Secrets of an Accidental Duchess (30 page)

And now Olivia. God damn it. Why was he so incapable of protecting the women he loved?

When he’d contained himself enough to turn back to Olivia, Max saw that she’d scrambled up to a sitting position on the sofa. She’d wrapped the blanket around her—probably both for warmth and to hide her state of undress from the servant. And to hide the bruises.

“Max?”

He walked back to her in slow, measured steps, and sat beside her on the sofa. Turning toward her, he brushed his fingers over the material of the blanket at her neck. “You didn’t tell me about this.”

“Oh…” She swallowed hard, and as the man lit another lamp, he saw the gray shadows beneath her eyes. He couldn’t push her tonight. She wasn’t only exhausted, she was terrified from the ordeal she’d just gone through.

“It seems so long ago, but it was yesterday.” She looked at him, her blue eyes searching his face. “He did it to make a point. To say that he was all-powerful. That he was in charge and he possessed all the control. That he could kill me… easily.”

Max gave a sharp nod.

“I thought he meant to strangle me… but he stopped before he did any real damage,” she whispered. “His intention was to make a point rather than really harm me. Unlike what he did to Beatrice.”

Max closed his eyes and bent his head down, rubbing the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “She’s safe now, isn’t she? Stratford made sure she’s somewhere he can’t get to her?”

“Yes. She’s safe. Thank God. That poor girl.”

He took Olivia’s hand and laced her fingers with his. “You’re safe, too. I’m not going to let him touch you. Ever again.”

Her lips twitched in an attempted smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Will you take me to Lady Stratford’s house? She’s probably worried sick.”

“Yes.” He took a breath. “I haven’t any appropriate clothing for you. Perhaps one of the maids will have something.”

She shook her head. “No, that’s all right. Lady Stratford will understand, and I’ll get into my own clothes and burn this dress as soon as I can.”

The maid walked in with a silver salver bearing two
China cups steaming with warm milk. “Set it down over there.” Max gestured to the side table.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

She deposited the tray and stood awaiting further instructions.

“I don’t want to leave you,” Max said. “But I smell and I look like a barbarian. I think it’ll be better if I take you to Lady Stratford shaved and properly dressed.”

“Yes, of course,” Olivia said.

“Are you sure it’s all right if I leave you here with…” He glanced up at the maid, his brows raised. He’d only been here a few weeks, and he didn’t know the names of all the servants yet.

“Sally, Your Grace,” she said.

“With Sally?”

She squeezed his hand reassuringly. “Of course. Go. I’ll wait right here for you.”

He stood and went to the sideboard. Pulling the stopper from a decanter of brandy, he poured a healthy dollop into one of the cups of milk and took it over to her.

“Here’s some warm milk.” When she took it from him, he added, “With a little brandy.”

She sniffed it. “Smells like a lot of brandy.”

He needed to touch her. To make some connection to reassure him that she was all right. Cupping her cheek in his palm, feeling the warm supple skin against his own, he told her, “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Send for me if you need anything.”

“I will.” She smiled, but once again it didn’t reach her eyes. “I won’t need anything, though.”

With a tight nod, he dropped his hand and left the room. He ascended the stairs at a near run, threw open
his closet, and rooted through his clothes until he found something acceptable to wear. Turning, he saw Gardner, dressed in a crisp white nightgown and matching cap, hovering in his doorway. As usual, the man’s primary concern was for the clothes.

“Welcome home, sir. But I really must advise you against carrying the garments in such a fashion. It will create unseemly wrinkles.”

Max tossed the clothes onto his bed. “Can’t be helped.”

As Gardner rushed forward to rescue the clothes, Max peeled off the clothing he was wearing, which was rank with days of sweat and blood. He went to his basin, and using a washcloth, he quickly wiped down his body. Then, taking each item Gardner handed him, he yanked his clothes on. Gardner brushed his hands down the front of Max’s trousers, muttering about the wrinkles and how he’d never be able to show his face in Town again if his master went outside looking like this, even in the middle of the night.

Max raised a bemused brow. “What about the clothes I just arrived in?”

Gardner looked down at them, his lips pursing with disgust. “Of course everyone will know I had naught to do with their unconscionable state. I shall burn them as soon as possible.”

“Please do,” Max said grimly.

Max turned to the basin and splashed water over his face, then had Gardner shave the annoying several-days’ worth of growth from his face. By the time he returned downstairs, Gardner fretting at his heels, less than a quarter of an hour had passed. Still, it was almost two o’clock in the morning.

At the door to the drawing room, he told Gardner to go to bed. As the valet reluctantly left him, Max slipped inside the room.

She was sitting where he’d left her. She had a towel in her hand and was wiping away the tawdry face paint that Fenwicke had obviously demanded she wear.

He told the maid to inform the butler to have his carriage readied, and as she left the room, he sat beside Olivia again. The rough swipes of the towel were reddening her skin, but the face paint had smeared down to her jaw.

“May I help?”

She hesitated, then nodded, handing him the damp towel.

He was gentle about it. Maybe too gentle, because after several minutes of wiping at the persistent stripes of red, he could sense her impatience.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmured. God knew, she’d been hurt enough.

“You’re not hurting me, Max.”

“Almost finished.”

He cleaned along her jaw, then brushed the towel over her lips. He far preferred the natural pink of her lips to this garish red paint.

When he was finished he brushed his thumb over her lips. Soft and warm. Olivia’s lips. Longing struck him hard. How he wanted to take her to bed, curl his body around her, make gentle love to her, and hold her for the remainder of the night.

But she was too anxious to get back to Lady Stratford, and for good reason. The dowager had probably alerted the entire city that her companion had gone missing.

“I wish you could stay,” he murmured.

“I…” She looked away from him. “I can’t.”

“Do you want to go now?”

“Yes. We should.”

He nodded. “Can you walk?”

“Yes.”

He stood and helped her up, wrapped the blanket more securely around her, then led her to the front of the house where his carriage awaited. He handed her in, then gave the coachman instructions.

At this time of night, because there was no traffic, Lady Stratford’s house was only a few minutes away. Olivia sat beside him, quiet and still, while his mind churned with all the ways he could ask her forgiveness for the wager he’d made with Fenwicke.

Finally, he looked up at her. Gathering her hands into his, he kissed them gently. Reverently.

“The wager, Olivia. It was stupid. It meant nothing. It has no bearing on how I feel about you now.”

She blinked hard and turned to look out her window. The carriage was drawing to a halt.

“The lights are on,” she murmured.

It was true—the windows of the house glowed with bright lights. He descended from the carriage and went around to Olivia’s side. Opening the door, he swept her into his arms.

“I can walk.”

“You haven’t any shoes.” He’d seen her little toes poking out from under the blanket and had realized she’d walked out into the icy street in her bare feet to get into the carriage. “I’ll carry you inside. I promise I’ll set you down the moment you’re on a clean floor.”

With a sigh, she acquiesced. Max carried her to the
door, which was opened just a few seconds after he knocked. The butler’s eyes widened. “Miss Donovan!”

Reaching out, the man physically pulled Max inside with Olivia in his arms. “Come in, come in.”

Max stepped inside and lowered Olivia onto her bare feet.

As the butler hurriedly closed the door, Max heard a feminine squeal. “Olivia!”

Her sister Phoebe rushed toward them from the passageway leading to the drawing room. Seconds later, the door to the drawing room opened, and Stratford and his wife, the dowager, Captain Langley, and Sebastian Harper all poured out of the room at Phoebe’s heels.

Phoebe reached Olivia first. She threw her arms around her sister and burst into tears. “Oh, God, Olivia, we were so worried. I thought I’d never see you again.”

The others reached them, crowding around. Pandemonium reigned for several moments. The questions and exclamations from Olivia’s family were so fierce, Olivia was scarcely able to get a word in edgewise. Max tamped down his urge to protect her from their bombardment, reminding himself that this was her family; they wouldn’t hurt her. She looked exhausted and on the verge of falling apart, but she returned their embraces, paying no attention whatsoever to him.

“Oh my dear, my dear,” the dowager exclaimed, soothing her hand over Olivia’s tangled hair. “We’ve all been so terribly worried about you. Kidnapped from the theater! A worse thing has never happened in the history of the world, I’m sure of it.”

How had her family arrived in London so quickly? The dowager must have sent for them right away once
Olivia had gone missing, and they’d dashed to Town in record time.

The ladies crowded around Olivia, crooning, holding her, making exclamations of horror when Olivia whispered the words, “Lord Fenwicke.”

Of course, thought Max, they all knew what a bastard Fenwicke was… young Jessica had been the one who’d discovered how brutally he was treating his wife.

Turning from his sister-in-law, Stratford caught Max’s eye. His face hardened and he gestured toward the corridor. “Come with me, Wakefield.”

With one last glance at Olivia to ensure she was all right, Max followed Stratford into an alcove off the corridor.

The man turned on him, his expression tight. “Explain,” he said in a clipped voice, “and you’d best convince me that you had nothing to do with her disappearance, or you’ll be wishing you’d never met the Donovans.”

“For God’s sake, Stratford,” he bit out. “I had nothing to do with it. Lord Fenwicke abducted both of us. The man has lost his mind.”

Stratford narrowed his eyes. “Langley wrote to us and told us that Fenwicke had employed a spy within our household to watch you and Olivia, but why in hell would he kidnap the two of you? It makes no sense.”

“He bears a long-standing grudge against me,” Max said tightly. “He took Olivia to get to me. And I’m damned sorry she was involved.”

Stratford eyed him. “Did he hurt her?”

Max grimaced. “He hurt her enough to ensure I’ll kill that bastard the next time I see him.”

“Does she need a doctor?”

God, his gut felt hard as stone. Red tinged his vision. It was difficult to concentrate on anything besides beating Fenwicke to a pulp.

He swallowed hard. “It’s probably best to call one just in case,” he managed to grind out.

“How did you get away? Does he know where you are?”

“Olivia orchestrated it—she said she gave Fenwicke some of the medicine she uses for her malaria. Qu… qui—”

Stratford raised a brow. “How much quinine did she give him?”

“I don’t know. She thinks she might have killed him. She said he lost his vision.”

“Quinine can blind a man if the dose is too high.”

“Permanently?”

“Sometimes.”

“Could it kill him?” Max asked.

“It’s possible.”

They stood for a moment in silence, both of them watching the crowd of Olivia’s family as they passed by, bustling her toward the staircase. Then Stratford turned back to Max. “I will call the doctor.”

Max reached out and grasped the other man’s arm. “Make sure he’s gentle with her. She’s been through a terrible ordeal.”

His shirt and coat sleeves pulled back, exposing the bloody rings around his wrist that he hadn’t had the time to clean and dress properly.

“You can trust that I’ll ensure my sister-in-law will be properly looked after,” Stratford said, somewhat coldly. Then he looked from Max’s wrist to his face. “Looks like you need a doctor, too, Wakefield.”

Max grunted. “I’m fine.”

Stratford turned fully back to him. “Go home, get your wounds seen to, and get some rest. You look damn exhausted. We need to take care of Olivia, and it’s probably best that the whole world doesn’t find out that you and she were together in this debacle.”

Max took a breath, then glanced toward the crowd of people disappearing up the stairs. Stratford was right, but he didn’t want to leave her. Not now, when she was hurt and fragile. “I’m worried about her.”

“We’ll take good care of her.”

God, he hated to go. But this was her family. She’d be safe with them, at least for the rest of the night. He gave a tight nod and left the house, promising himself that he’d see her tomorrow.

T
he next day dawned gray and rainy. Smithson was nowhere to be found; instead, a different maid from Stratford House, Cora, came to help Olivia dress.

Olivia went downstairs for breakfast, and at the table she learned that Jonathan had inquired about Lord Fenwicke. The marquis lived, but he was very ill. The word about Town was that the doctor had attributed Fenwicke’s illness to rotten meat and thought he would survive, but he was to be confined to his bed for an indeterminate amount of time.

Serena had told her the latest news about Jessica and Lady Fenwicke. Sebastian, Phoebe’s husband, had returned from Prescot with the news that the ladies had settled in very well, and Lady Fenwicke’s wounds—internal and external—were slowly healing.

With Olivia’s blessing, Phoebe and Sebastian left early in the afternoon to get back to Margie. Olivia saw them off to Sussex with a kiss and a hug for her little niece.