by Maya Rodale
“We’re not in Mayfair anymore,” Prudence murmured.
“Let’s go,” Olivia said with a surge of uncontainable excitement. She grasped Prue’s hand and led the way through the carriages and up to the main entrance of the house.
Inside, the scene that greeted them was breathtaking.
The foyer was a vast, decadent scene. Open to all four stories, the large space was dominated by a massive marble staircase spiraling higher and higher. There were open balconies where men shouted down or across to each other and women blew kisses. Olivia even spied a couple kissing openly.
Hand in hand, she and Prudence tailed behind Blake and Emma through the foyer and into the ballroom. The orchestra loudly played lively songs. Was it her nerves, or did they play every song faster? She’d have sworn she could feel the deep, low bass and cello playing in time with her heartbeat.
And then the gowns! And jewels! Everywhere she looked another woman sashayed past, decked in richly hued silks and satins draped to make all manner of indecent suggestions. Under the candlelight, jewels glittered, beckoning.
Olivia accepted a glass of champagne from a passing footman.
“Sip that slowly,” Ashbrooke warned. “And don’t have another.”
“Of course,” she murmured. In her head, she heard her mother lecture. Young ladies do not drink. It makes them forget themselves.
She took a small sip, savoring the explosion of tiny bubbles on her tongue. Like stars. Like magic. She took another small sip and let her gaze roam the ballroom, noting the men. They were young and brawny, dressed in officers’ uniforms or less formal evening clothes. No one was very old, or very respectable, or even on their very best manners. All the rakes and rogues who would never show their faces at ton events were here, gallivanting with the kind of women who would never gain a voucher for Almack’s.
There was a certain frisson in the air. An undercurrent of danger and wicked pleasure. Men draped over women, women draped over men. Gowns were lower. Cravats quickly lost their starch and men’s shirts opened at the neck. All of them dancing wildly, too close together. Oh . . . If only she had attended a party like this earlier.
But then, she knew she wouldn’t have been able to enjoy it. She’d have tapped her foot under her skirts. Or watched longingly, thinking she could never dance with such abandon, or so closely to a man with whom she wasn’t acquainted, or display such intimacy in public. After all, what would people think? And if people didn’t think well of her . . .
She’d had a good reputation. She’d endeavored successfully to tarnish that reputation. Both would result in marriage to the Mad Baron. Thus, tonight she’d act as she wished and wouldn’t give a care for what anyone thought. Tonight was just about her.
The French doors were thrown open to a terrace where guests mingled and the men smoked. Beyond that she could make out a garden with torches lighting the paths. Danger. Trouble. Pleasure. Adventure.
“If your mother finds out I participated in this,” Ashbrooke grumbled, “I will fear for my life.”
“I am already forever in your debt, Duke,” Olivia said, utterly awed by the scene before her. “And I can assure you, if she learns of your involvement it will not be from me.”
“Stay out of trouble,” he admonished with a pointed look at her and Prudence. Then he whisked Emma off to dance.
“We’ll see about that,” Olivia replied, perhaps smiling wickedly.
For the first time in her life, men noticed her and didn’t look away. She felt her temperature rise from their dark, curious gazes. More than one rakish smile was directed at her. By the third or fourth time she stopped peering over her shoulder to see which gorgeous lady behind her had been the object of their affection. While all of the glances pleased her, none affected her as deeply as that first connection with Phinn. But tonight wasn’t about him.
“Let’s take a turn about the ballroom, shall we, Prudence?” she said.
Prue smiled as they linked arms and strolled through the melee.
“This is madness,” Prue said, awed.
“I think it’s wonderful,” Olivia exclaimed. “This is the best party we shall likely ever attend. Do you feel something positively electric in the air, Prue? I think I’ll fall in love tonight. In fact, I am quite sure of it.”
“The champagne must be going to your head,” Prue remarked, laughing.
“So what if it has?” Olivia mused. “Tonight I shall enjoy myself. Thoroughly.”
“Just be careful, Olivia,” her friend cautioned. “These are not gentlemen.”
One of the not-gentlemen, a handsome young man with dark tussled hair, caught her eye. He smiled when he saw her. There was a gleam in his eye, especially after his gaze dropped to her bodice and then slowly raked back up to her face. She felt hot and shocked, as if he’d actually touched her.
“No, they certainly are not,” she murmured. She sipped her champagne and glanced at him again. He wore a red jacket. A soldier.
Her heart started thudding as the man snaked his way toward her through the crowd, his gaze ever fixed upon hers.
Young ladies do not associate with men to whom they have not been introduced.
When he was a few feet away he bowed, then took her hand, gave her a wicked grin, and asked, “May I have this dance, Angel?”
Olivia simply handed her half-empty champagne glass to Prue and followed her soldier into the swirl of dancing couples.
She threw herself into it with a vengeance, dancing with her soldier, then another and another—a whole regiment, mayhaps. She danced with younger sons of peers, men who earned their living, or all sorts of not-gentlemen whose attention made her feel beautiful and enchanting.
Her cheeks were pink and hurt from smiling so much. This never happened at all those ton parties, where she was hardly ever asked to dance. Such a pity for hours and hours of dance practice to go to waste. She put it to good use now.
This was what she wanted. Every joyous, wicked, wonderful moment was underscored with an awareness that this was the last. She’d only just begun and it was already the end.
There was certainly nothing like this in Yorkshire, Phinn thought as pushed his way through the crowds. Women he didn’t know beckoned at him with bedroom eyes and blew kisses with painted lips. If that weren’t forward enough, more than one woman allowed her hands to stray across the expanse of his chest or caress the length of his arm.
Within minutes of arriving, he’d lost Rogan to one of these lovely, vivacious sirens. As for himself—he honestly couldn’t say he didn’t enjoy the attention. If any of these women recognized him as the Mad Baron, they didn’t seem bothered. Here, he was just another rake, just another rogue. He was a possible tumble, a quick diversion.
Truth be told, he couldn’t say he wasn’t tempted. “A machine,” Nadia had called him. But he was a man, red-blooded and wanting as any other. But the woman he wanted was Olivia. So while a lithe little blonde might have caught his eye, or a buxom brunette purred “Hello,” he didn’t stop. He didn’t stray.
Phinn accepted a drink from a passing footman. He did enjoy the orchestra, playing with much more vigor than at any of the ton parties he’d attended. Finally, he found a spot by a pillar where he could just watch the kind of revelry he’d never even imagined. Men whirled women around, much to their delight, only to pull them in close. This was dancing that would give the patronesses at Almack’s the vapors. And in the middle of it all a woman in blue gown and a mask caught his eye.
Phinn sipped his drink and watched her dance. She moved with an uncommon grace and a liveliness that was unmatched. She smiled, her cheeks pink. Her hair tumbled down her back in pale gold curls. She looked like an angel but . . .
His gaze slid down to her breasts, swelling above the bodice of her gown. She breathed heavily from all her dancing. He wasn’t the only one to notice the rise and fall of her breasts. Phinn didn’t like all these men staring at her.
Forcing his attentions back to her face, he
found his gaze drawn to her mouth. She smiled—a wide, rosy-cheeked smile—and he couldn’t look away. No, he was involuntarily drawn to the smile of a beautiful, happy woman. He was suddenly insanely jealous of the solider she danced with. He wanted Olivia to smile at him like that—like she was having the time of her life with him.
Like an angel.
The lucky bastard she danced with slid his hand around her waist. Something knotted in Phinn’s gut.
He had imagined those blond curls that Olivia kept so tightly restrained. He had imagined her breasts, which were always covered up in respectable white frocks. And he had imagined her stumbling adorably into his arms . . .
Even though it was outrageous to suppose Olivia was here, at a raucous party like this, he suddenly knew it was her.
The Radcliffe temper flared, as if all the champagne at this party had been tossed onto a fire.
He forced himself to turn away.
Nearby, he noticed another women who looked familiar and also certainly did not belong here. She bore a striking resembles to Olivia’s friend, Miss Payton. Like him, she was watching the raucous debauchery from the sidelines. He caught her eye, but she looked away, intent upon watching the couples—or one in particular—dancing. The girl in blue and the soldier in red.
Young ladies do not drink to excess.
As Olivia sipped her second glass of champagne, she wondered how many it would take to drown out her mother’s voice in her head, reciting all the rules of what a lady did or did not do. With every sip, with every whirl around the dance floor, with every tempting smile from this soldier, the voice became a little more faint. And she had much more fun. It was quite possible that she’d never been as happy as she was in this moment, with Brendon (or was it Brandon?) holding her in his arms and gazing at her as if he were thinking all sorts of sinful thoughts.
“I don’t know about you, darling, but I could use some air,” Brendon (Brandon?) said.
“Yes, please,” she said, breathing heavily. She’d been dancing for the past hour—or two? Her soldier linked their arms and led her to the terrace.
Young ladies do not stroll on the terrace with gentlemen.
The terrace was crowded with people. Gentlemen stood in groups, puffing away on cigars and cheroots. Women lingered, drawing men away for private tête-à-têtes. There were so many people out for a spot of air that they spilled down the stairs, into the gardens.
Brendon (Brandon?) smiled at her in the seductive way she had always wanted a man to smile at her. There was a sparkle in his eyes. She smiled back, utterly happy, but all too aware of not knowing quite what to say to him. Already they were more physically intimate than she’d been with any other man—his hands may have strayed during their dance, not that she minded. But they hadn’t really talked. Perhaps she’d break the ice with a jest.
“Was your father a thief?” she inquired, tilting her head inquisitively as she’d seen other flirtatious women do.
“What?” He seemed perplexed. A bit of her died inside when he didn’t immediately seem to understand. Then she felt an intense pang of empathy for Phinn, who’d encountered much the same reaction. Had he also feared dying from embarrassment?
“The sparkle from the stars,” she said, stumbling over the words. “In your eyes.”
The rogue grinned, then burst out laughing. Was he mocking her or laughing at her cleverness? Well, Phinn’s cleverness. Would these floorboards kindly open up and swallow her whole? Now? Please?
“I’ll show you stars, darling,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Very well.” She put her hand in his.
Olivia wasn’t quite sure how he managed it, but one thing led to another—crowds, light in his eyes, avoiding one person and trying to say hello to another, finding a place to rest their feet, seeking a better view of the stars—and she found herself alone with him.
What was his name? Good Lord, she did not know his name. But did she need to? For that matter, did he even know hers? It was best if he did not.
Young ladies do not wander into the gardens at night. Especially without a chaperone. One mustn’t do anything, ever, without a chaperone.
She was alone with Brendon (Brandon?). The stars sparkled. The bubbles of the champagne had gone straight to her head. She ought to be inside. She ought to be home, tucked into her bed. But she was tired of what she ought to be: an obliging and demure paragon of virtue.
Tonight she wanted passion. Wild, wanton, leave her breathless, make her dizzy, heart-pounding passion.
And stars. Sparkling, twinkly, make-a-wish, remember this moment stars.
And a kiss—the kind that she’d always been warned about. The kind that made her weak in the knees, forget her own name, and with enough pleasure and passion to last her a lifetime.
“Darling,” he murmured, pulling her into his arms. He definitely did not know her name. Nevertheless, Olivia’s heart started thudding in a pleasant way because her first kiss was so close she could almost taste it.
“Darling,” she repeated, because she wasn’t quite sure of his name. This was horribly wanton of her. But she didn’t care. She was done being a good girl, a perfect lady. So very done.
And then he pressed his lips against hers.
Finally, finally, finally, oh God, finally, one of London’s Least Likely had her first kiss. His lips were firm and insistent against hers. Olivia yielded, eager to follow his lead, for what did she know of kisses?
And then she had more than she bargained for.
Young ladies do not find themselves at the mercy of a rogue.
He tugged her into his arms. She stumbled forward, giggling. His chest was firm and his hands were warm and determined as they explored her in places no one ever dared to touch her before. It was exciting and thrilling and wonderful.
Until it wasn’t.
His touch became insistent. Bodice, down. Skirts, up. He thought her a light-skirt, and obviously had no idea that she was one of the more innocent girls ever to make her debut. They didn’t call her Prissy Missy for nothing. She could not disrobe for a stranger, in a garden, no matter how many glasses of champagne she had drunk. She just could not.
She didn’t want to. She wanted to dance and kiss and flirt and only now did she realize that was all she wanted. The rest scared her. This scared her. If she was going to do such an intimate, scary thing it ought to be with a man whose name she knew.
“No,” she said, pushing him away. Because tonight was about her pleasure, and this wasn’t it.
“No?” The rogue laughed. And then pulled her closer, held her tighter, kissed her harder.
“Stop That Right Now,” Olivia said, summoning the voice her mother used when dealing with wayward servants and troublesome children.
Brendon (Brandon?) laughed softly in her ear. She felt the rush of his hot breath on her skin. Warm. Dangerous.
“No,” she insisted, now struggling in his arms. Her heart was pounding, and not in a good way. “No.” This was fear. “Stop.” This was everything she’d been warned against. This is why girls didn’t drink to excess or wander into the gardens with strange gentlemen. This is why they wore demure gowns and did not speak with men to whom they had not been introduced. This is why they had chaperones. This was why they followed the rules.
“Stop. Please.”
But he didn’t. Tears pricked Olivia’s eyes. Where was a pair of embroidery scissors when she needed them?
“The lady said no.”
A man’s gruff voice cut through the night air. It was stronger than her stupidly girlish protests, and the scoundrel gripping her tightly stopped only for a moment to say, “Get your own, mate.”
Olivia winced as the crack of the stranger’s fist connected firmly with the jaw of Brendon (Brandon?). She winced again when the soldier stumbled back uttering swear words she’d never imagined. And she gasped when, after rubbing his jaw for a moment, Brendon (Brandon?) lunged, hurling himself at her savior.
It was dark
but she could hear the grunts and smacks and the crack of fists meeting flesh and bone. A nest of ducklings seemed to have been disturbed in the fight; the mother and chicks came running in search of a safer nesting spot, giving her a terrible fright until she realized what they were. But first she shrieked.
Eventually the fight sounds ceased and there was silence, save for the faint, faraway party sounds from the house. A cool breeze rustled the leaves on the trees. A cloud passed away from the moon, revealing a man who was tall—but not too tall. Muscled, but not overly so. He wore evening clothes, and a black domino obscured his face. But she could see he was handsome. A firm sensual mouth, a clenched jaw. Was he angry with her? He didn’t even know her.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I think so,” she said softly. She was such a fool, courting danger like that. She knew better. She was so very lucky this man had turned up when he did. Although she was now at his mercy, and she sensed that while his anger was receding, he wasn’t entirely a virtuous angel of goodness and light. “Thank you.”
He didn’t say “You’re welcome” or make a quip about saving a damsel in distress, or lecture her on her exceedingly foolish decisions that evening. She deserved every possible lecture or to be dragged unceremoniously back to the ballroom or worse.
He exhaled slowly, as if frustrated and trying to control his temper. When he spoke, the words were clipped, gritted out.
“You just wanted to have fun,” he said.
Yes. Yes that was it exactly. This man understood that she only wanted to have a spot of amusement before she’d never enjoy herself again. Who was he?
She gazed at him.
He gazed at her.
Young ladies do not fall in love with mysterious heroic strangers the night before their wedding . . .
Chapter 13
