Secrets of an Accidental Duchess (11 page)

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.”

“See? If you were ugly, you wouldn’t have received six offers, believe me!”

Beatrice smiled a little, but then her lips quivered. “But I wasn’t fat then.”

Jessica shook her head. “I’ve never known you at any other size, Beatrice. I’ve never thought you were fat, and I’ve always thought you utterly lovely.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

“Yes. I promise.”

Beatrice’s smile grew a little stronger. “Thank you,” she whispered. “You’re such a good friend.”

Jessica took her hand and squeezed. “You’re welcome. But I’m not saying that just to make you feel better. I’m saying it because it’s true. Now… do you know when your husband will return to Brockton Hall?”

Beatrice shook her head. “He never informs me in advance before he arrives. I never know he’s coming until he pulls up in the drive. And… now…” She took a shaky breath. “I fear I must be home the next time he comes. What if he were to arrive and look for me while I was at Stratford House? He’d be so angry with me.”

“That’s all right,” Jessica said quickly. “You know we wouldn’t abandon you, don’t you? I’ll come visit you here. So will my sisters.”

Beatrice smiled.

“But… you could leave him, you know,” Jessica said quietly.

Beatrice’s eyes widened. “Jessica, are you mad? I couldn’t leave him!”

“Why not?”

“He is my husband!”

“He is a bully and an abuser of ladies. He doesn’t deserve you.”

“But I couldn’t. My family would be so ashamed…”

“It’s not your fault!”

“But I would be dishonored. Embarrassed…”

“Nonsense. The only one who would be embarrassed is him.”

Suddenly, Beatrice grabbed both of Jessica’s hands with her own. “Oh, Jessica, you won’t tell anyone, will you? Please promise me you won’t tell anyone. If you do… oh God, please, Jessica…” She began to sob again.

Jessica blinked at her. She hadn’t even considered keeping this information from her family. She usually told her sisters everything.

“You don’t wish for me to tell my sisters? But, Beatrice, they’ll help you.”

Beatrice closed her eyes and moaned, twin tears trickling down her cheeks. “I don’t think I could bear the shame. Please…”

“Very well,” Jessica said soothingly. “I won’t tell them until you give me leave to.”

“Thank you.” Raising Jessica’s hand, Beatrice pressed it to her cheek.

“Well then…” Jessica took a deep breath. “Let’s speak of a happier topic, shall we?” She reached for her reticule. “I brought you some recipes.”

She laid out the pieces of paper and listened to Beatrice expound over ingredients and measurements, but the whole time, her mind was working hard.

Jessica Donovan wasn’t going to allow any friend of hers to be beaten. She simply wasn’t going to allow it.

Max could hardly believe November was half over. Time had flown since he’d kissed Olivia beneath the outcropping on that rainy afternoon. They’d spent many afternoons together since then: reading in the library, talking in the drawing room, playing tennis when the weather permitted, though that was rare these days. But he hadn’t kissed her again. Not for lack of desire to feel her sweet lips against his. He just hadn’t been alone with her since that day. If he had been alone with her, he doubted he would have been able to keep his hands off her.

He strode into the breakfast room. For the first time since his arrival at Stratford House, none of the ladies were sitting down and drinking their chocolate. Instead, Stratford was in the room. He was prowling along the sideboard as if unable to decide what to choose for his breakfast, and Langley was speaking to him in low, urgent tones.

“Is something the matter?” Max asked when they both fell silent and looked up at him.

Stratford sighed. “It’s Olivia. She came down with a fever last night. The ladies are upstairs tending to her.”

Stratford’s features were pinched with worry. Max’s heart surged, then his heartbeat sped. “A fever? Is she…”

He couldn’t finish the sentence.
Is she in danger?
No, she couldn’t be. It simply wasn’t possible. She’d seemed perfectly healthy yesterday. Still, Stratford’s demeanor was making his heart thump unsteadily against his breastbone.

Stratford seemed to understand his unfinished question. “She’s not in immediate danger, no. But it is cause for concern whenever she has a fever. Meg feels each one leaves her weaker.”

Stratford turned back to the sideboard. He spooned some eggs onto his plate and sat at the table across from Langley. He looked up at Max, who’d stood frozen to the spot since he’d opened the door, and gestured toward the food. “Have some breakfast, Hasley.”

Max forced himself to nod. He forced his stiff legs to move toward the breakfast offerings, and he blinked hard against the blur in his eyes so he could distinguish between the elegantly laid out dishes. He shoveled something onto his plate and then went to sit beside Stratford.

Each fever weakened her? God, how many fevers had she had?

He wanted to ask if he could see her. But that would be too presumptuous. He wasn’t a member of their family. He wasn’t even Olivia’s suitor—officially. Even if he were, it would be quite forward to ask permission to go to her when she was ill.

“May I see her?” he blurted. Hell. He just couldn’t control it. Couldn’t stop this raging need to see her, to make sure she was all right.

Both men’s gazes snapped to him. Stratford froze with a slice of toast halfway to his mouth. “Er,” he said, frowning, “well, I will certainly ask Meg.”

“Thank you.”

Langley had been silent since Max had entered, and now he gave Max a sympathetic look. “You and Miss Donovan have become quite friendly.”

His tone was not accusatory or prying in any way, yet
Max suddenly felt like he was a piece of meat the other two men planned to chop up and devour, piece by piece.

“Yes,” he said evenly. “We enjoy each other’s company.”

“You spend quite a bit of time with her,” Langley said conversationally. “Both of you seem to like playing tennis.”

“We do.”

“It has been too cold for that.” Stratford cradled his coffee cup in his hands. “Especially for someone with as delicate a constitution as Olivia. Tennis is a summer sport, even for the sturdiest of souls.”

“It’s true the weather hasn’t cooperated very often. We haven’t played more than once or twice in the past fortnight—” Something inside Max clenched. They’d played tennis yesterday. “You don’t think… Well, you don’t think the tennis caused the fever, do you?”

God, he sounded so anxious and needy. But what if he were responsible? Perhaps he should have insisted they not play, that it was too cold, too windy.

She would never have agreed.

“I don’t know,” Stratford said.

Langley shrugged. “Really, there’s no way of knowing for certain.”

Stratford sipped his coffee. “Meg assures me that she, Phoebe, and Jessica have been through this many times with Olivia. They know what to do. Meg said the fever’s already come down a bit.”

There it was again—talk of this being a recurring problem. Max jumped on it this time.

“Many times? Are you saying Miss Donovan is susceptible to fevers?”

Stratford raised his brows. “She hasn’t told you?”

“Told me what?”

“When she was nine years old, Olivia contracted malaria. She nearly died from it.”

Max tried not to show any response, but he felt like his insides had been crushed. Imagining Olivia as a child, deathly ill… He took a slow, deep breath. “Like her father.”

“Yes,” Stratford said. “She recovered from that first affliction, whereas he did not. However, she still suffers from occasional relapses of fever. Each fever weakens her, and every time she has one, her sisters’ darkest fear is that she won’t recover.”

Their protectiveness of Olivia made so much more sense now. But why had she kept this important part of herself from him? He wasn’t angry with her—she was under no obligation to tell him, after all, but a part of him felt like it had been rubbed raw enough to ache. This meant she didn’t trust him. Not completely.

“Truthfully, none of us likes it when she goes on all those long walks, because we worry she’ll come down with a fever and no one will be near to help her. But”—Stratford shrugged—“I quickly learned that that is Olivia. She’s a very solitary person, and she needs her freedom. She needs to feel strong… and she
is
quite strong, really. If not physically, at least in other ways.”

Max didn’t know what to say. This information seemed like too much to assimilate all at once. Olivia—his Olivia—had a horrible, deadly disease. She was lying upstairs right at this moment, suffering from it. He didn’t want to be down here discussing it with these men. He wanted to be at her side.

Stratford clapped a hand over Max’s shoulder and squeezed lightly. “Let’s go for a ride this morning. It’ll be better than sitting in the house and worrying.”

Max thought about that—God knew he didn’t want to go farther away from her. What if she needed him? But then he gave a slow nod. She didn’t need him—he didn’t have the first idea how he could possibly help her. It was the doctor and her sisters who would help her most right now.

Stratford was right. Max wouldn’t stop worrying, but he might go mad if he was confined to the house and unable to see her.

By the following afternoon, Olivia felt much better. The fever still raged, making her head ache and her eyes sting. She’d kick off the covers, and moments later she’d be shuddering from cold.

One of her sisters stayed with her at all times. Phoebe had given her a dose of the quinine she’d brought from Antigua and then had gone off to tend to Margie. Jessica had just come in and was fussing with the covers.

“Keep the blankets over you, Olivia,” she admonished. “The doctors always say you must sweat the poisons out, you know that.”

She mustered a smile, then closed her burning eyes. “Too hot.”

“Humph.” Jessica plumped into the chair someone had left beside the bed and took her hand. “This one has been an easy one, hasn’t it?”

“Isn’t over yet,” Olivia murmured.

“But you’re stronger already.”

“True. I’ll be out of bed tomorrow, certainly.”

Jessica snorted. “I doubt that.”

Keeping her eyes closed, Olivia smiled. After a short silence, Jessica said, “Someone’s been asking to see you.”

Olivia’s eyes popped open. “Max?” she breathed.
She’d been thinking about him. Missing him. Wondering what he thought about her illness. Serena had told her that Jonathan had been surprised Max hadn’t known about the malaria, but they understood why Olivia hadn’t told him.

Would he avoid her now?

“Lord Hasley, yes. He’s quite worried about you, the gentlemen say.”

Olivia sighed, allowing her eyelids to sink shut again.
Max.
She’d dreamed about him during the height of the fever last night. A strange dream that kept repeating itself, about being in his arms while he carried her over water, running at top speed.

What was she supposed to think of that? Was her dream telling her that Max walked on water? She might have laughed, but it hurt too much to laugh right now.

“So I assume this means you want him to visit you.”

“I’d like it very much,” Olivia murmured. “But… will he come?”

“Oh, I think so.”

“And would anyone think anything of it? If he comes to see me, I shouldn’t want Jonathan and the others to think it means more than it does…”

Jessica’s brows rose nearly to her hairline. “Goodness, Liv. What do
you
think it means?”