by Maya Rodale
“Yes, we shall,” Emma replied in a manner that made him distinctly uneasy.
A commotion by the lemonade table caught his attention. It involved Olivia—and her hands on another man. She wasn’t his, but Phinn still experienced a surge of possessiveness that woke his Radcliffe temper. He took a deep breath, forcing it back.
There was a mob around the lemonade table. Olivia and Prudence joined the crowd not for a drink, but to be in the vicinity of Lord Gerard, who had recently appeared in the gossip columns after suffering a carriage accident at first light, upon which it was discovered that his friend’s wife was in the carriage with him. Given their lack of attire, there was little doubt as to what they had been doing together. There was a duel, of course, and it was rather remarkable for him to show his face this evening.
“You ask him,” Prudence said, gently nudging Olivia, while eyeing Lord Gerard’s broad shoulders, clad in a fine black wool jacket. His tawny colored hair was long, curling around the collar.
“No, you ask him,” Olivia replied. He was such a tower of virile masculinity. The idea of talking to him made her feel out of sorts. She hadn’t prepared for this, and in her nervousness, her palms became damp.
“You’re the one who’s supposed to be cavorting with disreputable gentlemen,” Prudence pointed out in a whisper.
“Cavorting?” Olivia echoed. “I’m not sure I know how to cavort.”
“Just think what Lady Katherine would do,” Prudence advised. Olivia could just imagine it: she would probably purr and caress his arm while promising sin with her gaze. Could Olivia do that? Her heart started to pound. Nerves were certainly going to get the better of her. “I thought I just needed to be seen in the vicinity of a rake.”
“You are too good for your own good,” Prudence declared.
Mustering her courage, Olivia lightly pressed her gloved fingertips on Lord Gerard’s sleeve, getting his attention. He turned. Slowly. And then looked down at her.
Olivia peered up at the face that launched a thousand sighs among the ton. His features were sharply defined and utterly noble. He peered down at her with a jaded expression. Lord Gerard’s eyes were heavy-lidded and dark, making her wonder if he were tired or bored or hiding something.
How on earth was she supposed to speak to him? Let alone purr and caress him?
“Excuse me,” she said, ever polite. “If you wouldn’t mind, my lord, handing a glass to my friend and me . . .” She’d begun to stammer.
By now a few people had turned to glance at the unusual sight of Lord Gerard paying attention to one of London’s Least Likely. She couldn’t flee, even if she wanted to.
Good manners compelled him to honor the request of a lady. Even if he glanced nervously at the said lady, as if expecting a lecture on good manners.
“As you wish,” he murmured in the most devastating way. Olivia thought she ought to have been so daring sooner. Lord Gerard was speaking to her and fetching her a drink!
He handed Olivia and Prudence a glass of lemonade.
Olivia smiled prettily up at him. That she could do. Promising sin with her smoldering gaze would have to wait until she could practice.
He warily returned her smile. Was she making him nervous? Why did that prospect make her giddy?
She should say something witty or flirtatious. If only she could wink without contorting her face into an unappealing expression. Instead, she sipped her lemonade in what she hoped was a seductive and inviting manner. Again, something they really ought to have covered at Lady Penelope’s School for Young Ladies.
“Thank you,” she said.
“My pleasure,” he replied. There was a faint upturn at the corners of his mouth. This was ever so slightly amusing to him. But at least he wasn’t dismissing her outright.
“Are you enjoying this evening?” Olivia asked.
“Yes. And you?”
“Yes,” Olivia said, a touch too breathlessly. Lord Gerard noticed, too, which made her blush.
Truly, this could be the beginning of a grand romance if she could only think of something perfect to say. Then he’d raise his brow, intrigued, as rogues were known to do—as Emma had informed them from the novels she read. Then they’d waltz and years of dancing lessons wouldn’t have gone to waste after all. They’d fall in love, quickly, and he’d wickedly suggest they elope to Gretna Green and—
“Oh!” Olivia cried out as someone—Prudence— bumped into her, causing her to spill her lemonade all over the front of Lord Gerard’s pale blue silk waistcoat. She fearfully glanced up at him; his expression was as inscrutable as ever, though that mere hint of a smile was now definitely a frown.
“I’m so sorry!” she said, also terribly sorry to have ruined their almost-moment. “You have my sincere apologies.”
“It’s all right,” he said. But it wasn’t really. He’d been doused with lemonade and would have to retire early or smell of lemons or take his waistcoat off. The thought of that brought a furious blush to her cheeks.
She pulled a handkerchief from her reticule (young ladies are always prepared) and attempted to dry off Gerard’s waistcoat, which of course resulted in her hands upon him . . . and his waistcoat, which was his abdomen, really. Olivia was aware that it was firm under her touch and that this was the first time she’d had such intimate contact with a man.
Although it didn’t feel intimate—not with dozens of people looking on with slightly bemused, slightly horrified expressions. Her cheeks were still hot. She was hot, all over. She straightened, awkwardly clutching the handkerchief, and looked around. For once, everyone was staring at her.
Olivia’s gaze locked with the Mad Baron’s even though he stood at a distance. How she managed to find him in the crowd escaped her. There was just some pull between them, she supposed, even though she knew better now.
Still . . . still . . . she could see his green eyes fixed intently upon hers. The intensity of his gaze unnerved her. Had she made him angry? Had she embarrassed him? Was that not the point of this ridiculous exercise?
Above all, why did she have the urge to smooth back his hair and apologize? Prudence was right: she was too good for her own good.
Phinn set off after Olivia, only to be stopped by Rogan, who had deigned to appear in the ballroom after disappearing into the card rooms upon their arrival hours ago. Phinn scanned the room to see where Olivia had gone to now.
She’d had her hands all over some fellow, which led to the inconvenient revelation that he already felt possessive of her. There was no logical reason he should feel that way. Such a sentiment also revealed that his attraction to her was not entirely based upon her lovely appearance and perfect reputation. It was deeper, more primal. He wanted her hands on him.
“Ah there you are,” Rogan said brightly.
“How fares your wagering? Losing more than you can afford?” Phinn inquired, still scanning the room for Olivia.
“I was. Sadly,” Rogan said dejectedly. “We don’t all have your freakish ability to predict winning hands and to be so inscrutable about it.”
“It’s mathematics. Probabilities, etcetera, etcetera,” Phinn explained again. “I’ve spent hours trying to teach you.” Rogan would just prattle on about luck and the rush of the game.
“You lost me at mathematics,” Rogan said jovially. And loudly. “How fares your quest to steal away with your intended?”
“Shhh,” Phinn urged when a few people nearby turned with alarmed expressions. Bloody hell, now he’d read about his nefarious plans to abscond with an unwilling bride in the morning papers. “I don’t want to steal her away. Just have a bloody moment alone,” Phinn said, pushing his fingers through his hair. And then lowering his voice he added, “I have managed to divest myself of Lady Archer’s company.”
“Well that’s a start,” Rogan concurred.
“Then I ran into Ashbrooke and his wife,” Phinn said, still unsure if he was annoyed or amused by Lady Emma. It spoke well of Olivia that her friends cared so deeply as
to make the inquiries she did. But what was this talk of dungeons?
“Look at the lofty company you keep,” Rogan retorted.
“Meanwhile,” Phinn went on, “Olivia manhandled some gentleman by the lemonade table.”
Rogan began to choke on his whiskey and Phinn thought about smacking him on his back. Hard.
“And now . . .” Phinn’s voice trailed off as he caught a glimpse of Olivia’s lovely blond hair. She was heading toward the terrace. If he could meet here there, it would be perfect. They’d be able to talk without the horrid crush in the ballroom interfering.
“Lady Archer! Good evening,” Rogan said.
“Good evening,” she replied, looking from one gentleman to the other.
“This is Lord Rogan, one of my oldest friends,” Phinn said. “He was just telling me he fancied a waltz, and I do believe I heard one starting now.”
“Actually, it’s a quadrille,” Lady Archer corrected.
“I’ve been spending far too much time in the country,” Phinn said, adopting a dejected expression. If he had a wife like Olivia, he’d know these things. Or she would know them for him. “Perhaps you two will dance and talk about the wedding.”
Lord Rogan, who usually consorted with the light-skirts of the demimonde and women of negotiable affections, had no choice but to smile and ask Lady Archer to dance. Phinn made his escape.
Prudence led Olivia away from Lord Gerard and his soaking waistcoat, seeking another opportunity for scandal. Olivia must cavort with rogues, plural.
“What just happened?” Olivia asked, aghast.
Prudence just smiled and explained: “What happened was that you broke at least seven rules of etiquette. You spoke to a gentleman to whom you had not been introduced. You asked for something you wanted, rather than wait prettily for someone to notice that perhaps you were parched and in need of refreshment. And then you had your hands all over Lord Gerard’s abdomen!” Prudence paused before concluding with, “You’re welcome.”
“I suppose you’re the mysterious push that caused me to lose my balance and spill my drink,” Olivia remarked.
They paused to chat near a pillar. Before them dozens of couples were dancing, including—Prue gasped—was that Lady Archer doing the quadrille with a young man? No, it couldn’t be. But it was. Best not to mention it. Olivia and Prue lingered near the doors to the terrace, while Prudence explained the situation.
“You were seen cavorting with a rake instead of just standing next to one,” she said. “Everyone will be speaking about it. Perhaps even the Mad Baron saw you, and thinks that you are not the docile, chaste creature he envisioned.”
“Thank you?” Olivia said, though it sounded to Prue rather like a question.
“Of course,” Prue said, smiling. “What are friends for, if not helping to derail an unwanted marriage by causing numerous scandals in one night?”
But Prudence knew it was more than that. When her friend inevitably married, she would officially be the last graduate of Lady Penelope’s School for Young Ladies who hadn’t wed. The anniversary ball was just over a month away and she didn’t have even one suitor. Not one. She’d need Olivia by her side for that event and ever after.
They could rent a cottage in Brighton and be spinsters by the sea . . .
If Olivia loved the Mad Baron, then she wouldn’t interfere with a nudge or a push or a crazy scheme. But she knew Olivia didn’t want to marry him, and unlike her, didn’t possess a wicked mind, so it was her noble duty as a friend to help.
“Olivia, I have only your best interests at heart.”
“I know. And I would do the same for you,” Olivia said, smiling and affectionately squeezing her hand. Prue felt her breath catch. She had to remember this moment when everything was still amusing and lovely. Before Olivia inevitably wed someone and she herself was left on her own. It was a bittersweet moment, feeling this happiness but knowing it wouldn’t last.
Forcing such maudlin sentiments aside, Prudence focused upon the quest of the evening. Cavorting with rogues. Plural.
“Remember that,” she said, smiling mischievously.
“What? Why?” Olivia asked, now looking nervous.
“So you won’t be angry when I do this,” Prue said, giving a gentle—very well, firm—nudge to her friend, which sent her stumbling forward and into the arms of a rake.
Olivia shrieked as she pitched forward into the arms of . . . Whose arms were these? She looked up, into a wall of a man’s chest clad in a cerulean blue silk waistcoat. Laughter reached her ears. She looked higher still, into the laughing brown eyes of a rather handsome dark-haired gentleman.
A man she didn’t recognize provided some illumination on the matter: “What did you catch, there, Beaumont?”
Oh Lord Above, this was Lord Beaumont. She didn’t think he even attended proper ton functions, preferring instead to frequent less formal events with much looser women. It was said—in hushed whispers—that he’d bedded a different woman every night since he’d turned fifteen. Prudence had once added it up, but Olivia couldn’t remember the outrageously high number now. She couldn’t remember anything. This was Beaumont and she was in his arms.
“I am terribly sorry,” Olivia said, finding her feet and bearings to stand on her own.
“Are you all right?” he asked, still lightly gripping her arms as if she might topple over again. He peered closely at her with his dark eyes. What wickedness he must have seen! Her gaze dropped to his mouth—how many women had he kissed?
“Yes. Thank you. Terribly sorry,” Olivia mumbled again. Lord, if her mother saw her talking to him, she would be locked away for weeks. In fact, if anyone saw this, it would certainly make the gossip columns.
When the Mad Baron learned of the reckless, dangerous company she kept, he’d never want to marry her.
It had to be noted that Lord Beaumont hadn’t immediately turned his back to her.
“It’s very crowded in here this evening,” he said. “Lady Jenning certainly has outdone herself.”
“Or overdone. It’s dangerously crowded in here,” Olivia remarked.
“Indeed, and perilous to young maidens throughout the ballroom,” Beaumont murmured. Olivia eyed him warily: was he flirting or bamming her?
“The dangers have added a certain thrill to the evening,” Olivia replied.
“Indeed.” His gaze lowered to her breasts. She felt a blush creep across her cheeks. She’d always wanted a man to look at her lustily, had she not?
“Do you need a spot of air? Miss?”
Young ladies do not go onto the terrace unaccompanied by rakes.
Especially Beaumont!
Except that she was trying to break the rules. And lud, he was handsome. And if he had kissed so many woman, what was one more? Why not her?
Besides, Prudence would certainly follow at a discreet distance, wouldn’t she? Never mind that Prue seemed to have vanished.
“That would be lovely, thank you,” she replied.
And then, unbelievably, Lord Beaumont escorted her out to the terrace. Olivia felt her heart start to beat quickly, giddily. Was it always this easy to gain the attentions of a rake? If only she’d known! If only Prudence had pushed her—literally pushed her—into some man’s arms years ago. She could be celebrating her wedding anniversary, not her looming death on her wedding night.
Perhaps this is when her romance would finally begin! Perhaps a footman might stroll past with champagne and Beaumont would pluck two glasses, handing one to her. They would talk of the stars and the ball and whatever else one talked about while falling in love. Surely, they would discover that they liked all the same things and were truly kindred spirits in spite of his blackened reputation. He’d whisper how beautiful she was. Then, in the moonlight, he’d kiss her.
That was how it was supposed to go.
What actually happened: Lord Beaumont saw a friend of his. His arm loosened as he drifted away from Olivia and toward his old comrade. They quite forgot she wa
s there, as he disentangled himself entirely and strolled away. Olivia looked around for Prudence, who was still nowhere to be seen. Olivia was left all alone on the terrace. And that’s when the Mad Baron found her.
The Radcliffe temper had been the bane of generations of Radcliffe men. They were an easygoing lot, able to allow almost any slight or frustration to roll like water off a duck’s back. But then—and one never knew when—something was just too much and they’d erupt in a violent explosion of fury. Phinn often attempted to calculate just how much pressure, how much force, how much frustration he could take before it was best for everyone that he make himself scarce. It was one formula he’d yet to perfect.
The constant setbacks of the evening—Olivia with that man, her mother, Rogan—were not enough to incite his temper on their own. But as the evening progressed, his resistance was fraying.
Then he saw her in the arms of yet another man.
Then he saw that man look lasciviously at Olivia’s breasts.
She wasn’t his, but he felt possessive of her—as if she were already his wife.
It was a good thing he’d seen Olivia’s friend push her. While that did absolve Olivia, it begged the question of why her friend would do such a thing. Phinn didn’t think he liked the obvious answer.
It didn’t matter. None of it mattered when he finally found Olivia alone on the terrace. She looked beautiful. Her skin was luminous in the moonlight, and her eyes were wide and dark. She appeared a little lost. He wanted nothing more than to embrace her, hold her close, and whisper something devastatingly romantic.
But years of not wooing every female that crossed his path suddenly caught up with him.
Instead he said, “Lady Olivia. Good evening.”
She turned slowly to face him. First she looked toward the right, then toward the left, and then behind her. After ascertaining that there was no one else with whom she might converse, she reluctantly focused on him.
“Good evening, Lord Radcliffe,” she said indifferently. It ought to have been off-putting. Oddly, he felt more determined than ever to win her.
“Please, call me Phinn.”
