Lady Be Reckless

by Megan Frampton

  Olivia’s contribution to the effort was slight, but Miss Saunders was grateful nonetheless, almost too grateful, she felt. Olivia couldn’t help but wince when Miss Saunders gushed about her generosity, as though coming to read to such interested, engaged children for an hour or so was a hardship.

  Still, it felt good to be wanted.

  “Can I take your wrap, my lady?” one of the young girls said in a shy voice.

  Olivia smiled at her, beginning to remove her shawl. “Certainly, Mary. That would be splendid.”

  Mary took the shawl as though it were a precious egg, holding it aloft in two hands and carrying it over to Miss Saunders’s desk, laying it on the table carefully, smoothing out whatever creases might be there.

  “What have you chosen for me to read today?” Olivia asked once Mary had returned to sit beside her classmates on the wooden benches at one end of the room.

  “This one, lady.” A small boy stepped forward and handed her a book, its age apparent from the worn cover and spine.

  “Holiday House,” Olivia said as she approached and sat in the chair facing the benches, settling the book on her lap. “I have not read this before.”

  “It’s very good,” the same boy said, his eyes bright. “Miss Saunders read it to us, but we wanted you to read it too.”

  Olivia smiled, a warmth stealing over her at the praise. She was wanted and needed here, more so even than at the society, where she could help but wasn’t as directly engaged with the children. Anybody could throw money at something, and she did plenty of that, giving away as much of her spending money as she could to help, but it was something else to give her time, and she found it far more rewarding than just donating a check. Certainly more rewarding than sewing shifts, given how terrible she was at needlework.

  She’d never forget that her funds were essential to helping these children, but she also wanted to feel as though she herself—Lady Olivia—could do something more.

  She opened the book and began to read.

  Laura and Harry Graham could scarcely feel sure that they ever had a mama, because she died while they were yet very young indeed; but Frank, who was some years older, recollected perfectly well what pretty playthings she used to give him, and missed his kind, good mama so extremely, that he one day asked if he might “go to a shop and buy a new mama?”

  And then she had to stop to wipe her eyes because the book, of course, reminded her of him. Of Edward, who didn’t remember his mother at all. But he had Mr. Beechcroft, and these children—thus far—had her, so she couldn’t allow her sentiments to affect what she was doing for them right now.

  “Mr. Wolcott,” Olivia’s mother began. Olivia felt herself freeze in place, hoping her mother wasn’t going to say anything embarrassing. “I am so delighted to find you to be so . . . well, you know,” she finished, gesturing toward him.

  Please don’t ask, please don’t ask, please don’t ask, Olivia chanted to herself. She had to admit now to feeling sympathy for Pearl, who was often clearly regretting that Olivia had said something.

  “So . . . what?” Mr. Wolcott said, raising one of his exceedingly attractive eyebrows. That is, if eyebrows could be considered attractive. Which on Mr. Wolcott they most definitely could.

  But he had asked, so she couldn’t be thinking about his eyebrows.

  The family, the Marquis of Wheatley, Lord Carson, Mr. Beechcroft, and Mr. Wolcott were seated at the duke’s dining room table. So far there had been desultory discussion of the weather (damper than one would like), the wine (better than one could expect—it was Spanish, after all, and you know the Spanish), and how crowded the next Society party would be (very).

  Olivia was seated beside Lord Carson, as she’d begged her mother. But Mr. Wolcott was seated opposite, and she couldn’t seem to keep her eyes off him, even though the presumed love of her life was on her left.

  Mr. Beechcroft was on her right, with Ida next to him. The two of them had spent the entire time at dinner speaking of books and such without paying attention to any of the topics. Not that Olivia could blame them; there was only so much one could speak on the weather and the likelihood of rain before one wanted to screech aloud.

  But even screeching wouldn’t keep her mother from replying to Mr. Wolcott.

  “So acceptable!” She spoke as though she were delighted to discover he wasn’t using his hands to cram food into his mouth. “One would think that you were just another gentleman. I mean, look at you!” she exclaimed, pointing toward him.

  Olivia heard Pearl gasp from across the table. She was seated next to Mr. Wolcott, and Olivia had noticed—not without feeling a twinge of something, no it wasn’t jealousy—that he had been scrupulously polite to her twin, ensuring she was part of the conversation and making certain she was served.

  “I am pleased I have met your criteria for what makes ‘just another gentleman.’” Olivia closed her eyes as she heard the bite in his tone.

  “My son is more than just another gentleman.” Mr. Beechcroft had roused himself out of his conversation with Ida to join the discussion. From the way he spoke, it didn’t sound as though he’d registered his son’s acerbic tone.

  Whether this would all end up with Mr. Wolcott tossing thinly veiled barbs at the duchess, who wouldn’t understand them, was still possible, but at least Mr. Beechcroft’s wading into the fray might lessen the chance.

  “He is not only a fine gentleman, he also is my business partner.”

  Olivia winced even more. Discussing business at a social event was the height of crass behavior. What would her parents have to say after their guests were gone? Likely her father would grunt disapprovingly, and her mother would dissect every single thing that was said in order to belittle Mr. Wolcott.

  Olivia opened her eyes warily, startled to see Mr. Wolcott looking directly at her. What was even more surprising was that his lips were curled into an almost smile. Was it possible he was amused by all of this?

  What else might amuse him? Perhaps she should show him her skill in sewing. That might make him chuckle. Or maybe only if she pricked her finger. Or maybe she should make some offhand remark about how magazines were infinitely more readable than books, and step back as Ida’s fury emerged in full force.

  And then, as her mind was frantically casting about for something to say, he winked at her. Winked. At her.

  “I do congratulate myself on having some acumen for business,” he said. She was unable to figure out how he might rescue himself and his father without the use of hypnotism. And then wondered if he cared about any of that.

  What would it be like not to care?

  Although she knew full well he did care—that was why he was entrusting her to bring his position up in Society. Which he would never do if he started talking about business in polite conversation.

  “I like figuring out the solution to problems.” He leaned back in his chair, looking consummately at ease. Unlike Olivia, who was sitting bolt upright in her chair, her eyes fixed on his face.

  If Lord Carson had chosen this moment to profess his love, she didn’t think she would be able to stop staring across the table at Mr. Wolcott.

  That didn’t mean anything at all. Of course it didn’t.

  “What kinds of problems, Mr. Wolcott?” Olivia heard herself speak almost before she realized she was doing so. He grinned across the table at her, and she heard Lord Carson exhale—in relief?—beside her.

  “I am not certain we should be talking about such things at dinner,” Olivia’s mother said.

  “Oh, Mother, do let him continue.” Ida sounded actually curious, which was perhaps the oddest part of the evening. Usually she was completely bored by any and all things that required her to leave her studies and put on a pretty gown. Olivia had been startled to see her sister actually smile a few times when speaking with Mr. Beechcroft.

  “It is like a puzzle.” As he spoke, his expression brightened, and Olivia felt herself leaning forward to catch every word.

&nb
sp; He was remarkably charismatic, that was for certain. That was the only possible explanation for why he fascinated her so. Like a snake charmer, or a mesmerist. Maybe he was hypnotizing her at this very moment.

  “There are people, such as your family, who want to have certain things, maintain a certain way of life.” She wasn’t imagining his sharp tone. And she couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable that the tone was warranted, given what her family—and her world in general—thought of him. “My father and I, through our various businesses, have found a way to provide those things while also providing a place for those less fortunate to work. It’s a simple equation, although most don’t see it that way.”

  Olivia glanced to see, thankfully, her father engrossed in downing a glass of wine and her mother beaming at Lord Carson. Although that was problematic as well, but something she could consider later.

  “I was fortunate enough to invest in a small textiles factory when Edward was quite young,” Mr. Beechcroft added. “I saw the future of industry, and eventually I bought the factory outright, then invested as much as I could in finding good workers. I provide reasonable wages, and they make me profitable.”

  Images of the children in the society made Olivia shake her head in disbelief. “It cannot be that easy. There is not always enough work, or enough enough,” she said, frustrated by her inability to find the proper words.

  Mr. Wolcott’s smile deepened, and she felt something flicker inside her. Something warm and responsive to his gaze. “It is not enough. And that is why it is necessary to have people such as you in the world, my lady. People who can point out when something is unjust, or there is a wrong to be righted.”

  She felt herself start to blush at his referencing their bargain. She didn’t dare look over at Pearl, who was no doubt giving her a knowing glance.

  “It is very tedious when Olivia takes it into her head to be obsessed about something,” the duchess said. Oh dear. Mother had been listening, although there was no guarantee she’d heard or understood everything that was said. Which made what she might say even more terrifying.

  “There was the time she could not stop talking about dancing lessons until . . .” And then she gulped because of course their dancing master had run off with their sister Della. But never let it be said the duchess had allowed a potentially embarrassing admission to derail her from her cause. In that, Olivia thought, she took after her mother. Although she wasn’t certain now if that was a good thing. In fact, it likely was not.

  “And then there was the time right after my dear Eleanor’s betrothal to Lord Alexander Raybourn that Olivia would not stop talking about who she was going to marry and what kind of life they would lead.” And now Olivia was wishing the parqueted floor would open up beneath her feet and swallow her whole, because she was keenly aware of Lord Carson to her side, his hand halted in midair as he was bringing his glass to his mouth, and Mr. Wolcott’s smile fading across from her and Pearl no doubt turning bright red, because her twin felt embarrassment and shame far more than Olivia herself did. And she felt a fair amount of both at the moment.

  “Excuse me,” she said, pushing away from the table and dropping her napkin on her chair. She turned and fled the room, unable to think of anything but escape. Escape from her mother’s words, yes, but also escape from all of these new feelings she had about—about everything.

  About everyone.

  It was horribly embarrassing, of course, but less so than if she stayed there and felt the weight of all those glances. She might even cry, or pick something up and throw it. Two things she would have thought herself incapable of before. But she’d done one of those things when Bennett had said no, and had come close to the other. It was only Mr. Wolcott’s words that had kept her from bursting into tears.

  Did she even know herself anymore?

  What would it mean, if she didn’t know exactly what she wanted to do? Who she wanted to be?

  The thought of being unmoored, directionless, was terrifying.

  She found herself in the hallway in front of the door to the library.

  There weren’t any servants around, thank goodness. Nobody to witness how red her cheeks must be, how furiously emotional she looked. She raised her chin as she considered how she could possibly reenter the room without embarking on complete and utter humiliation. A thought that made her wince and lower her gaze to the floor.

  “Olivia.”

  And here he was. She saw his legs in front of her, the long length of them encased in his evening trousers. His hands, restless in front of his body, as though he wished to move them somewhere—to her?—but didn’t.

  She looked up at him, bracing herself for the look of contempt she anticipated. After all, she’d already shown herself to him the first time they met, the thought of which should have been the most embarrassing moment ever. Except this one was worse.

  Only to see him regarding her with a considerate expression.

  He didn’t despise her. He wasn’t here to mock her or chide her or raise one of those admittedly beautiful eyebrows and make her feel judged.

  He was here because—well, she wasn’t precisely certain, but she knew it wasn’t because he hated her.

  And so she knew perfectly well why she did what she did next. She just couldn’t have explained any of it to anyone, not even to Pearl. Much less to herself.

  But none of that could deter what she wanted to do more than anything.

  She raised herself up on her tiptoes, closed her eyes, and leaned up toward his mouth.

  And then, after what seemed an excruciating length of time, she pressed her lips against his.

  She was kissing him. The bastard.

  He shouldn’t be finding a woman who was apparently suffering from the most supreme humiliation—being casually dismissed by her careless mother—attractive, but so help him, he did.

  The way she rose from the table, tossing her napkin in a gesture of fierce emotion. The way the color rose in her cheeks, making her as flushed and rosy as though she had—well. No wonder he found her attractive. Gorgeous. Compelling.

  He had no choice, then, but to follow her out of the dining room, tossing his own napkin to the floor as he focused on her, on how she slammed the door to the dining room, stalking to fling herself back up against a door in the hallway. Her bosom heaving delightfully, even if it was in anger.

  What would she look like in pleasure?

  He thought he might be able to guess, and the thought was intoxicating.

  So when she lifted her gaze to his, the gold flecks in her hazel eyes seeming to flash and sparkle as vibrantly as she did, he caught his breath. This was she, the true Olivia, the one whose emotion seemed to reverberate around the room like a claxon.

  How had anyone not seen it before?

  And then all thoughts ceased as she kissed him, intent in her purpose even if her inexperience betrayed her from the moment her mouth met his.

  But it didn’t matter because she had wrapped her arms around his neck and tugged him closer, her mouth so soft and wanting, her body also so soft and wanting.

  Him hard and wanting.

  She broke the kiss, gasping, her hands still around his neck, staring at him as though he was something unknown to her.

  Likely he was—a man who wasn’t intimidated by her just furor, who found her as charming as she was infuriating.

  A man who saw her as a woman, not a young girl overwhelmed by her ideals and passion.

  He waited a moment, waited for her to realize what she’d done, to run away, appalled at her own behavior.

  And waited as she continued looking at him, a tiny smile curling up one corner of her mouth.

  It was that curl that did him in, that made him place his hands on her waist and draw her back to him, lower his mouth to hers and lick the seam of her lips until she gasped, opening to him.

  He didn’t waste his advantage either, sliding his tongue into her mouth, keenly aware of her body pressed against his.

 
Keenly aware of his cock growing thicker in his trousers, knowing what he was doing was wrong and shocking—what if someone else came out of the dining room, for God’s sake?—but unable to stop kissing her, shamelessly reveling in how her fingers were tightened in his hair, her breasts pressed against his chest.

  He had kissed women before, of course. Just because he was illegitimate didn’t mean he was entirely shunned, especially not by ladies, women who saw beyond his birth to his appearance and, sometimes, his wealth.

  But he had never felt this shocking, almost primal, feeling that was coiling throughout his entire body. For only a kiss. It was a spectacular kiss, to be sure, but it was only a kiss.

  That thought, the idea that this was merely a precursor to something even more stupendous made him pull away from her, knowing if he didn’t soon, he would likely have her naked on the floor underneath him in moments.

  “My God,” he muttered, still holding her waist. “That was—my God,” he said again, shaking his head. Unable to find the words.

  “Yes,” she replied, her cheeks just as flushed as before, the wild spark in her eyes one of desire now, not fury.

  Or both. He wouldn’t mind seeing her furious desire, as a matter of fact.

  “I have to go back,” she said, peering over his shoulder toward the dining room. She spoke as though they had a secret, not as though she’d done something of which she was horribly ashamed.

  What did it say about him that his first reaction was surprise that she wasn’t horribly ashamed? Was he just as class-conscious as the people who derided him for his birth?

  Perhaps he would consider all that when he wasn’t reeling from the impact of that kiss.

  Chapter 11

  Be reckless.

  Lady Olivia’s Particular Guide to Decorum

  “Olivia, let me come in.” Pearl accompanied her words with a few sharp taps at the door.