Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Olivia
Seven days. It had been seven days of exquisite torment since the encounter with Reynolds.
Her husband hadn’t allowed her to find satisfaction, and the denial was sure to drive her mad. Her body had become a battlefield where the desire to cross over the edge and her husband’s withholding waged an endless war. And she was losing what remained of her composure.
Since the confrontation with Reynolds, Victor had been different.
Each night since that day, he claimed her body in increasingly demanding ways.
Binding her, using her, filling her cunt with his seed—sometimes twice in the same night—and drawing her to the precipice of the most intense feeling, only to deny her pleas to finish.
All the while saying that she’d become too spoiled.
A notion she wasn’t certain she agreed with, given what torture she lived with each day.
“Is this to your satisfaction, Your Grace?” Martha asked, adjusting the final pin in Olivia’s hair, pulling her from her thoughts.
“Thank you, Martha. That will be all for now.”
The maid’s eyes met hers briefly in the mirror, a flicker of concern appeared before she departed.
Olivia rose from the dressing table, wincing at the delicious soreness between her thighs.
Last night was particularly intense. Victor fucked her against the wall of his study, beside the painting that had brought them together.
He had her wrists bound and her mouth gagged so she couldn’t even beg.
Her body’s response had been immediate and overwhelming.
Yet, she was left ultimately unsatisfied.
The whole business with Reynolds had awakened a darker side of Victor. Things had been better than expected between them before, almost loving, and then it had all changed. His possession of her body had taken on an almost desperate edge, even if he continued to punish her.
And God help her, she craved it. Even as she suffered through each denial, each careful edge of pleasure without completion, she found herself surrendering more completely to his will.
It wasn’t just that she craved his touch, but she craved just him.
Having him near. The way he cared for her and tended to her, even without an orgasm.
There were moments she saw something in his eyes . . .
A knock sounded at the door.
“Your Grace?” Simmons called. “The carriage is prepared. His Grace awaits you in the foyer.”
“Thank you, Simmons. I’ll be down directly.”
Despite Victor avoiding her in daylight on most days, he had insisted on accompanying her to the modiste. With the dinner party just two days away, she needed to go for fittings for her gown. Since Victor had selected the color and fabrics, she had expected he might join for the appointment.
Preparations were the only thing that distracted her from the agony of what she wished her husband would do to her.
The Dowager Countess of Meryton had finally accepted their invitation, joining a guest list that included several other influential members of society.
In her short marriage, the scandal was already fading, replaced by her new identity as the Duchess of Ravenswood.
“You look well,” Victor observed as she descended the stairs to join him. His eyes traveled over her figure with slow appreciation.
“Thank you,” she murmured, heat rising to her cheeks under his scrutiny.
He offered his arm, and she took it, all too aware of his strength, his warmth.
The casual observer would see only a duke escorting his duchess to their carriage.
The perfect picture of aristocratic propriety.
None would guess the intimate battle of wills being waged beneath the surface, or the way her body trembled at his slightest touch.
That she would crawl to her husband and beg on her knees there in the foyer if he would reward her for it.
The carriage ride and visit to the modiste went by quickly. She and Victor fell into a companionable conversation about the upcoming dinner party. Olivia clung to his arm, and she wagered that prior to the incident with Reynolds, theirs had been among the most contented marriages in all of Mayfair.
She genuinely enjoyed her husband. Not just in the bedroom, where there were obvious benefits, but she was wearing down his broody nature to see the kind, protective man beneath the surface. Even when he tried to hold back.
They had nearly reached the tea shop when a commotion further down the street caught their attention. A carriage had overturned, blocking the narrow thoroughfare and drawing a crowd of onlookers.
“Wait here,” Victor instructed, leading her to the shelter of a shop awning. “I’ll see if assistance is needed.”
Olivia nodded, watching as he moved toward the accident with purposeful strides. Even in clothing befitting a duke, his military bearing was unmistakable. The crowd parted instinctively before his authoritative presence.
As she waited, partially concealed by the awning’s shadow, a young messenger boy approached her, cap clutched respectfully in his hands.
“Your Grace? The Duchess of Ravenswood?” he inquired, catching his breath.
“Yes?” Olivia replied.
“Urgent message for you, Your Grace.” He extended a sealed note. “From Harborough House. Mr. Peterson sent me personally to find you.”
Peterson. Her father’s butler.
Olivia accepted the note with sudden trepidation, breaking the seal in a hurry.
Lady Olivia,
I write with grave urgency. Your father has suffered an apoplectic fit and is not expected to survive the day. He is asking for you.
With deepest respect and concern,
Peterson
Olivia’s heart constricted painfully. Despite their strained relationship and the harsh words of their last meeting, she loved her father. They had never had a single disagreement . . . until the whole business with Reynolds.
She glanced toward the overturned carriage. Victor remained fully engaged, kneeling beside what appeared to be an injured woman, directing several men as they attempted to remove her from beneath the vehicle.
Her father might have only minutes left, and she must go to him. The house was a couple streets away, and Victor could be occupied with the accident for quite some time.
“Wait here,” she instructed the boy, pressing a coin into his palm. “When the duke finishes with the carriage, tell him I’ve gone to my father’s bedside at Harborough House and request that he join me there as soon as possible. Can you remember that?”
The boy nodded earnestly, repeating her instructions. Deciding it would be faster to walk, given the commotion in the street, she quickly informed their carriage driver to return to their townhouse and that they’d summon him when needed.
Olivia then set off at a brisk pace. She finally approached Berkeley Square, her childhood home just a short distance beyond. Lost in memories and anticipation, she failed to notice the closed carriage that pulled alongside her until a man stepped directly into her path.
“Your Grace?” he inquired, doffing his hat with exaggerated courtesy. “A fortunate coincidence. Mr. Peterson sent me to find you, fearing his message might not have reached you in time.”
There was a shift in his demeanor that triggered every one of her instincts.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” she replied cautiously, attempting to step around him.
“Forgive me. Dr. Farnsworth, physician to His Grace.” He extended his hand, which she did not take. “Mr. Peterson was concerned you might not have received his message. He’ll be relieved I found you so quickly.”
Olivia hesitated. “Peterson mentioned no physician by name in his note.”
A flash of annoyance crossed the man’s face, but he quickly recovered. “I was only called in this morning when Dr. Lambert required assistance. Now, if you’ll allow me to escort you—” He reached for her arm.
Olivia stepped back sharply. “Thank you, but I know the way to my father’s house perfectly well. Good day, sir.”
Before she could turn away, two more men appeared from the carriage. One gripped her arm with painful force while the other glanced nervously up and down the street.
“I’m afraid I must insist, Your Grace,” said the supposed physician, his pleasant facade abandoning him entirely. “Get her inside, quickly.”
Panic surged through her as the men forced her toward the waiting carriage. She opened her mouth to scream, but one of the men placed his arm around her throat and tightened. The world began to spin dizzyingly around her as she fought to catch her breath.
Her last conscious thought was of Victor and that he would save her.
When Olivia regained consciousness, she found herself in unfamiliar surroundings.
A small, sparsely furnished room with a single high window admitted weak afternoon light.
Her head throbbed painfully, and her mouth felt dry, as though she’d been chewing cotton.
With effort, she pushed herself into a sitting position on the narrow cot where she’d been placed.
“Ah, the duchess awakens,” came a familiar voice from the doorway.
Edward Reynolds leaned against the doorframe, looking far more composed than when she’d last seen him with blood streaming from his split lip courtesy of Victor’s fist.
“My father,” Olivia managed, her voice hoarse. “Is he truly ill?”
“A necessary fiction, I’m afraid,” Reynolds replied with an insincere smile. “The Duke of Harborough remains in excellent health at his country estate, blissfully unaware of his daughter’s current predicament.”
Cold understanding washed over her. “The messenger boy . . .”
“Also in my employ. Given my situation, I require information that only your husband’s military connections might provide.”
The realization of how easily she’d fallen into the man’s trap made her stomach clench with dread.
“What do you want from me?” she demanded, rising unsteadily to her feet.
Reynolds stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him with an ominous click. “Your husband’s interference has cost me dearly with my French patrons. He and that bloody Atherton couldn’t just leave well enough alone.”
“You should be hanged for betraying your country!”
Reynolds withdrew a small pistol from his coat pocket, its barrel gleaming dully in the dim light. “Now, shall we begin our discussion of what your husband knows about the inner workings of the King’s guard?”
“I know nothing of such matters,” Olivia replied, her voice steadier than she felt.
“Perhaps not directly,” Reynolds conceded, “but a wife overhears much. Tell me everything you’ve heard.”
As Reynolds closed the distance between them, Olivia’s thoughts turned to Victor. If only she had waited for him instead of rushing headlong into danger. Again.
“Your efforts are wasted,” she said with far more confidence than she felt. “Victor shares nothing of political or military significance with me.”
Reynolds’ eyes narrowed as he studied her, the pistol still trained steadily at her midsection, forcing her to instinctively place her hands there.
“I don’t believe you.” His gaze traveled over her body with deliberate insolence.
“What secrets might your husband reveal to keep what’s his?
What might he divulge to keep another man from claiming you? ”
A chill ran through Olivia as his meaning became unmistakable. Reynolds’ gaze lingered on her breasts.
“Not that I haven’t already done so,” he continued, his free hand reaching out to trace the air just above her cheek. “So do you think that would make your husband more angry or less if I were to experience his wife again?”
Olivia recoiled, disgusted with the vile man before her. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Wouldn’t I?” Reynolds’ smile widened, revealing a predatory edge. “Your husband took everything from me. Perhaps it’s only fair that I take what belongs to him in return.”
He gestured with the pistol toward the cot. “Sit down, Duchess.”
“Victor will kill you for this,” she said, knowing that he would and hoping he wouldn’t be too late.
“Perhaps,” he conceded, “but he would have to find me first.”
Reynolds pulled the room’s single chair closer to the cot, seating himself while keeping the pistol trained on her. “Now what do you know of your husband’s correspondence? His visitors? Anything.”
“I told you, I know nothing,” Olivia repeated, her mind racing for a way to delay him until Victor could find her, holding onto hope that he was, indeed, searching for her.
Reynolds sighed theatrically. “Such stubbornness. Very well. It would appear that you leave me no choice.” He gestured with the pistol. “Remove your dress.”
Olivia stared at him in horror. “I will do no such thing.”
“You misunderstand, Duchess. This is not a request.” Reynolds’ voice hardened. “I have associates waiting outside who will be happy to assist me should you prove difficult.”
Olivia tried to calculate how much time had passed since she’d left Victor. And she couldn’t be certain.
The look in Reynolds’ eyes told her he was deadly serious in his threat. She needed time. Time for Victor to find her or to think of some way to escape. Unable to do anything different, she began to unfasten the buttons along the back of her dress, moving as slowly as she dared.
“That’s better,” Reynolds said, satisfaction evident in his tone. “Continue, slowly. We are in no hurry.”
Tears welled in the corner of her eyes as her throat constricted. Regardless of what Reynolds did to her body, the most devastating fear of all was that she might never see her husband again.