Without wiping it away, she looked up at Fenwicke and handed the paper back to him.

  “I’m so sorry to be the bearer of this news.”

  “No you’re not.”

  He was gloating. She could sense his joy. This was a coup for him, and she hated him even more for it.

  Fenwicke enjoyed hurting people. He’d enjoyed every single second of this horrible scene.

  “I only thought it fair to inform you of what kind of a man you were choosing to give your body up for. Again.”

  Did this information change how she felt about Max? He’d betrayed her, but did that mean she’d leave him to the insanity of Lord Fenwicke?

  “What will you do with His Grace if I refuse you?” she asked softly. “What will you do with me?”

  The evil glint returned to Fenwicke’s obsidian eyes. “You are welcome to return to whatever you were doing before I interrupted the course of your life in such an ungentlemanly fashion.”

  She didn’t believe him for an instant. “And Max?”

  “Max,” Fenwicke repeated, making the consonants in the word sound hard and unforgiving. “Well, he and I have several outstanding scores, you see. I cannot release him until those scores have been settled.”

  Max’s head remained bowed.

  “And when will that be?” Olivia asked.

  “Your duke is a very stubborn man,” Fenwicke said. “So”—he shrugged—“perhaps never.”

  “So you’ll keep him here until he starves to death?”

  Fenwicke didn’t hesitate. “Perhaps. I have many options, and that is certainly one of them. But if that did come to pass, wouldn’t you consider it adequate remuneration for the wrongs he’s committed upon you, Olivia? Doesn’t he deserve whatever fate shall befall him at my hands?”

  “I don’t know.”

  No, that wasn’t right. She did know, to her bones, what she must do.

  “Well?” Fenwicke looked at her earnestly. “What say you? Will you walk away from our bargain? From our devilish duke?”

  Max’s head moved up, and somehow, though his shout was still muffled, she understood every word. “Yes! Walk away, Olivia! Go!”

  Meeting Fenwicke’s cold black eyes, she shook her head.

  “No, I won’t,” she murmured. “Our bargain still stands.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  A few hours later, the gap-toothed maid declared Olivia nearly ready for her “dinner” with Lord Fenwicke. When the woman left the room to fetch a few more hairpins, Olivia withdrew her packet of medicinal quinine from her reticule and tucked the folded paper into the bodice of the single-layer silk garment Fenwicke had insisted she wear.

  Usually, she’d be appalled about wearing such a thing, for it was red and tawdry, and revealed far too much skin. Yet tonight she had allowed the maid to put it on her without complaint, observing how horrid, how pale and thin, she appeared in the looking glass.

  Calmness had taken over her. She was no longer shaking, no longer at risk of fainting. She had a plan, and no matter what, she was going to make it work. This would be over soon. After tonight, she and Max would be gone from this place, and she’d hopefully never have to lay eyes upon Lord Fenwicke ever again.

  The maid bustled back inside, and Olivia quickly returned to the dressing chair she’d been seated in before.

  “There, now,” the woman murmured. “That should be enough for me to do your hair just the way the master likes it.”

  Olivia bit back the sarcastic retort on the tip of her tongue and forced a smile instead.

  Sarcasm… goodness, she was becoming more like her sisters with every moment that she passed in Lord Fenwicke’s home.

  They must know she was missing by now. Lady Stratford must be out of her mind with worry. The poor woman.

  “Excuse me?” Olivia said.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Is there a way I might get a message to a friend? She doesn’t know I’m here, and I
fear she might be quite worried about me.”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. Of course, Lord Fenwicke must read the letter first. The master approves all correspondence that leaves the house.”

  “I see.” Olivia fell back into silence. Lord Fenwicke appeared to have complete control over his household and servants. How had he done it? Had he struck fear into these poor people? She watched the maid in the mirror. The woman held pins between her lips as she wrapped strands of Olivia’s hair. Olivia thought of her absolute dedication to not breaking any of her master’s rules. Of her missing tooth—had Fenwicke knocked that tooth out with a blow?

  The mere thought made Olivia cringe, and the maid dropped one of the pins. “Oh dear me!” she cried before bending down to retrieve it.

  It was horrid to abuse anyone—a wife, a servant. Fenwicke had to be stopped. But how? He was a marquis and would be a duke someday, for heaven’s sake. He wasn’t quite above the law, but nearly so. Enough that it would make it nearly impossible to prosecute him. Or for Lady Fenwicke to divorce him.

  She smiled at the maid as she rose with the hairpin in her hand, but the woman didn’t meet her eyes, just continued on with the task of doing her hair “just the way the master likes it.”

  When she had finished, the woman spread something over Olivia’s bruises to hide them. Then she swiped rouge on her cheeks and paint on her lips. “There now, that makes you look more lively, I think. Don’t you, ma’am?”

  Olivia looked in the mirror and decided she’d rather look pale than hideous. “Mmm,” she murmured.

  The maid helped her up, smoothed out some of the wrinkles in her dress, and then beamed at her. “I think the master will be very happy.”

  Olivia didn’t respond. How could she? She didn’t want Fenwicke to hurt this woman for failing to please him, but she didn’t want to appeal to him in any way, either.

  So she just followed the maid down the corridor and into a large, stern-looking bedchamber bedecked in masculine-colored silks and velvets.