Secrets of an Accidental Duchess Read Free

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?”

Chapter One
    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