Wallflower Gone Wild

by Maya Rodale

  It is the height of folly for a young woman to find herself alone in a darkened garden with a gentleman.

  —COMMON KNOWLEDGE AMONGST YOUNG LADIES

  Here, in the depths of the garden, there was only silence and the sound of a man breathing deeply and exhaling slowly.

  Her eyes, adjusting to the light, saw this mystery savior toe the unconscious form of Brendon (Brandon?). He might be dead. At the moment she only cared that she had survived. She’d kept her innocence and her virtue and her self. Thanks to this man.

  He cut a dashing figure, broad-shouldered, tall, and mysterious. The domino obscured most of his face, but she saw his firm jaw, his mouth.

  Olivia gazed at him.

  He gazed at her.

  “Would you like me to escort you back to the ballroom?” he asked. He certainly wasn’t leaving her to fend for herself out here.

  This man intrigued her. Strangely, she felt safe with him, perhaps because he’d just come to her defense even though they were perfect strangers. Not that she trusted her judgment at the moment. Which is why she said, “Yes. But I think I just need a moment to collect myself.”

  Then she took a few steps and sat on a nearby stone bench. Weak knees. Like him, she took deep breaths. What would she have done if he hadn’t come? She didn’t want to think about it.

  He, whoever he was, took the liberty of sitting beside her. Out of the corner of her eye she watched as he gingerly flexed his fingers. There was a sharp hiss and intake of breath. He had hurt himself. For her.

  Whoever it was had suffered because of her wanton disregard for ladylike rules, common sense, and decency. Because of her selfish and stupid behavior, people had been hurt. The first sob came, unbidden. And then another and another as it dawned on her what a truly horrible fate she had barely escaped. She was a fool. But she was lucky. A lucky fool. She’d gone courting magic, adventure, and romance. Instead she’d nearly been broken.

  And still, she didn’t know this man! He could be even worse. Nevertheless, she turned and clasped his coat and buried her face in his wool jacket. Vaguely, she noted that it smelled of clean wool and something she couldn’t quite identify, but that she liked.

  Then he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer into his embrace. She nestled against his chest. She’d never been so intimate with a man before. Not even with Brendon (Brandon?). She’d never been held before. Not like this. This just felt so right.

  And she was betrothed to another.

  She sobbed even harder.

  “It’ll be all right,” he said.

  “It won’t,” she replied. Not that he even heard her, given that her face was buried in his cravat as she wept.

  “Are you lost?”

  “I am,” she said, lifting her head to peer up at him. “I am lost. And confused and wretched.”

  He frowned.

  “Because it’s so strange to see an angel so far from heaven,” he said.

  Then it was her turn to frown.

  “Oh, I’m no angel,” she told him. “I have behaved wretchedly. Everything is ruined. I am ruined. My whole life is ruined.”

  “Tell me about it.” Olivia felt her heart sigh—and realized she definitely had overimbibed champagne, because hearts did not sigh. But she felt as if hers had done so because this man wanted to know about her, her life, and her feelings. No one—not her mother, father, or the Mad Baron—had ever really asked her about those things.

  “Oh, where do I begin?” she sighed.

  “The beginning?” he ventured. She smiled slightly.

  “My parents are forcing me to marry a man I don’t love,” she said sadly. It was a terrible fate. Almost as bad as the one she’d just averted. But when the Mad Baron started doing those things to her, she wouldn’t be allowed to say no.

  “Could you love him?” the man asked.

  “Never,” she said vehemently. She felt his grip tighten around her shoulders. Was he heartbroken by this tragic, star-crossed turn of events, too?

  “Never?”

  “Never,” she said firmly.

  “Perhaps—”

  “No, I despise him. We do not suit,” she said. He was terrifying and she was terrified, for one thing. And he never asked what she felt or thought, like this man did.

  “What is so dreadful about him?”

  “He is overbearing. Why, he just decides we’re going on a picnic. He doesn’t even ask if I wish it. He just decides and I’m supposed to be told what to do, like a child. And he says the worst lines.”

  “That bastard,” the man said. She wouldn’t have used quite such strong language. But then again, deep down in her bones she was A Lady, despite all behavior to the contrary.

  “And he plans to take me away to his desolate estate in rural Yorkshire where we will live in utter solitude. I’m sure I’ll go mad, especially for want of company while he is consumed with his work and I am left to embroider and manage the servants.”

  “I’m sure you won’t go mad,” he said consolingly. Then, to her surprise, he asked, “Would you prefer to remain in London?”

  She leaned her head against his shoulder and smiled, in spite of the tragic situation she’d related. This man asked her about her preferences. Unlike her parents or the Mad Baron, who just decided for her. Why couldn’t she have met him sooner?

  “Yes. At least I shall have my friends for company,” Olivia answered. Marriage was a huge change; she wished to smooth the transition. Lowering her voice, she added, “And there will be people around, just in case . . .”

  “In case what?”

  “I think he might be dangerous and violent,” she said in a grave whisper. “In fact, I am sure of it.”

  “That’s terrible,” he said. And then, protectively, he asked, “ Has he ever hurt you?”

  “No,” she admitted. “But the gossip—”

  “Has he lost his temper at you?” the man asked softly.

  “No,” she said. “But the broadside—”

  “Has he threatened you?”

  “No, what is your point?”

  “Perhaps you needn’t be afraid of him,” her mysterious midnight rescuer said. She had decided to call him Mysterious Midnight Rescuer in her head until she learned his real name. This man she could love. She knew it, deep down in her soul.

  “But everyone says—” she protested.

  “Everyone has said that the world is flat, when it is round.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Olivia asked.

  “They have said the sun revolves around the earth, when the opposite is true,” he explained.

  “Very well, I take your point,” she said. “I oughtn’t listen to gossip. I should only trust what truths I discover myself.”

  “Yes,” he said gruffly. “Trust yourself and your own experiences.”

  “My mother says ladies do not gossip.”

  “I’m afraid your mother is wrong,” he replied, which no one ever said. Questioning her parents was Not Allowed.

  “You’re right,” Olivia said, surprising herself by agreeing. “She said if I was well-behaved and a proper lady a nice man would want to marry me. And now I am betrothed to the Mad Baron. See, she is wrong.”

  “I suppose you’ve tested this theory of yours,” he said, which confused her. It wasn’t a theory. It was just life as she had lived it.

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Have you tried to act very unladylike? Have you set about breaking all the rules?” She had to laugh at that. If only he knew!

  “Yes,” she admitted, a little smile playing on her lips. “I have tried to break as many as possible. I have cavorted with rogues, drunk to excess, and worn absurd amounts of face paint.”

  “And what are the results?”

  “Besides this unusually frank and intimate conversation with a stranger in a garden?” It was quite possibly the longest conversation she’d had with a man. It was certainly the most honest. Olivia sighed. “I have b
een drunk, made a fool of myself, and was nearly ravished by a scoundrel whose name I am not quite certain of.”

  “Following all the rules of being a proper lady hasn’t made you happy. Breaking the rules, I’m assuming, hasn’t made you happy. Perhaps you ought to make your own rules, Angel.”

  Olivia leaned her head against his shoulder. Make my own rules. Rules were always the creation of someone else: her mother, high society, the conduct books she was given each year for her birthday.

  “Make my own rules,” she mused, the thought occurring to her for the very first time. What would her own rules be?

  “Do only what pleases you, Angel.”

  “And if I don’t know? I’ve never had a chance to know. Now I fear I never will. The Mad Baron will make me follow his rules. He wants a biddable wife.”

  “Men say they want a biddable wife,” he said, “but then they realize they want a woman who fascinates them, who cares for them. They want a woman to love. So I promise, you’ll be able to make your own rules and your husband won’t try to stop you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just know,” he said, giving her shoulders another squeeze. “On behalf of decent gentlemen, give your betrothed a chance. Perhaps he isn’t awful. Then if he is very awful, run away.”

  “You are rather kind,” she said, turning to face him. They both wore their masks, still. As if neither wanted to be themselves in this moment.

  “We’re not all rogues,” he replied.

  “If only I’d met you sooner,” Olivia said with a soft sigh.

  He turned. She turned. His gaze dropped to her lips.

  She thought about kissing. Despite all logic and reason, she wished to kiss this man. Even though she had just discovered how dangerous kissing gentlemen could be. But she felt drawn to this man in a way she’d never felt before, and in a way the poets spoke of. Wanting to kiss him simply felt right. And besides, she still wanted to know what the poets (and other girls) had been talking about when they were in rapture over a kiss.

  It was an awkward moment—she didn’t think he meant to kiss her. But their lips collided and then there was no way she could stop.

  This kiss was gentle. The pressure of his mouth against hers was so light, she found herself leaning closer to him in want of more. This kiss was slow. His lips lightly brushed against hers, so lightly she shouldn’t have felt it but she did, all over, as if her every nerve was attuned to the slightest touch.

  And then the kiss deepened. He teased the seam of her lips. She opened for him, ready to follow his lead. Ready to experience the pleasure of this kiss. Already she knew this one would be different. This was the first kiss she’d dreamt of and was meant to have. And she trusted him, whoever he was.

  Because she was now making her own rules, she did what she wanted to do, which was to thread her fingers through his hair. It was soft, like silk, through her fingers. As if it were the permission he needed, her Mysterious Midnight Rescuer deepened the kiss. Their tongues touched and teased as they tasted each other. She was starting to know this man in a way she didn’t know any other.

  Gently, he clasped her face with his hands. Had it been Brendon (Brandon?), she might have felt trapped. With this man she felt cherished and wanted. Most men hadn’t even wanted to talk to her, but this one—he didn’t want to let go. This is what she wanted. This was why she risked reputation and virtue. And now that she found it, how could she ever let go?

  Olivia broke away from the kiss to ask this perfect stranger—this perfect match—an utterly mad question. Caressing his cheek with her palm, her gaze dropped to his mouth, then lifted to his eyes.

  Her heart was pounding. But she had to ask: “Will you marry me?”

  In the darkness, she saw his darkened eyes and the slight, wistful smile as he said, “Not tonight.”

  Chapter 14

  The only thing one can politely say about the wedding of Lady Olivia Archer and Lord Radcliffe is that it happened. It was quite uncertain for a moment.

  —“MISS HARLOW’S MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE,” THE LONDON WEEKLY

  At eleven o’clock that morning it was official. She was now Lady Radcliffe. Mrs. Mad Baron. The fate she had feared and protested so vehemently was now hers.

  During the small, intimate ceremony in the drawing room, she had stumbled over the words “submit” and “obey.” The vicar didn’t seem to mind. Neither did her parents. And Phinn? His expression was inscrutable. There was just that scar, which was so menacing. And the firm line of his mouth. And those green eyes of his she couldn’t bear to gaze into.

  Make your own rules, her midnight rescuer had said. Perhaps she’d try that tomorrow. Today, she felt too much all at once—sadness that this was her wedding day instead of the joyful occasion she had long dreamt of; regret that she hadn’t met that man from the garden sooner, for he seemed to understand her; and fear for the future.

  For what would tonight would bring? And every night ever after? Every time she considered it, her corset felt far too confining. She couldn’t breathe. Would the kissing be rough and unyielding, as with Brendon (Brandon?). Or would it be the perfect slow dance, as with her Mysterious Midnight Rescuer? Would the Mad Baron even kiss her at all?

  She fully expected to be whisked away to Yorkshire immediately after the wedding breakfast. Thus, she was confused when the carriage rolled to a stop but a few moments later in front of Mivart’s Hotel on Brook Street in Mayfair.

  “We’re here,” Phinn said.

  “A hotel?” she inquired, lifting her gaze to his, surprised. “I thought we would travel to your estate and live there.”

  “We might do that one day,” he said. “But I have business in London and I thought you might prefer to be near your friends while we are still getting to know each other. I did not wish to rent a house without consulting you first.”

  At this unexpected reprieve, Olivia felt the tightness in her chest ease. Her mad wandering of his remote estate would wait. She would have the comfort of her friends in these early days of her marriage.

  Perhaps . . .

  Phinn had more to say, “That is, if you are amenable. If there is something you would prefer, please tell me.”

  Perhaps he wasn’t as horrid and unfeeling as she had feared.

  For the first time all day, she managed a full breath. Perhaps she would not be so lonely after all. Perhaps he was not overbearing and commanding all the time. Perhaps he would consider her wishes. In this instance, he had somehow managed to just know what she wanted.

  Like the man in the garden. He had understood her, even when she was least deserving of it. If only she’d found him sooner. If only she hadn’t lost him.

  She hadn’t had a clue how to find him, though Lord knew she’d wracked her brain over the matter ever since. Her mother hadn’t given her a moment to herself in which she might find him—had she even known where to look.

  Thus, she was here now—the grandly decorated lobby of Mivart’s Hotel—on the arm of her husband. Well-dressed men and women lounged in settees, many holding conversations in foreign languages.

  They were shown to a beautiful suite of rooms, with two bedchambers adjoining a large drawing room that was decorated in soothing shades of pale blue and green. Large windows overlooked Brooke Street.

  Olivia strolled around the room taking in all the fine furnishings and paintings. Phinn was either beggaring them with every night spent in this suite—or he was rich indeed. She had never paused to consider it. She discreetly cast glances his way, noting the calm and efficient manner with which he dealt with the servants. What else did she not know about him?

  “Will this do?” Phinn asked, coming to stand beside her, referring go the suite. He clasped his hands behind his back. She was suddenly aware of how tall he stood. How broad his chest. How strong he was. For once, she thought not of how he might overpower her, but how she might curl up in his arms seeking comfort.

  “It’s lovely,” she said, offering him a sh
y smile. “Did you see your friend Lord Rogan has left us a bottle of champagne?” She had noticed it during her perusal of the room. “That’s kind of him.”

  Not that she was quite in the mood for champagne after the Cyprian ball. Or that night at Almack’s. Now that she was making her own rules, she rather thought she wouldn’t drink to excess.

  “Meddlesome, more like it,” Phinn replied dryly. He glanced about the room with narrowed eyes, as if searching for more “gifts” or “meddling.”

  “I’m not quite sure I can make sense of the note he left, though,” Olivia said, plucking the small vellum card.

  “What does it say?” Phinn asked, standing close behind her and reading over her shoulder. With him so near, she could not concentrate on deciphering Rogan’s handwriting. Instead, she puzzled over the urge to lean back against his chest and into his embrace. It had been so lovely and comforting when the good man from the garden had held her. Would it be the same with Phinn?

  “Oh, that bastard,” Phinn swore.

  “What is it?” Olivia asked, turning to face him, and now even more intrigued.

  “Nothing,” he said, shoving the card in his pocket. “Let me show you to your rooms.” He clasped her hand and led her through a set of double doors.

  Her bedchamber was beautiful. The spacious room also had large windows, pale butter yellow walls, a small furniture set before the fireplace, and a fine four-poster bed. Upon which were strewn an assortment of books and periodicals. While Phinn gave directions to the maid about her luggage, Olivia curiously picked up one of the periodicals.

  The first thing she noticed were the pictures. Were these fashion periodicals? If so, they were a lovely gift. She’d happily spend her first day of married life in this bed, perusing the latest fashions, deciding which to buy now that she didn’t need her mother’s approval.

  But upon closer look, Olivia noticed that the women in the pictures were not wearing clothes. In fact, neither were the gentlemen. What on earth was this? She peered even closer. What strange activities were they engaged in?

  The men and women were stretched out on the bed with their limbs tangled together . . . and bent over writing desks . . . and bent over settees. It started to dawn on Olivia that these were depictions of The Act.