Secrets of an Accidental Duchess (29 page)

“Yes, that,” Fenwicke said dryly. He snatched it from her hand and opened it.

Please, oh please, let there not be any additional grains of quinine….
She flinched when a fine mist of powder fell from the paper.

But he didn’t seem to see it. He looked from the open, blank paper up to her, his dark brows knitted. “What is this?”

“A… sheet of paper?”

“I see that,” he said dryly. “Why did you have a sheet of paper by your bosom?”

“I…” Good heavens. She couldn’t think of a single acceptable reason she’d have it. She prayed he didn’t put two and two together and figure out that was why his food had tasted so odd this evening.

She bit her lower lip.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “You intended to send a message to your duke, didn’t you?” His voice was hard.

“I did,” she whispered.

Silence. She didn’t dare look up.

“Well? How did it end up stuffed in your bodice?”

“I… I…” She swallowed hard. “The maid… she is so devoted to you. She walked in, and I was holding the paper, preparing to write… and I was panicked. I… I thought she’d tell you.”

“Well, of course she would. She informs me of everything that goes on in my house.”

“I… I know that. So I tucked the sheet into my bodice before she could see it.”

She glanced up to see him curling his lip into a sneer. “Stupid little chit. You were foolish enough to bring this to dinner with me.”

She didn’t respond. What could she say to that? Instead she bowed her head, managing to look contrite and afraid. The fear, at least, wasn’t contrived.

She felt the weight of his hand on her shoulder and tried not to cringe away from it. He squeezed, so hard she released a little yelp.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “After tonight, you’ll never have to worry about such things again. I’m going to wipe every trace of the Duke of Wakefield from your memory.” His hand slid across her back and down her spine. “And from your body.”

She swallowed hard against the sudden, nearly overwhelming nausea.

Slowly, she raised her head until she was looking up at him looming over her. With a sweep of his hand, he slapped her, hard, across the cheek. Her face snapped to the side, and she raised her hand to cover the sting, her eyes watering.

“Get up,” he said. When she didn’t move, he snapped, “Now.”

His tone was dark and angry, and she knew if she didn’t respond to his command, he’d hit her again. So she rose on shaking, watery legs.

Why wasn’t the quinine working? Surely he’d ingested twenty or thirty grains by now.

“Come here.”

He took her by the shoulders and yanked her against him, smashing his lips against hers.

Oh, Lord. Oh, no. She could feel his arousal beneath the two flimsy layers of silk separating them.

She stood rigidly as his mouth moved over hers. He wrapped his arm around her, pushed his pelvis against her, and thrust his tongue into her mouth.

No! Her body cried out in panic, in utter terror at this unwelcome invasion. She jerked away, but he yanked her even closer and pushed his disgusting tongue into her mouth again.

Then he stumbled away, making a gagging noise.

Frozen in her spot, she looked at him, terrified, her heart threatening to beat out of her chest. His face had turned pale—almost yellow—and his expression was drawn tight.

He took two staggering steps backward, blinking hard at her.

“Ah… excuse me.” Covering his mouth with both hands, he turned and lurched out of the room, leaving her staring after him.

O
livia gazed after Fenwicke for a long while, wondering if he’d return. She knew something of what he must be feeling by now. She’d accidentally taken double her highest dosage of ten grains once at the end of a bout of fever, and she’d vomited for a week.

She slowly walked toward the door, and opening it, peered into the corridor. Most of the servants were abed, and she’d noticed only one man on guard in the passageway when she’d come to Lord Fenwicke’s room earlier this evening. Now, the passageway was empty.

On tiptoe, she approached the stairs in the dim light of a single burning wall sconce. Hearing no sounds coming from the stairs, she descended quietly.

At the bottom, she turned to the right and hurried toward the kitchen.

She heard a long, low moan coming from behind her. And then a panicked shout. “Do something, damn you! Do something!”

It was Fenwicke’s voice, raw with pain and panic.

“But what, sir?” She recognized the voice of one of the guards.

“I don’t know,” Fenwicke roared. “Get someone. Anyone! I can’t see, damn you!”

Oh, heavens. Olivia had heard blindness was one of the symptoms of serious quinine poisoning. Had she given him enough to kill him?

She closed her eyes briefly, but the sound of footsteps in the passageway behind her made her lunge toward the kitchen door. She slipped inside and closed it behind her before looking around in the dimness. There was a great stone hearth and bread ovens, along with shelves packed full of unidentifiable items and rows of shadowy pots and pans hanging from hooks on the ceiling.

She opened the tall, narrow door and looked down into the darkened cellar. She’d have to make her way carefully—it’d be stupid to rush and fall down the stairs when she’d come so far.

Suddenly, the kitchen door opened behind her. She slipped behind the door leading to the cellar stairs.

Heavy footsteps approached, then stopped, right on the other side of the door. Lantern light leaked around the edges of the door. Olivia held her breath as the man bellowed down, “Charlie?”

Dimly, she heard the response. “Eh?”

“Come up here. There’s some trouble with his lordship.”

Unintelligible words wafted from below.

“I don’t think he gives a damn about that no more, Charlie! He’s sick. Get up here, I say! And hurry up about it!”

She heard Charlie’s thin voice again. “If ’e’s sick, fetch a bloody doctor.”

The man began to stomp down the stairs but Charlie evidently met him halfway, because he cried, “Come on with you! You’ve got to help us get him into his bed. Hurry!”

The men hurried past the door and out of the kitchen, oblivious to her.

As soon as they were gone, she slipped out from behind the door and made her way down the narrow cellar stairs and down the corridor. With shaking hands, Olivia slid the heavy bolt and opened the door to Max’s prison.

A lantern flickered in the corner of the room. Max lay on the chaise longue, his wild green eyes staring at her above the gag.

She rushed to him, knelt down, and fumbled at the tie on the gag.

It seemed to take forever, but finally she unwound the dirty strip of cloth. It left deep parallel lines of chafing across his cheeks and jaw.

He coughed, spitting out the balled rag that had been stuffed into his mouth. “Olivia,” he said through dry lips, his voice cracking. “Why didn’t you go? Why didn’t you leave here when he gave you the chance?”

“I couldn’t leave you,” she choked out. “Even though… I couldn’t.”

Max’s body was trembling all over. “Did he touch you? If he touched you, I swear to God, I’ll—”

She cupped his cheeks in her hands, the growth of his beard rough against her palms. “I’m all right. But we have to get out of here before they discover we’re gone. Now let me untie your wrists.”

Again, it seemed to take hours before she could get the tight knots binding his wrists undone. This task was made even more difficult by all the dried and sticky blood caking the ropes. His wrists must hurt terribly. By the time Olivia unwound the rope, peeling it from Max’s raw and oozing skin, she was shaking like a leaf.

Finally, she tossed the rope aside. She stared down at her hands—they were covered with fresh blood.

He pulled her into his arms, his movements rough and jerky. “Oh, sweetheart.” The endearment made her freeze. She let him hold her, but her arms felt heavy, and she let them hang at her sides. She felt like a part of her had been flayed open and was now raw and exposed. “I’m sorry,” he choked. “I’m so sorry. This is my fault.”

She blinked her eyes hard so she could focus on the task at hand. Now wasn’t the time for explanations and apologies. They needed to
go.

His ankles weren’t as damaged as his wrists, and with his help, untying them didn’t take much time at all. Finally free, Max stumbled to his feet and drew her against him once again.

“Did he hurt you? God, Olivia. Please tell me he didn’t hurt you. Please,” he whispered, burying his face into her hair.

“He… no. He wanted to. He hit me… kissed me.” She felt Max’s arms tense around her as the air left his chest in a hiss. “But it could have been… worse.” So much worse.

“How did you get down here?”

“I poisoned him with quinine. The medicine I use for my malaria. I gave him all the medicine I had. I think…” She swallowed down a heaving sob of a breath. “I think I might have killed him.”

“Is he upstairs?”

“Yes.”

“Conscious?”

“Yes.”

“Who else is there with him?”

“At least two of those big guards he has. And they were talking about calling a doctor.”

“The servants?”

“I think they’re all in bed, but given how loudly he’s shouting, they’ll be down soon.”

He held her shoulders gently, over the place where Fenwicke had bruised her earlier, and he looked into her face. “Do you know how to get out of the house?”

“I think I saw a door leading outside from the kitchen. The cellar stairs come up right near it.”

“Good.” He frowned down at her. “You shouldn’t have risked this, Olivia. You should have gone before he—”

She simply shook her head. “Let’s go, Max.”

He took her hand and led her outside and down the corridor. They hurried up the stairs. At the top, she pointed to the door she had thought must lead outside.

Beyond the kitchen door, there was even more noise now. The sounds of shouting, talking, worried murmurs, running feet. Above it all was the sound of Fenwicke’s shouting, loud with panic.

Max pulled her to the door at a near run. He worked the latch, but just as he opened the door, the kitchen door behind them swung open.

“Go!” Max murmured, pushing her outside. She stumbled forward and turned to see Max facing one of the guards.

“How’d you get out?” the man growled. Then he saw Olivia and sneered. “The slut got to you, did she?”

Max lunged forward, his fist slamming into the guard’s stomach. The guard doubled over with an
oomph,
but he recovered quickly, swinging a punch that Max dodged before landing a blow to the guard’s kidney.

The brute grunted, and then the men moved so quickly that for a few seconds, Olivia couldn’t tell which fists belonged to whom. Finally, Max stepped back, leveled a hard second blow at the man’s stomach, and the man crumpled to the floor.

Turning, Max saw Olivia. Pressing his lips together, he hurried outside, kicking the door shut behind them. Once again, he took her hand.

“Let’s go.”

As soon as they emerged onto the street, Max took off his torn coat and covered her shoulders with it as best he could. “I don’t want anyone seeing you like this,” he murmured. “We’ll go to my house first—it’s closer. After we’re both clean and presentable, I’ll take you to Lady Stratford.”

Too numb to respond, she simply nodded. The night was frigid, and even wearing Max’s coat, she was shuddering. The ice on the ground seeped all the way through her slippers and deep into her feet.

After a few blocks, she stumbled, and Max swept her up into his arms. “Put your arms around me, Olivia,” he murmured. “That’s right. We’re almost there, sweetheart.”

“You say ‘sweetheart’ so differently than he does,” she murmured.

Max’s step faltered. “Fenwicke called you that?”

“Only because he wanted to mock me.”

“I won’t call you that anymore,” he said firmly. “Not if it will remind you of him.”

Remembering his betrayal, his bet, his lies, she didn’t answer him. It was probably best he didn’t call her sweetheart anymore.

But for now, his body was warm and he held her so tightly, so comfortingly against him that she couldn’t fathom doing anything but resting her head against his shoulder.

Fenwicke had been right about one thing—Max wasn’t the man she thought he was. She’d have to distance herself from him.

But not tonight. Not now.

Tomorrow, maybe.

Max took her home to the town house that had belonged to his uncle. At the front stoop, he pounded on the door for several minutes before a disheveled butler answered. The man’s eyes widened when he saw Max carrying Olivia.

“Oh… Your Grace! You’re home. And thank God—”

Max brushed past him and headed toward the drawing room. “Fetch a maid to help the lady, and someone to light and heat the drawing room.”

“Why, yes, sir, of course, sir.” The man hurried off.

Inside his uncle’s dark drawing room, Max carefully laid Olivia on the leather sofa. He saw the glint of her blue eyes as she looked up at him. He knelt at the edge of the sofa and stroked a finger down her cheek, reveling in the softness of her skin. “Where did he hit you, Olivia?”

“He slapped me,” she whispered. “It wasn’t too bad. I’m all right.”

“Are you sure?”

He saw the movement in the dimness as she nodded. He couldn’t bring himself to ask her about the forced kiss.

Someone knocked on the door, and Max answered it to discover one of his housemaids. He murmured a few instructions to her and she scampered off, returning moments later with a blanket for Olivia. Max directed her to go warm some milk for the lady. Within a few minutes, another servant had come in to light the lamps and stoke the fire.

In the flickering light, he assessed Olivia’s condition. Except for her state of undress, he didn’t see anything at first, but then he noticed the dark purple bruises around her neck, mottled by what looked like some kind of concealing body paint.

The rage was too powerful, too overwhelming. He lurched away to lean his head and palms against the wall and take deep breaths. He’d seen his mother with purple bands around her neck. He’d been a little boy, and she’d worn a high collar to hide them, but he’d been sitting on her lap and had seen a hint of purple and had pulled her collar down before she could stop him. Even then, he’d known that his father had been responsible.