“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 acceptedtheir 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 injuredwoman, 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.
