Secrets of an Accidental Duchess (25 page)

In any case, it didn’t make sense. Why send her all those letters from London if he was finished with her? Why bother to invite her to the theater if he didn’t intend to show?

In the end, she still trusted in all the time she and Max had spent together. It couldn’t all have been a lie. When she closed her eyes, she could see that look of sweet tenderness in Max’s eyes when he’d touched her. How could that possibly have been counterfeit? She couldn’t believe it.

And yet, the evidence was there, staring her in the face. He was ignoring her.

She was so confused. She’d never felt this way before, and right now more than she’d ever thought possible, she longed for her sisters. They would help her to understand Max’s behavior. But Serena and Phoebe were far away in Sussex, and Jessica was even farther, in Lancashire with Lady Fenwicke.

And Olivia had promised to stay in London with Lady Stratford, at least for a few weeks. It wasn’t that she disliked Lady Stratford—on the contrary, she grew to like the sweet older woman more every day. She’d seemed a bit of a flibbertigibbet in Sussex, but in London she’d honed in on Olivia’s exact feelings, and, more important, she was sympathetic rather than judgmental.

Intermission came, and Olivia rose from her richly upholstered chair to stretch her legs. Several ladies came in to speak with Lady Stratford, and Olivia stood there awkwardly, smiling at the older ladies when spoken to but otherwise staying quiet.

One of them, Lady Bright, was about Lady Stratford’s age but possessed none of her kind features. Lady Bright had thin lips, a sharp nose, and narrowed eyes, and she seemed to look at the world as though she were searching for fault with it.

She leaned forward, her lips moving just above the top edge of her fan. “Have you heard the latest, Lady Stratford?”

“The latest? Why… no, I don’t believe so.”

Lady Bright’s eyes lit up—it was moments like this that ladies of the
ton
lived for, Olivia realized.

“Do you know the new Duke of Wakefield?”

Lady Stratford’s eyes flicked toward Olivia then away—quickly enough so that no one except Olivia noticed. Olivia lowered her gaze to the red carpet.

Another lady elbowed Lady Bright in the ribs. “Of course she must know the duke. He was at your son’s house party this autumn, Lady Stratford, wasn’t he?”

“Why yes, he was.”

Olivia tried to stand very still, to not give herself away.
Truthfully, she wasn’t sure if she could endure gossip about Max right now. Especially if it had anything to do with his private life.

“Well”—Lady Bright paused significantly—“he’s gone missing.”

At first Olivia’s mind didn’t register what the woman had said. Then she stopped breathing.
Gone missing?

“Missing?” Lady Stratford repeated. “Why, what on earth do you mean?”

“I mean that he went out to his club—two nights ago?” She looked at one of the other ladies, who nodded in confirmation. “And he never returned home, though he’d informed his staff he’d return later in the evening.” Lady Bright laughed. “Of course, a young duke given to carousing might have spent a night away, but after two nights with no contact with anyone in his household, his valet officially raised the alarm. Absolutely no one has seen him. The authorities are speculating that he was abducted or possibly… murdered by footpads.”

Olivia gasped, and all the ladies turned to her.

Lady Stratford wrenched their attention back to her with a loud exclamation. “But how can that be? Wasn’t someone with him?”

“He left his club alone,” Lady Bright said.

“But surely someone must know something. Did anyone see him disappear?”

“It is a great mystery. No one knows a thing. By tomorrow morning, I’m certain it’ll be the talk of London.”

“I’m so sorry…. please excuse me.” Olivia mumbled something about going out for some air.

“I’ll join you,” Lady Stratford said in her kindly voice.

“No, no.” She attempted a smile. All she really
wanted—needed—was to be alone. “I’ll return shortly, my lady.”

The dowager seemed to understand the pleading in Olivia’s expression, for she acquiesced. “Be back soon, dear. The play is going to start in a few minutes.”

Clutching her reticule to her chest, Olivia slipped out into the corridor, breathing heavily, looking this way and that.

Max. Missing. Murdered?

No, no, no…
She walked blindly, pushing through the crowd. They all looked the same to her, closing in on her, surrounding her. She did need fresh air. The stale air inside the theater was choking her. Stifling her.

She hurried down flights of richly carpeted stairs, brushing past people going down, dodging people coming up. In the gilded saloon, she turned wildly, searching for the exit, her heart feeling like it was going to pound right out of her chest. And then she found one of the doors leading outside.

She burst out under the portico and took several gulping breaths of fresh air. She hurried to the corner and turned down the street edging the side of the theater—there were fewer people to witness her odd behavior on this narrow street—and sagged against the outside wall of the theater behind one of the columns.

She sank her face into her hands.

Max wasn’t ignoring her at all. It was far worse. He was
missing.
He could be… dead.

She shook uncontrollably. Her fingers grew wet from tears.

“Miss Donovan?”

Startled, she jerked her face out of her hands. The man
standing across from her didn’t seem to see the tears flowing down her face, but that didn’t surprise her. This was a man who beat his wife—and poor Lady Fenwicke had shed many a tear without affecting him in the least.

Olivia’s distress transformed instantly into fear. Lord Fenwicke was a dangerous man, and she was alone, outside, at night, on a nearly deserted street.

Fenwicke smiled at her, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Why, it’s so lovely to see you again. I understand you’ve spent the past several months in Sussex with your sisters.”

“Yes… that’s right,” she murmured.

He nodded. “What brought you back to London? And at this time of year?”

“I’ve…” She swallowed hard. She would be polite and then she’d escape from this man’s company as quickly as possible. “I’ve come with the dowager countess.” She began to sidle along the edge of the wall, her only means of escape since he was standing directly in front of her and the wall was behind her. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I should be returning to the performance.”

But as she stepped away, he grasped her wrist. “Wait, Miss Donovan.”

She looked desperately toward the front doors. People were heading back inside en masse now, but nobody was looking in their direction.

“I’m sorry, my lord, but I really should be—”

“I believe we have some unfinished business.”

“Unfinished—?”

“I think you should come with me.”

He gripped her arm hard and yanked her to the back corner of the building to the lane where the mews were located.

“Lord Fenwicke!” she managed as she stumbled along, trying to keep her footing while twisting her arm to loosen his hold on her. “Let go of me!”

Her efforts were useless. He wrapped an arm around her waist and lifted her until only her toes were dragging on the pavement. “Hush,” he commanded her. “I have ways to silence you, Olivia, and I’m sure you’ll agree it’s best if I don’t use them.”

Goodness, he’d called her by her given name. “Ways? What do you mean—?”

He slapped her, a blow that made her head snap back and stars swim in her vision.

“Ways like that,” he said pleasantly. “And that was just the beginning. The first of many.”

They passed a few vehicles waiting quietly for theater patrons to exit. Without releasing her, Fenwicke opened the door of a black, elegant carriage. “Get inside.”

“No, I—”

He lifted her by the waist and shoved her inside the carriage. She landed in a heap, half on the front-facing seat and half on the floor. He came in behind her, pushed her aside to make room for himself, slammed the door behind him, then used his knuckles to rap on the ceiling.

The carriage lurched into movement as Olivia cowered in the corner, as far away from Lord Fenwicke as she could possibly get. She held her hand to her smarting cheek and glared at him. “What are you doing, Lord Fenwicke?”

“Taking you to my home.”

She struggled to choke down the enormous lump of fear rising in her throat. “Why? What do you want from me?”

With that, he broke into a real smile. “Oh, Olivia. Don’t you remember? I want you.” His eyes raked up and down her body. “
All
of you.”

The fear hardened into anger.
You’ll never have me,
she thought. But as much as she wanted to say it, to spit it at him, her throat closed, refusing to allow the words to emerge.

It was probably for the best. Let him think her a frightened weakling. She
was
frightened—more than she’d ever been in her life. But everyone underestimated her. She’d always known she was stronger than people assumed, but in the past several months, ever since she’d met Max, she’d grown even stronger.

Fenwicke settled back against the cushion and folded his hands in his lap. As if he were alone in the carriage, he faced forward and ignored her cowering on the floor.

The door handle was pressing into her back. Ever so slowly, she reached behind her. She might be able to escape, but she’d have to be quick. Open the door and fly out before he could catch her, not worrying about how she might hurt herself when she landed.

She took her time, thinking they were most likely headed toward Mayfair—she was fairly certain his house was located there. The closer they were to Mayfair, the more likely it would be that she’d know someone close by. She’d run to the safety of the closest house….

Her thoughts spinning, she kept edging her hand higher up the door until her fingers brushed the handle. She took a long, slow breath, and as soon as the carriage slowed at the next turn, she grabbed the handle and turned it, simultaneously thrusting open the door and throwing her body out of the carriage.

Lord Fenwicke was faster than she ever would have imagined. When half her body was free of the carriage, he hooked one arm about her waist, dragged her back inside, and grabbed the open door and slammed it shut.

He thumped back onto the seat. She felt his hard, bony legs beneath her bottom, and she realized he’d pulled her onto his lap. She writhed, trying to get away from him, from his touch, but his arm looped around her in an iron grip.

“Let me go!” she cried.

“And allow you to throw yourself out of my carriage?” He didn’t seem angry. Only mildly amused, which scared her even more. “Of course I won’t. Sweetheart.”

She froze at his use of the endearment Max always used for her. Terror scurried over her skin like a thousand ants. She stared at him, absolutely still only because she couldn’t move.

He pushed a finger to the tip of her nose, as if he were a friendly papa tweaking the nose of a child. “That calmed you down, didn’t it? You liked that, didn’t you, sweetheart?”

She’d begun to shake all over. She was an autumn leaf trembling in a windstorm, fighting to stay connected to the branch.

Don’t fall apart, Olivia. Fight!

But she couldn’t move. His arm squeezed around her even more tightly, and he leaned down, pushing his nose into her hair, and nuzzled her ear. Her eyes closed in utter horror. She’d never be able to wash his touch off.

“You smell so sweet, Olivia. So sweet and fresh and delicious. Wakefield might have soiled you, and, knowing that, most men wouldn’t give you a second chance. But
I will, Olivia. I’ll still have you… because even though you’re ruined, I still want you.”

How on earth did he know about her and Max? What was this about? Had Max told him about their liaison? Surely he wouldn’t do such a thing!

She couldn’t bear his touch a second longer. She lurched into battle, kicking and scratching and flailing out at him. Something caught on her skirt and she heard the screech as the expensive silk tore, but she ignored it. She couldn’t abide him touching her.

She scored his cheek with her nails, and he caught her wrist, wrenching her arm away with a curse. “Damn you, you little witch. Stop it!”

But she didn’t stop. Not until she was beneath him, pinned down on the seat, his heavy weight resting on her body, so heavy she had to gasp for air. He held both of her wrists in one hand. “Stupid little slut,” he hissed down at her. “I’m bleeding!”

He was, and she was glad for it. Three parallel lines of red slashed across his cheek where she’d scratched him.

He patted his oily dark hair, and then he lowered his hand to her neck, applying enough pressure to make her cough.

“Pay attention.” The sharp edge in his words carried a promise of violence. The smell of pomade and wax washed over her. He applied more pressure to her throat until she was choking, trying to breathe, failing. Panic swarmed over her, crushing and powerful.

“I can kill you,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice. “Easily.”

And she knew he could.

“But not yet.” He eased the pressure. “I want to see the look on your face when I take you first. I want to hear you
admit that I’m better than Maxwell Buchanan will ever be.” He looked up at the carriage window, and his voice lightened. “Ah, we’re home.”

Home. Lord Fenwicke’s home. It was somewhere in Mayfair, though she had no idea of its exact location. Still, if she could get onto the street, she’d be able to make her way to Lady Stratford’s town house or her aunt Geraldine’s house.

Lord Fenwicke was smiling down at her. “Won’t you come inside?”

He was truly, utterly mad. Her panic had receded a little with his grip on her throat, and now he pulled away from her, reaching out his hand to help her up. She didn’t take it. Instead, she held her neck and took in great, gulping breaths of the fresh, cold night air.

He watched her for a few moments, then slipped out of the carriage, straightening his coat and once again reaching forward to help her down. As if he were a gentleman.