Once Upon a Wicked Night (6 page)
Olivia’s powder-blue dress was of an entirely fashionable style and fabric—though Max didn’t concern himself with fashion enough to be able to distinguish either by name. The gown was conservatively cut but fit her perfectly, and her jewelry was simple. She wore only a pair of pearl-drop earrings and an austere strand of pearls around her neck.
Her posture was softer than her sister’s, whose stance was sharp and alert. However, their familial connection was obvious in their faces—both perfect ovals with full
but small mouths and large eyes. From this distance, Max couldn’t discern the color of her eyes, but when Olivia had been dancing earlier, she’d glanced in his direction, and he’d thought they must be a light shade.
God. He nearly groaned. She captivated him. She had from the first moment he’d seen her. She was simply lovely.
“… leaving London soon.”
Fenwicke stopped talking, and Max’s attention snapped back to him.
Fenwicke sighed. “Did you hear me, Hasley?”
“Sorry,” Max said, then gestured randomly about. “Noisy in here.”
It was true, after all. The orchestra had begun the opening strands of the next dance, and laughing couples were brushing past them, hurrying to join in at the last possible moment.
Fenwicke gazed at him appraisingly for a long moment, then motioned toward the ballroom’s exit. “Come, man. Let’s go have a drink.”
If it had been an ordinary evening, he would have declined. He and Fenwicke had a long acquaintance, and Max had always found the man oily and unlikable. They’d been rivals since their school days at Eton, but they’d never been friends.
He glanced quickly back to the lady.
Olivia.
At that moment, she looked up. Her gaze caught his and held.
Blue eyes. Surely they were blue.
Those eyes held him in her thrall, sweet and lovely, and sensual too, despite her obvious innocence. Max felt suspended in midair, like a water droplet caught in a spider’s web.
She glanced at Fenwicke and then quickly to the floor, and Max plopped back to earth with a
splat.
But satisfaction rushed through him in a warm wave, because just before she’d broken their eye contact, he’d seen the first vestiges of color flooding her cheeks.
“Very well,” he told Fenwicke. Tonight he didn’t politely excuse himself from Fenwicke’s company, because tonight Fenwicke appeared to have information Max suddenly craved—information about Olivia Donovan.
He turned away from her, but not before he saw another gentleman offering her his arm for the dance and a bolt of envy struck him in the gut. Thrusting away that irrational emotion, Max followed Fenwicke down the corridor to the parlor that had been set aside as the gentlemen’s retiring room. A foursome played cards in the corner, and an elderly man sat in a large but elegant brown cloth armchair in the corner, blatantly antisocial, a newspaper raised to obscure half his face. Other men lounged by the sideboard, chatting and drinking from the never-ending supply of spirits.
Fenwicke collected two glasses of brandy and then gestured with his chin at a pair of empty leather chairs separated by a low, glass-topped table but close enough together for them to have a private conversation. Max sat in the nearest chair, taking the glass Fenwicke offered him as he passed. He took a drink of the brandy while Fenwicke lowered himself into the opposite chair.
Holding his glass in both hands, Fenwicke stared at him. “I gather you haven’t had the pleasure of observing the Miss Donovans prior to tonight.”
“No,” Max admitted. “Do they plan to reside in London?”
“No.” Fenwicke’s lip twisted sardonically. “As I was saying in the ballroom, I believe they’re leaving before the end of the month. They’re off to Stratford’s estate in Sussex.”
“Too bad,” Max murmured.
But then a memory jolted him. At White’s last week, Lord Stratford had invited a few men, including Max, to Sussex this autumn to hunt fowl. He’d turned down the offer—he’d never been much interested in hunting—but now…
Fenwicke gazed at him. The man had always reminded Max of a reptilian predator with his cold, assessing silver-gray eyes. “You,” he announced, “have a tendre for Miss Donovan.”
It was impossible to determine whether that was a question or a statement. Either way, it didn’t matter. “Don’t be absurd. I don’t even know Jessica Donovan.”
“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?”
A Hint of Wicked
A Touch of Scandal
A Season of Seduction
Confessions of an Improper Bride
Secrets of an Accidental Duchess
A Preview of
Confessions of an Improper Bride
A Preview of
Secrets of an Accidental Duchess
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Jennifer Haymore
Excerpt from
Confessions of an Improper Bride
copyright © 2011 by Jennifer Haymore
Excerpt from
Secrets of an Accidental Duchess
copyright © 2012 by Jennifer Haymore
Cover design by Claire Brown
Photography by Shirley Green
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