Wallflower Gone Wild

by Maya Rodale

  Wallflower Gone Wild

  Maya Rodale

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to all the good girls.

  And to Penelope, who follows the rules only as they suit her.

  And to Tony. Because I said so.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Author's Note

  Acknowledgments

  An exclusive excerpt from The Bad Boy Billionaire’s Girl Gone Wild

  About the Author

  Romances by Maya Rodale

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  “Let the great husband hunt begin!”

  —LADY PENELOPE, TO HER GRADUATES

  Lady Olivia Archer’s first season

  London, 1821

  In spite of extensive preparation from Lady Penelope’s Finishing School for Young Ladies of Fine Families, Lady Olivia Archer was a failure on the marriage mart. The season had scarcely begun when it was abundantly clear her education would be useless for attracting suitors.

  “I daresay gentlemen don’t care to hear about embroidery,” Olivia remarked to her friends—and fellow wallflowers—Lady Emma Avery and Miss Prudence Merryweather Payton. She had just returned from one of the three dances on her otherwise empty dance card.

  “We’re supposed to ask gentlemen about themselves,” Emma remarked. “But what are we to do if they ask us about ourselves?”

  “Exactly! ‘A young lady should be seen and not heard,’ ” Olivia said. It was one of The Rules they had dutifully learned. “But it would be rude not to reply.”

  “I tried that and it was a disaster,” Prudence said with a shudder. “I spent a half hour listening to Lord Gifford talk about the drainage ditches on his estate.”

  Nearby, Lady Katherine Abernathy—their classmate from Lady P’s—burst into laughter, along with the group of young, handsome, eligible bachelors surrounding her. It was safe to say they were not discussing drainage ditches. Or embroidery.

  Olivia eyed Lady Katherine with something like jealously before stifling the sort of base emotion in which ladies did not indulge. No, ladies were serene and kind. The rule breakers traveled down a dangerous path of vice, onward to ruin. Proper ladies were rewarded with good husbands and every happiness.

  But it looked like Lady Katherine was having an awfully good time.

  “Perhaps we should have spent less time learning how to pour tea and more time learning to flirt,” Olivia murmured as she watched Lady Katherine playfully bat her eyelashes at the hordes of young men around her.

  By the end of Olivia’s first season, even attempting to learn how to flirt would prove impossible, for men dared not venture into the wallflower corner of the ballroom, which was where Olivia spent most of her evenings.

  Lady Olivia’s second season

  In ballrooms

  Dressed in a modestly cut gown, made of fabric in a not very flattering shade of white, Olivia made the rounds of soirees and balls with her mother constantly by her side, wrangling gentlemen for conversation, since Olivia had spent “far too much time wallowing with her wallflower friends” instead of seeking a husband during her previous season.

  “Tell Lord Stanton about your watercolors,” Lady Archer urged.

  Olivia obliged and watched the gentleman’s eyes glaze over. Honestly, she couldn’t blame him. Was there a duller subject than a young lady’s watercolors? Nevertheless she told him of painting every afternoon on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Wickedly, she considered informing him that her favorite subject to paint was the male nude.

  Wickedly, the idea actually appealed to her.

  But to say such things in polite company was Not Done. So instead Olivia told him about the vexations of trying to paint a kitten with a ball of yarn. The gentleman patiently listened for a moment before excusing himself to refill his glass. Or say hello to someone. Or call for his carriage.

  “Tell Lord Babington about your singing,” Lady Archer suggested. “Olivia has a lovely voice.”

  Olivia obliged and saw Lord Babington’s gaze wander. Truly, she understood. Was there anything sillier than speaking about one’s singing? But the alternative was to burst into song right here in the ballroom.

  Ladies do not burst into song.

  But wouldn’t it be funny if she did? Olivia stifled a giggle as she imagined it. Her mother’s sharp elbow in her ribs restored her focus.

  No. She would never.

  But she thought about it.

  “Tell Mr. Parker-Jones about your embroidery, Lady Olivia.”

  “I spend my free hours embroidering,” Olivia said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

  “How interesting,” the gentleman murmured, when really it was the very definition of tedium. Meanwhile his attention was obviously drawn to Lady Katherine, who laughed at men’s witty jokes all whilst leaning forward to display her bosom to an advantage.

  Olivia had a very small bosom, which was always covered.

  Ladies do not flaunt themselves.

  “You mustn’t speak so much of yourself, Olivia,” her mother admonished and Olivia restrained an exasperated sigh.

  Young ladies do not sigh exasperatedly.

  “Gentlemen don’t care to hear about the trials of ladies,” her mother carried on, contradicting all the conversations she’d just foisted upon Olivia and unsuspecting men. “You must ask him about himself. It is every man’s favorite subject.”

  Lord Pendleton did not disprove her mother. Believing he had found an interested audience in Olivia, he expounded at length about his hunting dogs, his disgruntled tenants, and the vexations of a countryman in a big city like London.

  Because ladies smiled prettily even if they were dying inside, Olivia did just that. But her gaze did stray to her fellow wallflower friends, laughing amongst themselves.

  She couldn’t help but notice all the handsome young gentlemen who flirted with the other girls who didn’t have such overbearing mothers. Or a nickname like Prissy Missy because of their exceedingly proper manners and conversation.

  Which was funny because deep down she didn’t think of herself as a Prissy Missy. She was a girl who liked to sing and dance, who wished to flirt with rakes and be kissed improperly. Unfortunately, the circumstances were never quite right for her to be that girl. She was too busy being A Lady.

  “Is that punch, Olivia? Ladies ought to have lemonade only.” Olivia simply handed the glass to a passing footman. Never mind that a gentleman had offered it to her and her mother would have cautioned that A Lady wouldn’t refuse.

  Lady Olivia’s third season

  Lord Archer’s library

  At the beginning of her third season Olivia’s parents requested her presence in the library for an interview about her marital prospects. Or distinct lack thereof. Truly, she was just as vexed by her single state. She wanted to be married. She wanted romance. She wanted a family of her own. But what could she do? She’d done everything right. She wore modest gowns, perfected ladylike habits and bit her t
ongue from impolite or forward comments. Still, the good husband and happiness she’d been promised eluded her.

  Olivia perched upon a settee. Her parents sat opposite. The room was hardly used; Lord Archer spent most of his time at his club, avoiding his wife and daughter, except for when Grave Matters intruded.

  “Olivia, now that you have finished your second season—” her mother began.

  “Without making a match,” her father grumbled, needlessly pointing out the painfully obvious. “After the investment we have made in your education.”

  “We must do better during your third season. I have made a list of prospects for you,” her mother said, handing Olivia a sheet of paper. “We shall spend particular effort to further our acquaintance with these gentlemen whom your father and I find to be eminently suitable candidates.”

  With each name she read, Olivia felt queasier and queasier. If these were the Good Husbands she’d been promised, then she’d been tremendously deceived. If these were the husbands her parents thought her capable of snaring, then she was horrified.

  “Lord Eccles?” Olivia questioned, looking up from the paper. “But he is positively ancient! I’m certain he predates the flood!”

  “Young lady—” her father warned. One could discern the severity of his mood by the color of his face. At the moment, Olivia likened it to a rosé wine.

  “Yes, but you’ll be a viscountess and a well-off widow within a few years,” her mother pointed out.

  Olivia thought she might be sick on the carpet. Even though young ladies did not cast up their accounts in the library.

  “And Lord Derby does not keep his hands to himself,” Olivia said, shuddering. “Every young lady knows to steer clear of him.”

  “He also has six thousand a year and a plot of land adjoining one of our estates,” her father replied as if that were all that mattered. As if her hopes and dreams were insignificant. As if her days and—shudder—nights with this man were beside the point. Not to her they weren’t!

  In the end the Horrid List mattered not one whit. While Olivia had at least learned not to talk about watercolors, embroidery, or her musical endeavors with gentlemen, the knowledge had come too late.

  Finding herself in conversation with any gentleman—even candidates on the Horrid List—proved to be an impossibility. Her reputation preceded her: men lowered their gazes or turned away as she strolled through the ballroom fighting to keep her head held high and a smile on her face.

  She thought about calling for their attention and making a speech: Gentlemen, let me assure you that I have no interest in speaking of hair ribbons either. In fact, I’d be much obliged if one of you young handsome bucks were to kiss me instead.

  Obviously, she did no such thing. But imagining it kept a smile on her lips and her eyes dry.

  Sometimes, that wasn’t enough. When her mother was by her side, the aversion was even more obvious. At Lady Farnsworth’s garden party, Mr. Middleton actually launched himself into a hedge to avoid the Archer women.

  There were many people Olivia would have launched herself into a hedge to avoid. Like Lady Katherine Abernathy, Lord Derby, or Lord Eccles. But young ladies smiled and made polite conversation. They did not seek refuge in the shrubbery. And yet, she admired Mr. Middleton for doing as he wished, hang propriety.

  As the calling hours and evening soirees ticked by, Olivia discovered that being a young lady was not all it was cracked up to be. But everyone said if she behaved and followed the rules, happiness would be hers. Lady Penelope had impressed this upon her students. Olivia’s mother drilled it into her daughter. All the conduct books and purse-lipped dowagers only confirmed it.

  Mr. Middleton and the hedge wasn’t the worst. Not by a long shot.

  She’d been named London’s Least Likely to Cause a Scandal. Olivia had the distinct displeasure of learning this by overhearing a conversation between a group of young bucks, just down from Oxford. She’d eyed them longingly. They were the sort of men that made a girl’s pulse race with nervous anticipation. She was no exception. Mustering her nerve, she forced herself to step closer, perhaps in their line of vision. Perhaps where one might notice her and ask her to dance.

  She straightened her spine and tugged down her bodice as low as possible (admittedly not very far). Lingering nearby, she adopted Lady Katherine’s pout, which men seemed to find irresistible.

  The gents hardly noticed; they were in the throes of a lively conversation.

  “After all, when could she cause a scandal? She’s too busy with her hair ribbons and embroidery,” said a tall, dark-haired stranger. Lud, he was handsome. Olivia inched closer, prepared to laugh at the silly girls who only bothered with hair ribbons and embroidery.

  But then a ginger-haired fellow said, “Don’t forget her watercolors and singing.”

  Olivia froze, afraid they were talking about her. Slowly, she started to inch backward, ashamed for thinking one of them would want to dance with her.

  “Even if Prissy Missy were so inclined,” another one said—and she knew they were speaking of her—“with that mother of hers constantly by her side, how could she even attempt anything scandalous?” The lot of them groaned at the mention of her mother.

  “Lord save us all from the Archer ladies,” another one said, and the others heartily agreed.

  Olivia slinked away, heartbroken and horrified. Perhaps happily-ever-after was not for her.

  Chapter 1

  Lord Castleton, who embarked on his ritual grand tour and extended it by quite a few years, has sent word that he will soon return to England.

  —“FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE” BY A LADY OF DISTINCTION

  THE LONDON WEEKLY

  Lady Olivia’s fourth season

  As Olivia stood along the perimeter of the ballroom, amongst the wallflowers, she was achingly aware of the minutes ticking by. Minutes in which her prospects for marriage grew dimmer. She tried to calculate how many minutes were remaining before Lady Penelope’s Ball commemorating the hundredth anniversary of the school, and thus how many minutes remained before she was a confirmed spinster, a failure on the marriage mart, and an utterly hopeless case.

  No graduate in the history of the school had failed to make a match within four seasons. Except, perhaps, for Olivia. They might as well call her London’s Least Likely to Marry.

  “Is everything alright?” Prudence asked just when Olivia was trying to divide forty-four days by the number of minutes in a day. “You look ill.”

  “I’m trying to do maths,” Olivia explained, before giving up. She was terrible with numbers.

  “It’s not a good look for you,” Prudence told her in the way that only a dearest friend would.

  “What do you think of taking a turn about the ballroom?” Olivia asked. She was impatient just standing there. Waiting. Always, waiting.

  “Yes, let’s. How diverting,” Prudence murmured. Arm in arm they ventured from the wallflower corner into the rest of the ballroom where, all around them, men and women flirted and conversed and arranged for marriages or assignations. They found their way to the balcony that lined the upper portion of the ballroom.

  “There you both are!” Emma exclaimed. “I want to introduce you to some friends of Blake’s.”

  Both Olivia and Prudence frowned. Blake was the Duke of Ashbrooke, and until he married Emma, had been a notorious libertine. His friends were not interested in the likes of London’s Least Likely.

  “I think that perhaps . . .” Olivia began. There was something about being foisted on uninterested gentlemen that her confidence couldn’t quite take this evening. Much as she wanted to fall in love and marry, she was just exhausted with the constant failure of trying. It was time to consider what she might do instead. Perhaps she and Prudence could share a house and be spinsters together.

  Emma was having none of that, though.

  “Oh, do come!” she exclaimed before practically dragging Prudence with her.

  “I’ll be right there,”
Olivia said. “I just need a moment.”

  Slowly, she paced along the balcony, allowing her fingers to trail upon the balustrade. Gazing down, she watched the surge and pull of the crowd, enjoying the view of the dancers spinning in circles from high above . . . but oh how she wished to be among them. She was so tired of standing by, waiting.

  And then she saw him.

  Rather, she saw how the crowd moved around him. They seemed to step aside as if he were Someone of Great Importance. Like every other man in the room, he wore a suit of evening clothes. But the similarities seemed to end there. This man was taller, his shoulders broader. The way he moved suggested he was a man of determination and action. His hair was cut short but tussled, as if he’d pushed his fingers through it rakishly or . . . as if he’d wickedly come from a woman’s bed.

  One could easily imagine him as a rogue or a pirate. In fact, one did.

  Intrigued, Olivia strolled slowly along the balcony, keeping pace with this man as he walked through the ballroom. Who was he? She didn’t recognize him from previous parties. Perhaps he was the Lord Castleton mentioned in the newspapers—the one who was expected to return to town after an extended period abroad. Olivia didn’t care: whoever he was, he was new and thus he didn’t know that she was Prissy Missy or one of London’s Least Likely. Her heart started beating in triple time at the possibilities.

  And then, inexplicably, he turned and looked directly at her.

  Her heartbeat stopped.

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  He was beautiful. And he was gazing intently at her. Until this moment, Olivia had no idea that one could feel another person’s gaze from across the ballroom. She had never been hit by lightning, but she could imagine it might have felt something like this. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. She felt the spark of intrigue, the spark of lust, the spark of possibility.

  She watched as he murmured something to a nearby friend before he started walking toward the stairs leading up to the balcony.