Once Upon a Wicked Night by Jennifer Haymore Read Free Book Online Page B

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 tooaggressive 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