“You’re no gentleman,” she grated out, her voice harsh and painful. “So stop pretending to be one.”
“On the contrary, ” Fenwicke said smoothly. “I am far more than a gentleman. I am a marquis and the heir to a dukedom.”
You’re evil,
she wanted to say, but she didn’t dare. He was crazy. She didn’t know how he’d react to that accusation.
He curled his fingers to her in a summoning gesture. “Come along, sweetheart.”
She flinched. “Don’t call me that.”
“I heard you liked it well enough when Wakefield called you that.”
“You’re… not… him,” she choked.
His dark eyes narrowed. He reached into the carriage and simply plucked her out, setting her down hard on her feet. She felt a weight on her arm and looked down in shock. Her reticule had been hanging from her wrist since she’d left her box at the theater. She hadn’t even noticed it was still there until now.
Fenwicke held her arm with one hand and pressed the other into the small of her back. “Come along.”
He half pulled, half pushed her up the stairs leading to his front door. A tall, thin man opened the door. She recognized him—he was the servant who’d answered the door to her and her family when Fenwicke had come to Brockton Hall that first time. He appeared not at all perturbed to see his master dragging an unwilling woman into the house.
“I think,” Fenwicke mused as he muscled her down a dimly lit corridor, “that all we need is a comfortable bed. What do you think, sweetheart?”
“I must return home,” she said, but her voice was weak. He wasn’t going to be allowing her to go home tonight—that much she knew. But… oh God, he’d made it clear that he wanted her….
Good Lord, he intended to rape her.
Black tinged the edges of her vision. She was familiar with the sensation. The malaria made her susceptible to fainting fits, and though she hadn’t fainted since she’d come to England, she had lost consciousness on occasion in Antigua. She’d done so often enough in her life that she’d grown familiar with the symptoms preceding the faint and could usually make her way to a sofa or bed before it happened. Sometimes, if she sat very still and concentrated, she was even able to stave it off.
Should she do that now? Something told her, deep in her mind, as the black spots began to overwhelm her vision, that she
should
faint right now. That a man like Fenwicke wouldn’t touch an unconscious woman. He wanted her awake and screaming. He wanted to take strength from her fear.
She allowed the blackness to claim her—for once welcoming it with open arms. The last thing she remembered was her knees buckling as she crumpled to the floor.
O
livia awoke in a comfortable bed with gentle bands of sunlight streaming over the covers. She turned over with a soft “mmm,” and closed her eyes.
Then she remembered. Her eyes popped open, and she scrambled to a sitting position, noticing about a dozen things at once. She was dressed only in her chemise. She was in a strange, sunny bedroom, and there was a woman—a maid—sitting in a chair by the bed smiling pleasantly at her.
Olivia yanked the blanket to her chest, hiding her near nakedness. “Where am I?” she squeaked.
“Why, you’re in London, ma’am.”
“But where?”
“In Lord Fenwicke’s house.”
She looked around the room frantically. “Where are my clothes?”
“They’re in the clothes press, ma’am. I’m to help you dress for breakfast.” The woman stood and disappeared into a small closet, emerging after a moment with the dress
Olivia had been wearing last night. “It had a wretched tear in it, but I’ve mended it for you.”
Olivia was too stunned to thank the woman, who was grinning at her. One of her front teeth was missing. She laid the dress across the foot of the bed and went to fetch Olivia’s petticoats and stays as Olivia sat, frozen. This felt… unreal. Like she was in someone else’s dream. This wasn’t really happening, was it?
“Come along then.” The woman gazed at her expectantly.
Warily, Olivia slipped out of bed and walked toward the maid. She was silent but tense as the woman helped her to dress.
Fenwicke would be here somewhere. He wanted something from her… besides her body, perhaps. Why her, when he could have his choice of willing women? She’d noticed how other ladies gaped and batted their eyelashes at him. He was widely considered a desirable man.
Then why her? Could it have something to do with Lady Fenwicke’s escape to Lancashire?
Or, perhaps, Max’s disappearance? Fenwicke clearly knew far more about her relationship with Max than was appropriate.
The maid had led her to a chair before a dressing table and, with efficient strokes, began to comb and style her hair. Olivia sat still, scanning the items on the dressing table—all the items she’d had in her possession last night, including her reticule and jewelry—as she tried not to stare at the ugly bruise marks on her neck in the mirror. Fortunately, while the neckline of her red satin opera dress was very low, the maid arranged Olivia’s lace shawl to cover most of the marks.
Acquiescing to the maid’s ministrations was a practical decision—if there was one thing the three eldest Donovan sisters had in common, it was practicality. She had a much better chance of escaping if she was fully clothed, after all. She couldn’t be running about in London in winter clad only in a shift. Either she’d freeze to death or be caught, deemed a lunatic, and sent to Bedlam.
“There you are, ma’am. You’ll be looking fresh and pure for the master, won’t you?” The maid gave her a friendly pat on the shoulder.
Olivia looked in the mirror to see the woman giving her that gap-toothed smile. “May I go outside? I require some air. I… I tend to faint—like I did last night—if I am kept indoors for too long.”
“Aye, well, you’ll have to take that up with the master. He’s waiting for you in the breakfast room.”
“I see,” Olivia said, her voice breathy with fear. Perhaps, though, she’d find a way to escape between this room and the breakfast room.
That thought was quashed, however, as soon as the maid opened the door. There was a burly, frightening-looking guard standing just outside the room, and when the maid turned to lead her down the corridor, Olivia saw another enormous man standing at its end. She had no doubt they’d been posted for her benefit. To prevent her from trying to run away.
Her knees felt weak and wobbly, but she squared her shoulders and stood tall and walked with as much strength as she could toward her fear.
A part of her assured her nothing bad would happen. She’d had enough bad things happen to her in her life. There was her father’s death, her illness, her sister’s
drowning. She’d had absolutely no control over any of those events. But something told her that although she might not hold the lion’s share of control in this situation, she held a little. A mouse’s share, perhaps. Mice weren’t powerful, but they held just enough to run… and sometimes to escape.
That thought made her straighten her spine, made her keep walking with a little more determination.
The maid led her into a small, dim, but perfectly presentable breakfast room. Lord Fenwicke was sitting at one end of the small table, and there was a place set—obviously for her—on the other.
Fenwicke rose. “Ah, good morning, Miss Donovan. Please sit down. May I offer you some chocolate?”
The maid ushered her to the chair and firmly pressed her into it.
She looked up at Fenwicke, who was still standing, his brows raised as he awaited her answer.
“No chocolate, thank you,” she murmured.
She went through the motion of smoothing her napkin over her lap, because it was something to do other than acknowledge Fenwicke. However, when she looked down at the elegant plate of food a footman laid in front of her, her stomach churned violently. There was no way she’d be able to eat.
She gazed at the plate bleakly, swallowing hard against nausea, wondering if she looked as green as she felt.
Fenwicke, however, dug right into his food. “You slept well, I hope?” he asked between bites.
Slowly, she raised her head until her gaze clashed with his. His expression seemed jovial this morning, but there was an assessing, calculating darkness in his eyes that
made her want to leap out of the chair and sprint out of this room.
“I slept,” she said flatly.
He nodded and took another bite, then chased it with what looked and smelled like coffee. He eyed her over the rim of his cup. “I heard you have only recently come to Town.”
“Correct,” she said in a clipped voice.
“I don’t suppose you heard from my wife before you left Stratford House?”
She hesitated, but then the lie flowed out easily. “No. In fact, I hadn’t seen her for several weeks.”
“Really? Ah, well that’s unfortunate.” Fenwicke set his coffee cup down. “I asked you to join me for breakfast because I’d like to strike a bargain with you.”
“A bargain?” she repeated, her voice sounding dull and hollow. Perhaps he was going to try to force her to tell him where Lady Fenwicke was. But she wouldn’t tell him that—she couldn’t. If Fenwicke found Lady Fenwicke and Jessica…
no.
The thought of what he might do to them made her shudder. She couldn’t give them away, even to save herself.
“Don’t fret so, my dear. I can see the panic written on your face. Don’t worry—we needn’t discuss Lady Fenwicke any further. Rest assured, I have other means of locating my darling wife.” He smiled, and nothing had ever struck her as sinister as the curve of his thin, pale lips. “But I do find myself in possession of something that you want. Something that might surprise you.”
“I doubt that.”
He laughed. “Have faith, Olivia. I happen to know it’s something you want.”
“What is it?”
Fenwicke took his time. He took a bite, chewed it in a leisurely fashion, took several sips of his drink, then set his cup down again.
Finally, he said, “Maxwell Buchanan, the Duke of Wakefield.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I have him.” Fenwicke took a bite, a sip, and patted his napkin over his mouth. “Completely at my mercy. And you, sweetheart, are to determine his fate.”
Oh, God! She’d been right—the evil man had something to do with Max’s disappearance! She struggled to maintain her composure. “Is he well?” Her voice, miraculously, sounded calm. Even serene.
“Yes, he is quite well.” Fenwicke smirked. “Though he is doing his best to provoke me to change that.”
“Where is he?”
“Close,” Fenwicke responded easily. “In fact, he’s here. In this very house.”
Olivia swallowed hard. She was gripping her legs so tightly that she was certain her thighs would be covered with bruises.
Max was alive. He was here. If they could join together against Fenwicke… Together, they could do anything. They could escape from this madman.
Fenwicke laid his fork down and leaned forward. “He’s in a less comfortable position than you.” He smiled. “I like him less than I like you, you see. I tend to spoil those I like.”
Olivia stared blandly at him. She wanted to claw his eyes out. She had never truly hated anyone, until now.
“I have him locked tight somewhere. Trussed up, in a
cold, dark room in my cellar. I’ve denied him the modern conveniences as well as food and water. This afternoon, I am going to ask him for something, and if I know him well—and I do, mind—he’ll refuse yet again. Then, I’m afraid I’m going to have no choice but to resort to even more unpleasant consequences.”
She glanced over her shoulder at the closed door. Even if she ran—even if she escaped from this horrible place—she’d be leaving Max behind.
No. She wouldn’t go anywhere without him. Not now.
“Don’t worry about that. I have a guard posted, Olivia. If you run away, he’ll just sit you right back down. So… no reason to waste your time trying, hmm?”
She turned back, staring at her lap, at her hands clenched over her thighs.
“Look at me.”
Her heart raced. She didn’t look at him—couldn’t, not without retching.
“He’s angered me greatly. For so many reasons, but I won’t get into those now—except for the one that upsets me the most.” Fenwicke’s voice was quiet and grave. “He stole you from me, Olivia. I shall never, ever forgive him for that. And I think he needs to pay a very, very high price for distressing me so thoroughly, don’t you?”
Olivia swallowed hard. She gripped her legs and focused on breathing. She heard Fenwicke’s words and understood them, even though each one twisted her insides tighter and pushed her closer to the edge of her control.
“Don’t you want to hear the bargain I wish to make with you? Don’t you want to save your handsome duke?”
She squeezed her eyes shut.
“Look at me.”
She pried her eyes open and slowly raised her chin until she faced him. His figure swam and danced in her blurry vision.
“It’s very simple, sweetheart,” he said in a smooth, low voice. “Spend one night with me, and I’ll release your duke.”
Her mind worked frantically.
Fenwicke grinned. “I want you willing. I think it’ll be more fun that way, don’t you?”
She couldn’t look at him a second longer. She closed her eyes again.
“I want you in my bed, lovely Miss Olivia Donovan. I’ve wanted you for a long time. You know that.”
She tried to breathe, tried to calm her racing heart.
“Can you deny wanting me? You were affected by me, when we first met, weren’t you? Admit it.”
She dug her nails deep into the muscles in her thighs.
“One night with me, Olivia. One night of pleasure that will surpass anything you could ever dream of experiencing with Wakefield. One night, and then you’ll both be free.”
“One night…” The blackness edged her vision again, but this time she fought against it. She needed to think, to reason. She needed to save Max.
“Yes. One night. With you naked under me, taking me, crying out my name—”
She took a deep, strengthening breath. Then she raised her chin and stared at him with narrowed eyes.
“I’ll do it. If it means you’ll free Max, I’ll do anything you want.”