“I’m speaking of Olivia,” Fenwicke said icily. It sounded like Fenwicke was
jealous
, but that was ridiculous. As the man had said, the lady had been in Town for less than a month.
“I don’t know either of them,” Max responded, keeping his tone mild.
“Regardless, you want her,” Fenwicke said in an annoyed voice. “I’m well acquainted with that look you were throwing in her direction.”
Max shrugged.
“You are besotted with her.”
Max leaned back in his chair, studying Fenwicke closely beyond the rim of his glass, wondering what gave Fenwicke the right to have proprietary feelings for Olivia Donovan.
“Are you a relation of hers?” he asked.
“I am not.”
“Well, I was watching her,” Max said slowly. “And, yes, I admit to wondering who she was and whether she was attached. I was considering asking her to dance later this evening.”
The muscles in Fenwicke’s jaw bulged as he ground his teeth. “She has no dances available.”
“How do you know?”
“I asked her myself.”
Max stared at the man opposite him, feeling the muscles across his shoulders tense as the fingers of his loose hand curled into a tight fist. He didn’t like the thought of his angel touching Fenwicke. Of Fenwicke touching her. The thought rather made him want to throw Fenwicke through the glass window overlooking the terrace across from them.
He took a slow breath, willing himself to calmness. He wasn’t even acquainted with the woman. Didn’t even know the sound of her voice, the color of her eyes, her likes and dislikes. Yet he was already willing to protect her from scum like Fenwicke.
He wouldn’t want Fenwicke touching any young innocent, he reasoned. He’d protect any woman from the marquis’s slick, slithering paws.
“How is your wife?” he asked quite deliberately, aware of the challenge in his voice.
Fenwicke’s expression went flat. He took a long drink of brandy before responding. “She’s well,” he said coldly. “She’s back at home. In Sussex. Thank you for asking.” His lips curled in a snarl that Max guessed was supposed to appear to be a smile.
Max remembered that Fenwicke’s country home was in Sussex, just like the Earl of Stratford’s. He wondered if the houses were situated close to each other.
“I’m glad to hear she’s well.”
“You can’t have her,” Fenwicke said quietly.
Max raised a brow. “Your wife?”
“Olivia Donovan.”
Max took a long moment to allow that to sink in. To think about how he should respond.
“She’s not married?” he finally asked. He knew the answer.
Fenwicke’s tone was frosty. “She is not.”
“Engaged?”
“No.”
“Then why, pray, can’t I have her?”
“She’d never accept you. You would never meet her standards. You, Hasley, are a well-known rake.”
“So?” That had never stopped any woman from accepting his advances before.
“So, you’re not good enough for her.” Fenwicke’s smile widened, but it was laced with bitterness. “No man in London is.”
“How can you possibly know this?”
“She told me.”
Max nearly choked on his brandy. “What?”
“I propositioned her,” Fenwicke said simply. “In the correct way, of course, which was quite delicate, considering her innocence. I dug deeply—quite deeply indeed—into my cache of charm.”
Max’s stomach churned. He could never understand what women saw in Fenwicke—but obviously they saw something, because the man never needed to be too
aggressive in his pursuit before capturing his prey, despite his marital status.
Yet it seemed Miss Olivia Donovan didn’t see whatever it was in Fenwicke that all the other women saw. Intriguing. Without ever having met her, Max’s respect for her grew.
The thought of how many times Fenwicke had abandoned his young wife in the country left Max feeling vaguely nauseous. How many times had he seen the man with a different woman on his arm?
Perhaps what left the sourest taste in Max’s mouth was that everyone knew about Fenwicke’s proclivities but continued to invite him to their social events. No one spurned him. He was a peer, after all, a member of White’s, and an excellent dance partner or opponent at cards.
Long ago, Fenwicke had decided that Max was an adversary and had pushed Max into a constant competition. They’d competed over sports, women, their studies, and politics. It had all started in Max’s third year at Eton, when his cousins had died of influenza and Max became the heir to a dukedom just like Fenwicke was—Fenwicke’s father was the Duke of Southington and Max’s uncle was the Duke of Wakefield.
Fenwicke even had the audacity to claim he’d be more of a duke, since he was an eldest son rather than a nephew. That statement had enraged Max—no one could vex him like Fenwicke could. Something about the man brought out the worst in Max, which was why he’d tried his damndest to stay away from the marquis. Avoidance hadn’t worked, however. Both he and Fenwicke had gone to Cambridge and now they belonged to the same gentleman’s club. Max couldn’t get rid of the man. And once
they were both dukes and sitting in Parliament, they’d be required to see more of each other. Max had to come to terms with the fact that Fenwicke was a permanent fixture in his life, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.
Now, thinking of Fenwicke’s lascivious thoughts toward Miss Donovan in spite of his married state, Max’s dislike of the man threatened to grow into something stronger. Something more like hatred. He closed his eyes and images of his father passed behind his lids. His mother… alone. The tears she’d tried to hide from him. Even at a very young age, Max had known exactly what was happening. Exactly how his father had betrayed his mother, how he’d hurt her, ultimately destroyed her.
Max would never do that to a wife—he’d never marry so there would simply never be a concern—and he’d never abide anyone who did.
Fenwicke set his empty brandy glass on the table with a sigh. “I’m afraid Miss Olivia Donovan simply isn’t interested.”
Max narrowed his eyes. “So because you failed to charm the lady, you assume that I’ll fail as well?”
“Of course. She’s frigid, you see. The girl is composed of ice as solid as a glacier.”
Another of the many reasons Max disliked Fenwicke: He never took responsibility. If a woman rejected him, he’d think it was due to some defect in her character as opposed to a natural—and wise—dislike or distrust of the man himself. If a woman professed no attraction to the marquis, naturally she wouldn’t feel any attraction to any man, because all other men were lesser beings.
“I sincerely doubt she’s frigid,” Max responded before he thought better of it.
Fenwicke’s eyes narrowed. “Do you?”
Max met the man’s steely glare head-on. “Perhaps you simply don’t appeal.”
Fenwicke snorted. “Of course I appeal. I’m a marquis, to begin with, and the heir to—”
“Perhaps,” Max interjected, keeping his voice low, “she possesses no interest in engaging in an adulterous liaison, marquis or no.”
At his periphery, Max could see Fenwicke’s fists clenching. He braced himself for the man’s lunge, but it never came. Damn it. If Fenwicke had attacked first, it would have given Max a good reason to throttle him.
Fenwicke gave him a thin, humorless smile. “I would beg to differ.”
Max shrugged. “Perhaps we should agree to disagree, then.”
“If she did not succumb to my charms, Hasley, then rest assured, there’s no way in hell she’ll succumb to yours.” Fenwicke’s voice was mild, but the cords in his neck bulged above his cravat.
Max shook his head, unable to prevent a sneer from forming on his lips. “You’re wrong, Fenwicke.”
Fenwicke’s brows rose, his eyes glinted, and a sly expression came over his face. He leaned forward, greedily licking his lips.
“Would you care to place a wager on that?”
Sussex,
Two Months Later
S
ussex in autumn was beautiful. Having spent most of her life on a small island in the West Indies, Olivia Donovan had never experienced the seasons in such dramatic fashion. The bracken surrounding the estate that belonged to her brother-in-law had turned a deep russet color. The brush bordering the forest abounded with the bright red berries of rosehips and haw, and the trees displayed a wealth of browns, reds, and yellows—deep, homey colors that gave Olivia a sense of peace and security. Antigua had never shown varying colors in such brilliant display.
Olivia turned from the drawing room window to smile at her sisters. It was so good to be together again, and it never failed to send happiness surging through her when she saw the three of them huddled together.
Serena—who’d changed her name to Margaret, or Meg—had married, and so had Phoebe, who was, at twenty,
a year younger than Olivia. Phoebe had arrived in England with Serena last year. Jessica and Olivia hadn’t arrived until late July this year. They’d gone straight to London and had plunged into the frenzy that was the Season.
Jessica had met droves of potential suitors. Olivia hadn’t met anyone, though if you asked her three sisters, they’d all say it was entirely her fault.
She was too picky, they said.
She was too quiet.
She was too shy.
What she’d tried to tell them, over and over, was that perhaps she
was
picky, quiet, and shy, but none of that really mattered. What was most important was one simple fact that her sisters seemed either unwilling or unable to comprehend: No gentleman would have her, not once he learned about her ailment. Gentlemen wanted sturdy women, women who were capable of bearing strong, strapping sons. They didn’t want women who could fall ill from a relapse of malaria and die on a moment’s notice. Not pale, thin women prone to fainting and fevers.
She’d been aware from a young age that she was destined to be alone. It didn’t matter. Knowing that they weren’t in the cards for her, she had given up pining for marriage and children long ago. She was truly happy—no, utterly fulfilled—as long as she was surrounded by her sisters.
“Oh, drat,” Phoebe muttered, glancing up at the mantel clock. “I must go. Margie will be hungry soon, and I simply can’t abide it when her nurse feeds her.”
Margie was Phoebe’s eight-month-old daughter, a lovely child with the strongest lungs Olivia had ever heard on an infant. She took after her mother in temperament,
though she possessed her father’s strikingly dark hair and eyes.
Olivia smiled. “Give my darling niece a big kiss from her Auntie Olivia, will you?”
“Of course.”
“
Must
you go, Phoebe?” Jessica complained, waving her cards. “We haven’t finished the game.”
They’d been playing cribbage while Serena was embroidering a bonnet for Margie.
Phoebe crossed her arms tightly across her chest. “You can’t understand, Jess. What it’s like to be a mother. I can
tell
when she needs me. I can feel it.”
“How perfectly ghastly.” Jessica grimaced at Phoebe’s bosom. “I hope I never have children and never, ever feel any such thing.”
“You can’t mean that!” exclaimed Olivia. “What about all your suitors, Jess?”
All three of her sisters swung their heads around to stare at Olivia and she took a step back, feeling the window ledge push into her spine. “What?” she asked. “Why are all of you looking at me like that?”
“Suitors don’t necessarily translate into motherhood.” Serena’s lips twitched. She was obviously fighting a smile.
“Well, they translate into proposals of marriage, eventually. Then engagements and weddings. And those, in turn, translate to motherhood.”
“
Pfft,
” Jessica hissed. “Not true. Not at all true.”
Serena raised a brow at Jessica. “Care to explain how
that
works, Jess?”
Jessica shrugged and turned up her nose in a particularly Jess-like expression. “Not really. I just happen to know that there are ways to prevent conception.”
“Ways that are utterly deadly to both mother and child,” Phoebe muttered, frowning.
“Not necessarily,” Jessica said, looking superior.
“If that’s so,” Serena said, “we don’t want to hear about them. In any case, you’re scandalizing poor Saint Olivia.”
Their gazes all turned to her, and Olivia felt the burn of a flush crawling over her cheeks. “You’re not scandalizing me!”
“Oh, yes we are,” Phoebe said in the tone of a wizened old man. “There are certain topics best not discussed in Saint Olivia’s presence.”
Jessica shook her head soberly. “You’re red as a lobster, Liv. Obviously this conversation is distressing you.”
“It is not.” Olivia pressed her hand to her heated cheek. “Not at all.”
Jessica turned to Serena and Phoebe. “I think we’d best let her continue to think that suitors mean eventual motherhood.”
“But will that make her more likely to seek one?” Serena asked.
Jessica turned back to her. “Well, Liv? What do you think? No suitors and no motherhood, or shall we find you a suitor forthwith so you can start popping out litters of babies?”
Phoebe wrinkled her nose. “Jess! Is it possible for you to be any more indelicate?”
Jessica snapped back, “And who are you to speak of indelicacy, Mrs. Run-off-to-Gretna-Green-with-the-first-man-you-meet Harper?”
“Oh, stop it, both of you,” Serena said. “Before this escalates into a silly argument, I have something to tell you. Something important.” As the sisters turned to her,
Serena looked down at her embroidery, scarlet spreading across her cheeks. “Well, Jonathan and I haven’t been trying to
prevent
anything.”
As Olivia frowned at her, trying to understand what on earth she was talking about, Phoebe dropped her cards and jumped out of her chair. “You’re pregnant!”
Pressing her lips together, still staring downward, Serena nodded.
“Oh, Serena,” Olivia breathed. “Really?” Serena had been hoping to conceive ever since Olivia and Jessica had arrived from Antigua.
“Yes,” Serena whispered. “I’m sure of it. But you forgot to call me Meg again.” The smile on Serena’s face told Olivia she didn’t really care this time. Olivia found it so difficult to call her sister by her new name. She’d always be Serena, her oldest, wisest sister, no matter what everyone else thought.