Secrets of an Accidental Duchess (14 page)

It had been a hell of a day. It had started out fair enough despite the weather. He’d hoped he’d spend the afternoon walking with Olivia, but the weather had not cooperated.

Perhaps it was for the best. Olivia wouldn’t have wanted to have been away when her sister collapsed.

Still, the look of terror on Stratford’s face. The looks of fear on the sisters’ faces. The countess was much-loved. And even though she was out of danger, she’d lost a child, and the tragedy of that had shaken the household. Even Langley, the most sober and even-tempered fellow Max had ever known, had been affected. At one point, Max had glanced over at him and seen tears glistening in his eyes.

Something creaked just outside his door, and Max frowned. It was usually dead quiet in this wing of the house. He didn’t mind that. He had slept like a baby since coming to Sussex, and that was part of the reason. The other reasons had to do with how much he’d been enjoying himself here.

Creak.
There it was again. Max slipped out of bed, pulled on the pair of loose trousers he’d slung over a nearby chair, and crept toward the door. When he reached it, he pressed his ear against it, listening intently.

Silence.

He grasped the handle and yanked the door open, his other hand curled into a fist, prepared to slam into the intruder’s gut, if necessary.

She had just been turning away, but at the sound of the opening door, she froze. Slowly, she turned to face him.

Olivia.
His hand opened at his side.

She didn’t speak. Neither did he—he was too surprised.

Finally, she whispered, “You’re naked.”

He looked down at himself, confirming that he was indeed wearing trousers. He hadn’t dreamed he’d pulled them on. He gestured at his legs. “No I’m not.”

Her lips tilted in a wry smile. “Sorry to disturb you.”
She gestured weakly down the corridor in the general direction of the opposite wing, where her bedchamber was located. “I’ll—I should be going now. Good night.”

“Wait.” His voice sounded harsh, and she took a step back.

“I mean… I’m happy you came. Thanks for coming.” He shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep.”

She seemed to relax a little. “Neither could I.”

He opened the door wider. “Will you come in?”

Blanching, she gazed into the room as if she were looking into a cavern of danger and malice. He laughed softly. “My bedchamber won’t bite. I promise.”

She jerked her gaze to him.

“And neither will I.”

“Are you… Are you sure?”

He nodded. “I’m quite certain.”

“All right, then.” Taking a deep breath, she threw her body into his room as if she were plunging into an ocean teeming with sharks.

Amused, he closed the door behind her and then leaned back on it, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I take it you’ve never been in a man’s bedchamber before.”

Pressing her lips together, she shook her head back and forth slowly.

“Ah.” He raised his brows. “Well, it’s been several seconds and I haven’t ripped your clothes off and ravished you yet.”

“Max!” she choked, her eyes widening.

He laughed and gestured to one of the chairs. The room was large, meant to be a full apartment rather than just a guest bedchamber. “Sit down. I’ll stoke the fire.”

Like an automaton, she walked toward the chair and bent her body into it. He lowered himself in front of the hearth. When the fire was going, he rose and turned toward her. Her face glowed with a pearly sheen in the firelight.

“You’re so pretty,” he murmured.

She was. Slender and elegant, so small that the richly upholstered chair dwarfed her. Her complexion was so smooth and pale, and her blue eyes…

He closed his own eyes. As much as he’d like to, he wouldn’t tear those wispy clothes away and jump on top of her like some hairy barbarian. She deserved far more than that. She deserved respect; to be sheltered, cradled, and protected. Worshipped.

He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, turning his head to find her watching him.

“I’m sorry to disturb you. I was just—” She hesitated, and sadness washed over her expression. “I’m sorry,” she repeated in a low voice. “I was… lonely.”

He understood. All three sisters had felt the countess’s tragedy deeply.

“I’m so sorry for your sister’s loss.”

She gave him a bleak look. “Me, too.”

He sank into the chair beside hers, reached out and took her hand. They sat in silence, both of them gazing at the flickering flames of the fire. He held her delicate hand in his own, trying to somehow pass comfort into her.

“Tell me about you,” she murmured after several minutes.

“Me?”

“Yes. I want to know more about you. We’re always talking about me. I don’t know enough about you.”

Max hesitated, then rose abruptly. “I need a drink. Would you like one?”

Olivia glanced around. “I suppose so, but are you going downstairs?”

“No. I have a bottle of wine.” He went to his bureau, opened the cabinet, and pulled out the bottle he’d stored there, holding it up for her approval.

“Oh,” she murmured. “All right, then.”

He withdrew a glass, uncorked the wine, and poured. Returning to his seat, he handed her the glass.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“But what about you?”

He shrugged. “I only have one glass. We’ll have to share.”

She took a sip, staring at him over the rim with that clear, direct gaze of hers. “So are you avoiding my request deliberately?”

“Your request?”

She handed the glass back to him. “To tell me more about yourself.”

“Ah. That.” He took a hearty swallow of wine. “Perhaps I am.”

She nodded but didn’t take her gaze off him. “If it makes you uncomfortable, Max, you needn’t speak of it.”

All of a sudden, and quite surprisingly, he did want to tell her about those things he usually tried to shove out of his thoughts, out of his life. All those memories he never spoke of to anyone.

He took another deep swallow, draining the glass. He rose and went to refill it. She watched him in silence.

How was it that she knew how to get to him? How to insinuate herself under his skin so permanently that he
felt her even when she wasn’t in the same room as him? How did she know the right words to say, the right expressions to make, to affect him in this way?

When he returned to his chair, he smiled at her. “I will tell you anything you want to hear. But talking about myself is something I generally try to avoid.”

“I understand.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Do you have brothers and sisters?”

He would have… if—

“No,” he said.

She hesitated before asking, “Will you tell me about your parents?”

“They’re dead.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said softly. “What were they like? Do you remember them?”

Good God. This was harder than he’d thought it would be. He looked down at the dark liquid in the glass. “My mother was…” He swallowed hard. “She was very beautiful. She died when I was ten years old.”

“Oh no. That must be so difficult for a young boy.” Reaching over, she covered his hand with hers. “I lost my father when I was nine.”

Max nodded.

“How did she die?”

“I don’t know… exactly.” But he did, didn’t he? “It was my father.” His voice was low and scratchy. “He… killed her.”

The color drained from her cheeks, and her hand tightened over his

“I don’t mean… Well, it was nothing overt. He didn’t pull out a pistol and shoot her. But he was cruel to her in
many other ways, sometimes subtle, sometimes not. I’d watched her since I was a very small boy. Saw how his actions affected her, how she carried his bruises inside and out. How those bruises grew and festered, and eventually killed her. Even though I didn’t really understand it at the time, I do now.”

“Oh, Max,” she whispered.

He looked from the red liquid he was swirling in the glass to her face. Tears welled in her eyes. “Olivia.” His voice was gruff. “Don’t cry. Please.”

She blinked hard, and for a moment, her hand left his while she swiped at her eyes. “I’m sorry. Ignore me.”

It was that thing about her, her innate caring and empathy, that made something inside him swell to near bursting. Hell, she’d never even met his mother, and yet here she was, feeling so intensely for her.

She replaced her damp hand over his. He looked down at the slender, pale fingers and his too-big, blunt-tipped, darker fingers beneath them.

He reached up with his thumb and stroked the smooth, warm flesh of her hand.

“My father never loved my mother in the way she deserved to be loved,” he said. “After I was born, she lost a few other babies, and he blamed her for it, even though each loss devastated her. He began to ignore her, to hardly spend any time at our home in the country. Whenever he was at home…” Max hesitated, remembering how he’d been hiding in his mother’s room once and had watched, terrified, as his father beat her. “He behaved quite brutally toward her. And the women.” With a soft groan, he thrust his free hand through his hair. “My father flaunted them. He was… cruel about it.”

Max spied that the wine glass was empty. He reached for it. “More?”

Pressing her lips together, she nodded and handed it to him. “Yes, please.”

He poured the wine and returned. She gave the glass a baleful look as he gave it to her. “Perhaps you should have just brought the entire bottle.”

That made him smile. “Probably.”

“What happened to your father?” she asked as he took his seat.

“He died a few years after she did. My father and his brother—my uncle—had a very close but very competitive relationship. Both of them were fascinated by newfangled devices and the newest inventions, and they bought them all and showed them off to each other incessantly. They shared many of their new toys and trinkets—in fact they shared just about everything except the title. My uncle had the dukedom all to himself, and my father never forgave him for that. He was consumed by jealousy. In the end, I believe his own bitterness killed him.”

He passed the glass of wine to her. “Thank you for telling me about your parents, Max. It explains…” She hesitated.

He frowned. “What does it explain?”

“Well… I think it accounts for how gallant and protective you are. You’re a champion of ladies now, because you couldn’t be one for your mother when you were a boy.”

His frown deepened. “I don’t know. I’ve never been a particularly successful champion of anyone.” His gaze met hers. “In fact, in most circles, I’m known as a rake and a seducer of women.”

She shook her head soberly. “You might have earned
that reputation at one time, but I’ve met at least one rake, and you’re nothing like him. You’ve been nothing but a champion of me.”

“Are you sure?”

He noticed she’d not responded to his reputation as a seducer of women. Could she predict his intentions? Because, damn it, she was in his bedchamber in the middle of the night. Why had she come, unless she wanted something more from him as well? No matter what her intentions were, he couldn’t guarantee he wouldn’t be doing any seducing tonight.

Her hand, which she’d replaced over his the moment he’d sat down, tightened, squeezing his fingers. “Every word you tell me has been either support or encouragement. I admit to not knowing many men”—she bent her head shyly—“but from what I witnessed during my brief time in London, very few were like you. They analyzed my looks and were either dismissive or flattering based on their assessment of my external attributes. They didn’t seem to care what came out of my mouth, as long as whatever it was that I said didn’t emerge as overly insightful.”

Max chuckled, then sobered. “I’ve been known to be that way, too,” he said. “Just… well, just not with you.”

She gave him a soft smile. “And my illness… it didn’t scare you away like it does others. You even…” That pink tinge he loved to see returned to her cheeks. “Well, you even kissed me when I was recovering when most everyone, save the closest members of my family, tends to stay as far away from me as possible.”

“Why? I can’t contract malaria from you.”

“I don’t know why. Sickness doesn’t appeal to anyone, I suppose.”

“Well, it certainly
doesn’t
appeal to me,” he said. “I don’t like that it hurts you. But that isn’t any fault of yours.”

He was shocked that the malaria could lessen anyone’s regard for Olivia. Yet, thinking of his peers, he could imagine how some of them might distance themselves from something like that.

He leaned closer to her. “When I look at you, Olivia, I don’t see a sick person…. I didn’t see that even when you were in bed after the fever. I see only a woman.” A beautiful, honest, serene woman. “A woman different from any woman I’ve ever known. You say you’re different because of how you grew up in Antigua, yet you’re different from your sisters, too.”

“Well, unlike my sisters and their friends, I kept indoors most of the time. I rarely went outside, rarely associated with anyone but my family. I suppose that fashioned me into a different sort of person than I might have been otherwise.”

The thought of Olivia’s free spirit trapped inside for so many years made him ache. “But I imagine you didn’t want to stay indoors.”

“No, but I had no choice. Long ago, the doctors convinced my mother that if I went out, the resulting fever might kill me.”

“So you were her prisoner.”

Olivia laughed softly. “That’s one way of putting it.” She rose and reached for the glass. “I’ll fetch some more wine.”

He shook his head, instead taking the glass from her and setting it on the small table beside his chair. He reached for her hand, and when she took it, he tugged her toward him.

“Sit with me,” he murmured.

She stumbled a little, then sat in an awkward position on his lap. He reached around her and settled her more comfortably against him.

He bent his head into the crook of her neck and breathed her in. So sweet. All freshness and flowers. She was warm but light on his lap. She was so tiny, she made him feel like a giant. He wondered if it had come naturally that she was the tiniest of her sisters or whether the malaria had prevented her from growing as tall as they were. It didn’t matter. Her size suited him perfectly.