Secrets of an Accidental Duchess (28 page)

“No, Olivia—” He continued trying to speak, but she didn’t understand the words through the gag. She did understand Fenwicke’s, however.

“And…” Fenwicke held up his hands. “He succeeded entirely. In fact, he informs me that he took you to bed more than once… perhaps… a dozen times?”

A slow burn began to crawl across Olivia’s face. Her ears felt like they were on fire. Still, she didn’t move.

He tilted his head at her, his eyes dark with what he pretended was sympathy but was probably something more like glee at imparting this devastating information to her… and in front of Max.

No, it was not devastating. It was complete nonsense. She glanced at Max again, searching for verification that Fenwicke was lying, but the expression of utter defeat on his face made panic flood into her gut, sickening and overwhelming.

It had to be a lie. It simply couldn’t be true! If it was…

Olivia shoved away the panic. She simply wouldn’t believe Fenwicke. She had no reason to believe him… even though he somehow knew about the number of times she’d met with Max in his bedchamber.
How?
Surely Max wouldn’t have told him all this.

And Max couldn’t defend himself right now—not with the gag. She couldn’t condemn him based on Fenwicke’s words and the look on his face!

“After the duke succeeded thoroughly with you and was called back to London on account of his uncle’s impending death, he came to me. He told me of his conquest of you. I, naturally, conceded the win to him.” Fenwicke leaned toward her, clasping his hands together in front of him as if in prayer. “But I thought you should know the lengths a bored London aristocrat will go to for a little fun, Olivia. You’re an innocent miss, sheltered from the hard reality of the
ton.
You were a simple target for a man like Wakefield. You probably believed every bit of flattery he whispered at you.” Fenwicke shook his head sadly. “Poor dear.”

“You’re lying,” Olivia gritted out.

“No, my dear. I’m not.”

She blinked hard against her stinging eyes. “Well, I don’t believe you.”

She gazed at Max, pleading with him to assure her somehow that none of this was true. But all he did was give Fenwicke such a look of hatred, it sent an icy shudder through her body.

She turned back to Fenwicke. “If you think I’d believe your word over His Grace’s, my lord, you are sorely mistaken.” She gestured at Max. “And I’m even more convinced that you are lying since you aren’t giving His Grace the opportunity to defend himself.”

Fenwicke sighed. “He’s prone to ranting when I take off his muzzle. It tends to give splitting headaches to anyone in his proximity. I decided to save you the trouble, my dear. In any case, of course I don’t expect you to believe my word over his. You fancy yourself in love with the man, after all.” He gave a small grimace. “I’ve encountered ladies who thought they were in love before, who’ve lost all sense. However…” He reached into a pocket sewn on the inside of his coat. “… I have proof.”

He pulled out a folded piece of stationery. “You see, I’m a careful gambler. I wrote down the details of the wager, and both of us signed it before he left London. As you will see for yourself.”

He held out the paper to Olivia, and as she took it from him, she heard Max give a muffled curse from behind his gag.

Lord Fenwicke bets Lord Hasley a thousand guineas that he shall find it impossible to seduce Miss Olivia Donovan on or before the 1st January next.

14th August, 1829.

At the bottom were two unreadable, scrawled signatures. The unfamiliar one was undoubtedly Lord Fenwicke’s. The other… Well, she knew it well from the letters he’d written to her before his uncle died and he’d still signed his correspondence as “Hasley.” It was Max’s.

She glanced up at Max. They stared at each other for a long moment. She didn’t breathe. And then, very slowly, Max’s eyes closed and he bent his head.

Yes,
he was saying.
It was me. I signed that wager.

Unbidden, a tear crested and slipped down her cheek. Without wiping it away, she looked up at Fenwicke and handed the paper back to him.

“I’m so sorry to be the bearer of this news.”

“No you’re not.”

He was gloating. She could sense his joy. This was a coup for him, and she hated him even more for it.

Fenwicke
enjoyed
hurting people. He’d enjoyed every single second of this horrible scene.

“I only thought it fair to inform you of what kind of a man you were choosing to give your body up for. Again.”

Did this information change how she felt about Max? He’d betrayed her, but did that mean she’d leave him to the insanity of Lord Fenwicke?

“What will you do with His Grace if I refuse you?” she asked softly. “What will you do with me?”

The evil glint returned to Fenwicke’s obsidian eyes. “You are welcome to return to whatever you were doing before I interrupted the course of your life in such an ungentlemanly fashion.”

She didn’t believe him for an instant. “And Max?”

“Max,” Fenwicke repeated, making the consonants in the word sound hard and unforgiving. “Well, he and I have several outstanding scores, you see. I cannot release him until those scores have been settled.”

Max’s head remained bowed.

“And when will that be?” Olivia asked.

“Your duke is a very stubborn man,” Fenwicke said. “So”—he shrugged—“perhaps never.”

“So you’ll keep him here until he starves to death?”

Fenwicke didn’t hesitate. “Perhaps. I have many options, and that is certainly one of them. But if that did
come to pass, wouldn’t you consider it adequate remuneration for the wrongs he’s committed upon you, Olivia? Doesn’t he deserve whatever fate shall befall him at my hands?”

“I don’t know.”

No, that wasn’t right. She did know, to her bones, what she must do.

“Well?” Fenwicke looked at her earnestly. “What say you? Will you walk away from our bargain? From our devilish duke?”

Max’s head moved up, and somehow, though his shout was still muffled, she understood every word. “Yes! Walk away, Olivia! Go!”

Meeting Fenwicke’s cold black eyes, she shook her head.

“No, I won’t,” she murmured. “Our bargain still stands.”

A
few hours later, the gap-toothed maid declared Olivia nearly ready for her “dinner” with Lord Fenwicke. When the woman left the room to fetch a few more hairpins, Olivia withdrew her packet of medicinal quinine from her reticule and tucked the folded paper into the bodice of the single-layer silk garment Fenwicke had insisted she wear.

Usually, she’d be appalled about wearing such a thing, for it was red and tawdry, and revealed far too much skin. Yet tonight she had allowed the maid to put it on her without complaint, observing how horrid, how pale and thin, she appeared in the looking glass.

Calmness had taken over her. She was no longer shaking, no longer at risk of fainting. She had a plan, and no matter what, she was going to make it work. This would be over soon. After tonight, she and Max would be gone from this place, and she’d hopefully never have to lay eyes upon Lord Fenwicke ever again.

The maid bustled back inside, and Olivia quickly returned to the dressing chair she’d been seated in before.

“There, now,” the woman murmured. “That should be enough for me to do your hair just the way the master likes it.”

Olivia bit back the sarcastic retort on the tip of her tongue and forced a smile instead.

Sarcasm… goodness, she was becoming more like her sisters with every moment that she passed in Lord Fenwicke’s home.

They must know she was missing by now. Lady Stratford must be out of her mind with worry. The poor woman.

“Excuse me?” Olivia said.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Is there a way I might get a message to a friend? She doesn’t know I’m here, and I fear she might be quite worried about me.”

“Oh, yes, ma’am. Of course, Lord Fenwicke must read the letter first. The master approves all correspondence that leaves the house.”

“I see.” Olivia fell back into silence. Lord Fenwicke appeared to have complete control over his household and servants. How had he done it? Had he struck fear into these poor people? She watched the maid in the mirror. The woman held pins between her lips as she wrapped strands of Olivia’s hair. Olivia thought of her absolute dedication to not breaking any of her master’s rules. Of her missing tooth—had Fenwicke knocked that tooth out with a blow?

The mere thought made Olivia cringe, and the maid dropped one of the pins. “Oh dear me!” she cried before bending down to retrieve it.

It was horrid to abuse anyone—a wife, a servant. Fenwicke had to be stopped. But how? He was a marquis and would be a duke someday, for heaven’s sake. He wasn’t quite above the law, but nearly so. Enough that it would make it nearly impossible to prosecute him. Or for Lady Fenwicke to divorce him.

She smiled at the maid as she rose with the hairpin in her hand, but the woman didn’t meet her eyes, just continued on with the task of doing her hair “just the way the master likes it.”

When she had finished, the woman spread something over Olivia’s bruises to hide them. Then she swiped rouge on her cheeks and paint on her lips. “There now, that makes you look more lively, I think. Don’t you, ma’am?”

Olivia looked in the mirror and decided she’d rather look pale than hideous. “Mmm,” she murmured.

The maid helped her up, smoothed out some of the wrinkles in her dress, and then beamed at her. “I think the master will be very happy.”

Olivia didn’t respond. How could she? She didn’t want Fenwicke to hurt this woman for failing to please him, but she didn’t want to appeal to him in any way, either.

So she just followed the maid down the corridor and into a large, stern-looking bedchamber bedecked in masculine-colored silks and velvets.

When she stepped inside the room and saw Lord Fenwicke, it took all her willpower to not turn on her heel and try to flee.

Fenwicke was dressed in an elaborately embroidered silk banyan that was tied around his waist in such a way that it revealed a big vee of the skin of his chest, dappled with black hair.

Besides Max, Olivia had never seen a man in such a state of undress. And of all the men in the world, this was the one she least wanted to see that way.

Be strong, Olivia.
She could do this. She would do it.

Fenwicke rose from his chair at a small, intimate table and held his hand out to her. “Welcome, Olivia. You look…” His cold, silvery eyes swiped over her from her coiffure to the red slippers on her feet. “Fetching.”

She stopped in the middle of the room. She simply couldn’t force her body to take another step toward him.

He came to her, though, reaching for her hand and tugging her toward the table, where he pulled her chair out for her and pressed her into it.

She stared down at the food and had to admit that it looked—and smelled—delicious. Her stomach growled in response to the aromas of roasted meat and savory sauces. She had refused breakfast and hadn’t been offered food since. She was hungry, and when she didn’t eat, she became weak quickly—she knew that from her experiences with the fevers.

Off to the side, a smaller table held additional dishes and an assortment of bottles of wine and other spirits, along with glasses. Goodness, how much drink did he intend to get into her tonight?

Fenwicke smiled down at her. “Would you like some wine?”

“Yes, please.”

Fenwicke went to the side table and proceeded to open one of the bottles.

His back turned toward her as he uncorked the bottle. Now might be her only chance. With shaking fingers, she yanked the packet from her bodice and tore the corner.
She tapped it over Fenwicke’s plate, watching his food swallow the grains of quinine, and then, as he poured wine into two glasses, she shoved the packet back into her dress.

After Fenwicke sat in the chair across from her, she began to eat. The food was good. Meat slathered with a flavorful sauce, stuffed dumplings, potatoes. She hardly recognized what she ate, but she swallowed every bite, even though her stomach roiled and complained. She needed the nourishment it would give her.

She sipped at her wine, and for the first time, looked at Fenwicke over the rim.

He’d hardly touched his food. This was what she’d been afraid of. She knew the taste of quinine very well. She took a small dose every month or two and a larger dose daily when she had a fever.

Quinine tasted awful. Bitter, with a horrid aftertaste.

“The meat is very good,” she said.

He frowned down at it, but when he looked back up, he was smiling. “Indeed.” He took a bite, and she could see the confusion on his face. He’d probably tasted nothing like the quinine before and was wondering what on earth the cook could have done to give his meat such a bitter flavor.

She slowed her own eating, realizing that if she finished before him, he would simply not finish his food… and the quinine wouldn’t do its job.

Please,
she prayed silently,
please eat
.

But after a while, he rose, taking his plate with him. He went to the side table, carrying his half-empty plate. As soon as he turned away, Olivia plucked the packet from her bodice and tapped several grains into his wine.

He returned in a few moments with a plate of fruits and cheeses, abandoning his main course at the other table. He’d given up on it. Hopefully he’d taken at least some of the quinine. Hopefully he’d drink the wine.

He did drink all the wine—in one long swallow, though his mouth puckered when he lowered his glass.

Olivia released a breath. At least ten grains had been in there. Now, if he’d had another ten with his meal…

He rose twice more, and Olivia managed to pour the rest of the quinine into his wine and onto his food. The final time, he turned toward her just as she was tucking the packet into her bodice.

He frowned at her. “What is that?”

Her heart pounded. She held the packet out, staring at it as if she’d never seen it before. “This?”