by Maya Rodale
“You needn’t wait for the wedding night itself,” Emma pointed out. Prudence looked mildly appalled. “You could always . . .”
“Highly unlikely, given that I am determined not to encourage him,” Olivia said. “In fact, he practically dared me to prove that we will not suit. More to the point, we have wagered about it.”
He’d surprised her with that dare. And that grin of his, which didn’t make him seem like a murderer at all. She couldn’t help but wonder: what if he had adamantly defended himself from her charges? What if he had explained everything? What if he were innocent? But if he was, he would have said so, and he did not.
“Is that so?” Prudence asked.
“Quite an interesting plot twist,” Emma remarked.
“So you see, I must do something desperate, and time is running out,” Olivia said. “My mother hopes for the banns to be read this Sunday. So what shall I do to prove that I am London’s Latest Scandal?”
“You know what you have to do,” Emma said. “Act scandalously. Improperly.”
“Nudity,” Prudence stated. “And I’m not merely speaking of leaving your gloves at home or giving a gent a glimpse of your stocking-clad ankle, either.”
“I beg your pardon?” Both Emma and Olivia peered curiously at their friend after her mad suggestion.
“Lady Clarke once wore a gown that revealed more of her bosoms and back than it covered. The ton talked for weeks. Lady Thurston is said to dampen her gowns—and all the gents throw themselves at her while respectable women never invite her to tea.”
“Nudity, Prudence?” Olivia winced, imagining herself streaking through a ballroom with nothing on.
“We could take a cue from these statues,” Prudence said, waving toward them.
“I am not strolling naked through a ballroom with naught but a sheet wrapped around me.”
“But you could be a bit more revealing,” Prudence said with a pointed look at Olivia’s exceedingly proper and modest day gown. “Show your ankles. Lower your bodice. Somehow procure a diaphanous gown and dampen the skirts.”
“You might just cause a sensation,” Emma remarked thoughtfully. “And perhaps attract a new beau.”
“One who will whisk you away to Gretna or procure a special license,” Prudence pointed out.
Olivia’s immediate, unbidden thought to that plan was to picture Phinn looking forlorn. Disappointed in her, even. He’d probably push his fingers through his hair, mussing it up, and look at her with those eyes and ask her, pained, why she would do such a thing. He would rue the day he wagered with her.
What did she care what he felt?
If she was going to fall in love and live happily ever after, she’d have to stop waiting for it to happen to her. She’d have to start making her own opportunities. If she didn’t want to be London’s Least Likely to Cause a Scandal—and keep the groom that came with it—then she’d have to show a little skin.
“I like this plan,” she said resolutely. “I can scare off Phinn and attract a new suitor. But how do I get out of the house dressed immodestly without my mother having a hysterical fit?”
The three women fell into a long silence. Their thoughts may have been distracted by the proximity of all the tall, impeccably muscled statues looming over them. What was under that fig leaf, anyway?
Finally, Prudence spoke. “This is where your skill with a needle and thread will finally be put to good use.”
Later that evening
Rogan succeeded in dragging Phinn to Brook’s, where there were all sorts of entertainments for gentlemen. Rogan seemed at ease in the club and familiar with more than a few patrons, making Phinn fear for the man’s inheritance.
“You wagered with your betrothed that you would suit?” Rogan lamented as they strolled through the club.
“It seemed like a good idea at the moment,” Phinn admitted. It had been positively electric. Not for the first time did he feel a connection to her, as if drawn by an unseen force, like gravity.
He knew all about gravity: it was futile to resist.
“You have basically given her every incentive to try to break with you,” Rogan said. “I think I need a drink.”
“I might have also told her Nadia’s death was my fault,” Phinn added, turning to watch Rogan’s exceedingly appalled expression. He couldn’t help but grin.
“There’s nothing funny about telling a woman you’d like to woo that you’re a murderer,” Rogan said. No. There wasn’t.
“It seemed logical at the time. I tried to explain that Nadia’s death was an accident and that because Olivia has such a different temperament she needn’t be afraid. However, I think I succeeded only in offending her and convincing her that I am a cold-blooded killer.”
“I definitely need a drink,” Rogan said, glancing about for a footman with a bottle of brandy. “Are you trying to make this impossible for yourself? Do you not want to marry her?”
“I do want to marry her. Perhaps even more than when I first set eyes on her.”
At first he’d simply thought her beautiful. There was such an innocence about her, and in her white dresses, she just radiated sweetness and purity. She was everything Nadia hadn’t been. Olivia was poised, refined, and exceedingly well-mannered. Nadia had been a dark-haired vixen, never speaking when she could weep, shout, plead, or demand. Instinctively, he craved Olivia.
Or, rather, the Olivia he first set eyes upon, and the Olivia he had been told about.
“Well seems like you are trying to give her every excuse to flee,” Rogan said. “You practically dared her to act scandalously. Fortunately, I don’t think Prissy Missy is capable of it.”
Phinn wasn’t sure about that. He saw the sparkling intensity in her gaze. The excited upturn of her lips. She might not succeed, but Lord help them all, she was going to try.
“Is it wrong that I’m curious to see what she will do?” he mused.
“No. I confess I’m intrigued as well. It ought to liven up an otherwise dull season,” Rogan replied. “But you have other problems, my friend.”
“What was I to do about that drama with Nadia? Lie?”
“Yes!” Rogan said. Phinn scowled.
“I don’t want to start my marriage on false premises,” he said. “It’ll be doomed to fail. Like constructing upon a weak foundation, or a simple mathematical error that throws off all subsequent calculations.”
“At this point you’ll be lucky to start your marriage at all,” Rogan muttered. “If you keep talking about mathematics and whatnot.”
“You needn’t be so dark about it. I’ll just . . . keep wooing her.”
How, he was not quite sure. He could probably build a machine to do the job before he could figure out just what Lady Olivia Archer wanted.
“I’ll continue to help you,” Rogan said with a sigh. “Seeing as you desperately need my assistance.”
“Thank you.”
“That’s what friends are for,” Rogan said. Then after appearing to give the matter some thought, he grinned and said, “I’ll probably spike the lemonade at Almack’s. After a few drinks her defenses will be down and—”
“Do not finish that sentence. Do not speak it. By God do not ever do what you were about to suggest I do.”
“All right. So you want to win a woman without being the slightest bit roguish?”
“What would that entail?” Phinn asked.
All his life he’d endeavored to be calm, steady, and reliable. Like a machine. Like a gentleman. More to the point: utterly unlike his father, mother, and brother, all of whom had been inclined to hysterical, highly dramatic and irrational behavior.
“You’d have to flirt with everyone. Right in front of Olivia,” Rogan said, grinning, presumably, at the genius he perceived in himself. Not that Phinn had a better suggestion.
“Lady Olivia to you,” Phinn said, and his friend ignored him and continued on with his plan.
“Women love it when men play hard to get,” Rogan said. “And not
hing gets their attention like competition with other birds.”
“Won’t other women be put off by my reputation, the way Olivia is?”
“Not the ones I have in mind. As long as you’re all right looking and can keep up a conversation while hinting at more, they’ll give you all the attentions you want.”
Chapter 8
On no account must they be too short; for when any design is betrayed of showing the foot or ankle, the idea of beauty is lost in that of the wearer’s odious indelicacy.
—THE MIRROR OF GRACES
Almack’s assembly rooms
It was not difficult for Prudence to spike the lemonade at Almack’s. After all, whoever paid attention to Prude Prudence? No one, that’s who. Most young ladies would have had a terrible time coming across a bottle of gin, if they even managed it. But not her. Given that the household cook was given to drink, Prue easily nipped a bit of it. She discovered that flasks easily fit in one’s reticule. Convenient, that.
Thus Prudence waltzed into Almack’s . . .
No, she never waltzed. No one ever asked Prude Prudence if she would like to dance, and she was fine with that.
She walked in, hoping, as usual, that no one would notice her.
At the first possible moment, still quite early in the evening, Prudence spiked the lemonade.
Why, why, why would she do such a thing?
To help her dearest friend, of course. Olivia was so distraught about this business with the Mad Baron. While Prudence applauded her efforts to act unladylike, she also knew a hopeless case when it hit her in the face and then apologized profusely afterward. Olivia was too good. Deep down, bottom of her heart, good. Her instincts were to be polite, gracious, and kind. For years she’d watched Olivia never act abominably toward Lady Katherine, even though she’d had every justifiable reason to. Nor did Olivia ever speak ill of her mother, whose overbearing manner was the reason she couldn’t catch a gent’s eye.
In the very best way, Prudence lacked faith in her friend.
While waiting for said friend to arrive, Prue graced the wallflower patch with her presence. Emma had arrived at the ball already, but she was off dancing with her duke. Soon she would engage in her frustrating new habit of trying to force introductions between her friends and eligible gentlemen. It was awkward for everyone.
When Olivia finally arrived, Prue took one look at her and was glad she’d spiked the lemonade. She was going to need it.
Olivia wore the most modest, most demure, most unprovocative dress she had ever worn, which was really saying something. It was white muslin and silk. There was a large lace ruffle along the hem. Instead of a fashionably—and seductively—low bodice, she wore a white lace fichu that covered her up to the neck.
“You look nice,” Prudence said, her voice hollow. “You are the picture of a young, virginal, modest woman. What of our plans?”
But then she caught the wicked gleam in her friend’s eyes. Her confidence was restored. Marginally.
“For now,” Olivia drawled. “By the end of this evening, if I haven’t given my mother a fit of the vapors, I shall consider myself a failure.”
“Your mother won’t be hard to shock. I do hope that is not your only measure of success.”
“True. Then I hope to read how I have thoroughly tarnished my reputation in the next issue of The London Weekly.”
“Whatever have you planned?” Prue asked, excited.
“Let’s just say the stitches holding this fichu and this flounce are not the strongest ones I’ve ever sewn. I might have shortened the hem and lowered the bodice, too. They have lasted long enough to get me out of the house and past my mother’s approval. At any moment now, I hope the stitches fall out and I lose all this ghastly lace. I should also add that my coiffure won’t last long either. I have removed half the hairpins my maid used. I’ll look a tawdry wreck before the night is through.”
“One hopes. One dearly hopes,” Prudence murmured. “I feel parched. Shall we fetch some lemonade?”
“Wait!” Olivia suddenly stopped short and grabbed Prue’s arm to hold her back. They had been weaving their way through the guests, onward to the lemonade table.
Following her gaze, Prue said, “Ah. I see.”
The Mad Baron was there. Phinn. Olivia didn’t want him to see her like this: the demure, proper, and biddable girl he sought as his demure, proper, biddable wife. Not when she vowed to prove otherwise.
She had imagined how tonight was supposed to go: later in the evening, after she’d lost the stupid fichu and the hideous flounce at her hem, he’d spy her across the ballroom, surrounded by a mass of suitors. As she laughed while men vied to kiss her hand, he’d realize that she was not the woman he sought and thus not worth the bother of courting her.
“That is quite a gown, Lady Olivia.” It was Lady Katherine, flanked by her pack of friends, giving her a disparaging stare. In her slinky blue silk gown decked with glass beads, she made Olivia feel frightfully unfashionable in addition to the way she usually made her feel: unfortunate, simple, and slightly ridiculous. Katherine smiled cruelly. “Already dressing for your spinsterhood, I see. Won’t even the Mad Baron have you?”
It hurt, that. Especially given that it might be true. But rather than wallow, Olivia tipped her chin up and finally came up with a retort to Lady Katherine.
“Oh look!” she exclaimed, pointing toward the far side of the ballroom. “I think I see someone who cares.”
Behind her, Prudence burst out laughing. Lady Katherine’s friends could be seen biting back laughter.
Lady Katherine just stared at her. Olivia stared right back. It was not clear who was more shocked by Olivia’s outburst. But when Katherine scoffed and slinked off, Olivia felt triumphant.
“You bested Lady Katherine!” Prudence exclaimed. “After all these years of her cutting remarks, someone has finally stood up to her. I am so proud.”
“Funny what comes out of my mouth when I stop being polite,” Olivia replied, somewhat awed by herself. Honestly, what if she had acted thusly sooner?
“And to think, the night is still young,” Prudence said. “Now, onward to the lemonade?”
Olivia glanced that way and stopped in her tracks. “No, he’s still there.”
“Is he giving a lemonade to Lady Ross?” Prudence asked, tilting her head curiously to one side.
“By all accounts it would appear to be so,” Olivia replied, as if she didn’t quite believe her eyes. He was supposed to be the most feared and loathed man in the ton.
Yet there was no denying that Phinn and his friend Rogan were engaged in an apparently charming conversation with Lady Ross, a handsome widow who got along famously with all the gentlemen. She loved to wager, be it on cards or horses, and she reputably possessed a bawdy sense of humor that appealed to men.
Whatever were they discussing so animatedly? Olivia couldn’t imagine it, thanks to her dreadfully limited knowledge. Not for the first time did she curse her Perfect Lady’s education.
“Who is his friend?” Prudence asked.
“Lord Rogan,” she answered. “I think he’s a bit of an ass.”
“Olivia!”
“I know,” Olivia replied, smiling. “Young ladies do not use such language.”
“My heart is nearly bursting with pride,” Prudence said, ginning. Olivia’s smile faltered when she saw an unconceivable sight.
“Is she laughing? Why is he smiling?” she asked, aghast. “Is he flirting with her?”
The question she didn’t dare give voice to was: Why did she seem to care? She had to admit that she did. She couldn’t wrench her gaze away from the unfathomable sight of the Mad Baron having a perfectly lovely conversation with another woman. She’d just never expected it. She thought he was a brooding recluse from whom all women ran screaming in terror, and yet . . .
Phinn caught her staring. It was just a glance at first, but she saw the double take. Then his gaze settled on hers and he looked her up and down in a bo
ld, almost possessive manner. It went without saying that no man had ever looked at her that way. What surprised her was how much she liked it. She felt him take stock of her gown, more modest than the ones she usually wore. Then he lifted one brow questioningly, as if to ask, That’s the best you can do?
Olivia gave what she hoped was a wicked smile that promised he hadn’t seen anything yet.
“He couldn’t possibly be flirting with her,” Prudence said. “It must not be what we think it is. Let’s get closer and see if we can eavesdrop.”
As they pushed through the crowd, Olivia was shocked to see what happened next. The Mad Baron and Lady Ross linked arms and strolled off —but not before he caught her eye again. And winked at her!
Olivia gasped. What did this mean? What was happening? The lace across her bodice started to itch, and she wanted to rip it off right then and there. But Prudence was nearly dragging her over to the drinks table now that Phinn and Lady Ross had gone.
Rogan didn’t make an effort to follow the lively conversation between Phinn and Lady Ross. Then again, he didn’t make an effort to follow most conversations. While they were deep in conversation on mathematical something or other, he took advantage of their distraction. There were some precautionary matters he had to attend to.
His friend Phinn was a capital fellow, especially when he didn’t go on about his scientific whatnot, which was known to happen until someone shoved his head in a privy. Well, that hadn’t happened since their first year at Eton, but every once in a while Rogan had half a mind to do it. He just didn’t have much attention or appetite for serious conversation, especially when out at a ball. He reckoned the ladies didn’t either. Given that tonight was all about chatting up The Ladies, he thought a little extra something would assure success.
So in the best interests of everyone at Almack’s that evening, particularly Phinn and Olivia, Rogan poured the contents of his flask into the tureen of lemonade.
