Secrets of an Accidental Duchess (19 page)

Unfortunately, Max had no choice but to remain in London through the winter. His uncle had died a fortnight ago and had left what seemed like endless work for Max. If Max hadn’t felt some pride for his title, some need to do right by it, he would have said let the whole thing rot and he would have gone back to Sussex and to Olivia.

But he couldn’t do that. This was out of respect for his cousins, who would have been Duke of Wakefield before him. Who would have been better dukes than he. He couldn’t let them down.

So he performed his duty to the best of his ability. His uncle had been bitter and cold to the last, but he’d nevertheless done as he’d promised and given Max a brief education in his personal affairs before he’d died. Despite his
lingering dislike for the man, Max had given his uncle the funeral and mourning he’d requested and which his title warranted. And he hoped that the old duke was with his wife and children now, his cruel, sad life and all his bitterness forgotten.

Max managed his uncle’s affairs, replied to official correspondence, met with political leaders, and tended to the ducal properties that had begun to fall into disrepair with his uncle’s illness. He buried himself in the massive amount of work to be done during his transition to the title, but he thought about Olivia every day. He wrote to her, and when he found a letter from her within the piles he received, he always opened it first.

He missed her. Dreadfully. An idea had begun to form in his mind, and as the days and weeks went by and it took shape, he slowly let go of his long-standing plan never to marry. Olivia had proved to him that Max wasn’t his father and would never become anything like his father. With Olivia, thoughts of betrayal or violence never surfaced within Max. He was, simply, devoted to her. He always would be.

And a duke needed a duchess, after all.

As the days went by, he formed a new plan. He’d continue to court her, and when spring came, he’d make the courtship official. He hoped he’d be able to convince her family to allow her to come to London while he sat in the Lords this spring. He’d be proper about it. God forbid he brought any scandal to his future wife’s door.

He was a patient man, and he’d take the time to court her properly. He admitted to himself that he’d enjoy a spring and summer with her on his arm, presenting her beauty, grace, and goodness to all of London.

When summer came, he’d take her somewhere beautiful—somewhere he’d yet to find—and he’d walk with her. He imagined blooming summer flowers all around them, their heady fragrance surrounding them, the soft drone of insects in the air.

There, he’d go down on one knee and ask her to be his wife. He’d fantasized about the moment often—too often, perhaps. But thoughts of Olivia, of Olivia as
his,
had become his only peace in the near-frantic busyness of his new life.

Sighing, he laid down his pen. Pressing his fingertips to his throbbing temples, he looked up at the old clock on his uncle’s—now his—mantel. Hell. It was late, and Max couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. When a footman had inquired about dinner earlier, Max had just waved him away.

Now, though, his stomach was protesting that decision. Loudly.

Fortunately, the seventeenth-century London town house he’d inherited was only a few streets away from White’s, and the thought of food was enough to drive him outside into the chill of the January night.

He walked briskly through the crunchy snow, his head bent against the cold, and arrived at the club in a few minutes. After handing his hat, gloves, and overcoat to the porter, he went upstairs to the dining room for a late hot supper. When he’d finished the meal and his belly was comfortably full, he retired to the club room.

As soon as he’d taken a glass of port and sat in a sumptuously upholstered chair near the fire, he heard a low voice, slurred with drink.

“Your Grace.”

He looked up to see the person he least wanted to see in this world: the Marquis of Fenwicke.

He gave a sharp nod as the man sank into the seat opposite him. “Fenwicke.”

Fenwicke sighed. As Max observed him more closely, he saw that the man looked quite strained and white-lipped.

“Alas,” Fenwicke said bitterly, “you’ve won.”

“I’ve… won?”

“Doubly.”

Max had no damned idea what the man was talking about. He swallowed the last of the port, set it on the side table, and prepared to rise. But Fenwicke’s next words froze him.

“Not only have you arisen to the dukedom before me, but you’ve succeeded in bringing Olivia Donovan to your bed.”

Max pressed his lips together. His fingers curled unchecked, but he braced his legs, stopping himself from lunging up and wringing the man’s neck. Instead, he asked through clenched teeth, “What, pray, gives you that idea?”

“Well, it’s been all over the papers. The old Duke of Wakefield died—”

“Not that,” Max snapped. “You know I’m not talking about that.” He glanced to the left and right. Damn it—they were surrounded by gentlemen and servants, all of whom pretended to go about their business and not hear a word, but surely someone had heard. Surely someone was listening. Max would be damned if he’d allow Olivia’s name to be slurred in public.

Fenwicke chuckled, but the sound held no humor. “Oh, I know. You do recall that we made a wager, do you not?”

Max ground his teeth. So much had happened, so much had changed, that he’d all but forgotten about that stupid wager.

“Well, I couldn’t trust only my opponent’s word, could I?” Fenwicke shrugged. “I employed someone to watch you.”

“At Stratford’s house?” Max gritted out. At his sides, Max’s fists curled and uncurled.

“Indeed,” Fenwicke said. “Now, then—you can see what an honest man I am. You have, indeed, gone even farther than you said you would with our Miss Donovan. You seduced her. Thoroughly. Many times.”

Max shook with fury. He’d never been so angry in his life. Red spots fringed his vision. To think that someone had been watching, someone had invaded his time with Olivia, had sullied what they had together—

He was going to kill Fenwicke.

He lunged out of his chair, grabbed Fenwicke by the cravat, balled his fist tightly, and swung a punch at the man’s astonished face. Fenwicke’s face snapped back, and Max dropped him, already pulling his fist back for another punch. His lip curled. “You bloody bastard.”

He swung, but someone grabbed his arm. Well, that was no problem. He wasn’t left-handed, but he’d learned long ago how to use his left fist as a weapon. He threw a left-handed hook at Fenwicke, but before his fist reached its target, his arm was yanked backward. People shouted at him, but he didn’t give a damn what they were saying. He yanked out of their grasp, only to be caught again. “Damn it,” he roared, struggling to get at Fenwicke. “Let me go!”

“Calm down, man!”

He recognized the voice: Captain William Langley,
his fellow guest at Stratford’s house. Langley had come to London for the winter to manage his fledgling shipping company.

He’d be an ally. He knew Olivia, knew her loveliness, her sweetness. Max was certain that he would defend her.

Fenwicke was flanked by two men—friends, obviously, because they were puffing their chests at Max as if they expected him to fear them—and holding his hand to his face. A thin line of blood was dripping from his left nostril.
Good.

Max’s lip curled, and he narrowed his eyes at Fenwicke. “You will pay for those words. No one speaks of her like that. No one.”

“Damn uncalled-for response, if you ask me,” Fenwicke spat at him. “You won the dukedom,
Your Grace.
You won the woman.”

“I don’t care about the damned bet.”

“Bets. That’s plural. Don’t you remember our youthful bet that I’d be in possession of the title before you?”

“I don’t care about any wager I made with you!” Max roared.

“Your uncle has died. You had your host’s sister-in-law in your bed again and again—”

Max struggled to get to Fenwicke, to shut him up once and for all. But many hands held him back.

“Enough,” Langley growled, growing red in the face.

“I’m supposed to prance about Town in my shirtsleeves for a full day. If you’ll recall, those were the terms of the first bet we made many years ago. And then there’s the matter of the thousand guineas I owe you for the second.” Fenwick’s reptilian eyes slid from Max to Langley and back.

“I don’t give a damn about the deuced thousand guineas,” Max bit out. And he damn well didn’t care how Fenwicke decided to prance about Town.

“Of course you don’t,
duke,
” Fenwicke sneered. “Now that you’re the Duke of Wakefield, it’s a mere pittance, I’m sure. But you’ll have both your payments. The shirtsleeves tomorrow, though I daresay I’ll be frozen solid before dusk. And the thousand…” he hesitated, his glance sliding over the assembled crowd, “soon.”

That came as no surprise. It had been long rumored that Fenwicke had already spent his own fortune on women and gambling, and his father had cut off his funds long ago.

A low murmur sounded from the crowd at Fenwicke’s last declaration. Hearing it, Fenwicke dropped his hand to his coat and straightened it. Max shook himself out of the grip of his captors. The moment of attack was over. At least there was some swelling on the man’s cheek. Max hoped he’d sport an ugly black eye for the rest of the month. It would serve the bastard right.

“I shall take my leave, then. Good night.” With a short, clumsy bow, Fenwicke turned around and strode away, his drunkenness obvious by the way he weaved through the crowd.

Slowly, the assembled people drifted off, some after having clapped Max on the back and commiserating with him about the marquis’s inappropriate drunken behavior. Finally, the only man left was Langley, who was gazing at him in narrow-eyed contemplation.

“More port?” Langley asked as a servant passed behind him, carrying a tray of full glasses.

“Please.”

Langley took two glasses from the tray and gestured
with his chin to the seats where Max and Fenwicke had been sitting. “There are a few things I believe we must discuss.”

Max sighed. This was exactly what he had least wanted to happen: the details of his relationship with Olivia Donovan becoming public knowledge.

He took the glass and lowered himself into the open seat. “What is it, Langley?” he asked tiredly. He wanted to get away from this place and these people. A trip to Sussex and to Olivia would be ideal, but he’d have to do with his lonely town house.

“What’s this about a bet between you and Fenwicke regarding Miss Donovan?”

“It was a moment of stupidity, one that I’d gladly take back.”

“What did you bet?”

Max closed his eyes as his stomach churned. “I bet Fenwicke that she’d succumb to my charms before she succumbed to his.”

God, if only he could take back that idiotic bet!

He opened his eyes to find Langley giving him such a frigid stare that it would certainly eviscerate him if looks had the ability to kill.

“It was before I knew her,” Max said quietly. “It was before I knew any of the Donovan sisters. I promise you, I dismissed the damned bet the moment I made their acquaintance. The Donovans are special, Langley. Especially Olivia. I’d never willingly cause them hurt or embarrassment.”

“Looks like you’ve failed there,” Langley said coldly.

“I’m sorry for that. I could kill Fenwicke for that.”

“How will you make it up to her, Wakefield?”

Max sighed. “My intentions toward Olivia are purely respectable, I assure you.”

“Really?” Langley sipped at his port, watching him over the rim. “What Fenwicke was describing didn’t sound in the least respectable.”

“Fenwicke is an ass,” Max said shortly.

Langley nodded. “True enough. So what are those respectable intentions?”

This was another secret he would have preferred to keep to himself. God, how he hated Fenwicke for what he’d done tonight. There would be consequences, none of which Max could predict. He knew they’d be the subject of gossip, but of what sort he wasn’t certain. He had never been much interested in gossip and scandal, and he didn’t know exactly how either operated.

“I plan to ask Stratford for permission to court her this spring,” he answered Langley. “And in the summer, I intend to propose marriage.”

Langley’s dark brows rose. “You are aware that Miss Donovan has no connections? Her family isn’t old—”

“I know nothing about her family, nor do I care.”

“That’s short-sighted, Wakefield. Have you forgotten your new position?”

Max snorted. As if he could ever forget it. Even if he did, it seemed there was always a person nearby who’d remind him every few moments. “No, I haven’t. Trust me, I won’t be the first duke in England’s history to marry a commoner.”

Surprising Max, Langley’s lips cracked into a rare smile. “Well, I can’t say I’m not pleased. I fear that any other answers you would have given me tonight would likely have led to a suggestion of pistols at dawn.”

“So you’ve found satisfaction without any violence?” Max asked.

“Not satisfaction, exactly. I can’t believe you made
such a wager with Fenwicke—the fact that you did so certainly calls your character into question.”

Max couldn’t blame Langley for feeling that way.

“I’ll be watching you, Wakefield. If you don’t propose to Miss Donovan by the end of summer, you’ll have me to answer to.”

Max raised a brow. Why was this man so invested in the Donovan sisters? “Tell me, Langley, what is the exact nature of your relationship with the Donovans?”

Langley smiled grimly. “You may recall I was once engaged to the countess.”

Max shrugged. “I knew vaguely of it, but gossip of that sort doesn’t interest me.” He took a sip of his port. “What happened?”

“She fell in love with Stratford,” Langley said simply.

“And yet you’re good friends with them both. Good enough to duel for their sister’s honor.”

Langley chuckled softly. “It’s a long and sordid story, Wakefield. If you do end up marrying Miss Donovan, perhaps you will hear it sometime. But for now, suffice it to say… the countess and I have become friends. Stratford and I remain friends. It’s all that matters now.”