Prudence and Olivia linked arms and strolled away. Gossip traveled faster. People turned to look and stare and whisper to their companions. Even Mr. Middleton took a leisurely second look as she strolled by.
“I feel quite strange, Prudence.”
“That might be because of the gin I poured into the lemonade,” Prudence replied.
“That would explain it,” Olivia said, feeling the effects of the wicked lemonade even more now.
“I am quite sure they are questioning my sanity,” Olivia remarked in a low voice.
“The important thing is that the Mad Baron does,” Prudence replied.
Olivia glanced up, looking around for him. Had he witnessed her strange display?
Their gazes met. Smoldered. He had.
There was no denying it, especially when his gaze dropped to her breasts, now swelling slightly above the low bodice of her gown. There was a storm of emotion in his expression—she could see that. But was he angry? Legend had it he had one hell of a temper. Or was that desire?
Her heart, oddly, began to race at the prospect of being desired.
Even though she was supposed to be scandalizing him.
“Are you all right, Olivia?”
“Yes, fine.”
Olivia breathed deeply. She was
fine.
She’d just caused a slight scene, which perhaps would lay to rest her awful moniker of Prissy Missy. But she feared they’d replace it with Crazy Lady. Meanwhile, she had possibly, inadvertently, made herself desirable to the man she was trying to repel.
She glanced at the clock. It wouldn’t be long now before her mother got wind of this, had a fit, swooned, was brought to, and hustled her home. Then she glanced around the ballroom until her eyes rested on Phinn. He was still with Lord Rogan, only now he was speaking with yet another woman—Lady Elliot, an older widow who broke no rules of ladylike behavior, other than having acquired a reputation as a bluestocking with a particular interest in the sciences, which meant she and Phinn would have loads to talk about.
Good. But she might have been scowling. Even though ladies did not scowl.
“Olivia?” Prudence interrupted her thoughts.
“What is it?” she murmured. Really, Lady Elliot? Why wasn’t he looking her way anymore?
“You’re staring,” Prudence said flatly.
No, what she was doing was waiting for him to look up and notice that she was acting scandalously. Thus making Lady Elliot seem an even more perfect match for him than she. But he wasn’t looking. Not at her. Not anymore.
Olivia was under the throes of a very dangerous mixture: gin and jealousy. Had anyone tried to explain this, she would have laughed. How could she possibly be jealous of Lady Elliot over the attentions of the Mad Baron?
Already she wasn’t enough for him. Wasn’t right for him. If he didn’t come to his senses and realize that, she didn’t know what she’d do when he absconded with her to his remote and desolate country estate. Her determination thus renewed, Olivia glanced around, looking for mischief.
Not accustomed to the effects of spiked lemonade, Olivia found the ballroom and everyone in it a bit blurry. And it seemed the floor had become uneven, which was quite strange.
She happened to catch the eye of Lord Harvey, a young buck who had probably been forced to attend by his marriage-minded mother, and who’d presumably prefer to spend the evening tangled up with opera singers and playing high-stakes games of cards. He was precisely the sort of man her parents disdained.
A wicked idea occurred to her.
Bowing before Lord Harvey and only stumbling slightly on her feet, she asked, “My lord, would you care to have this dance with me?”
Ladies
never
spoke to gentlemen with whom they were not acquainted, and they
never
asked strangers to dance. But tonight Olivia thought it a fine idea and she felt more bold, daring, and fearless.
Beside her, Prudence groaned and muttered, “Oh dear Lord.”
Olivia extended her hand. Really, Lord Harvey had no option but to smile politely and escort her to the floor—throwing a confused glance back at his laughing companions.
A waltz was conveniently beginning.
Olivia’s lips curved into a smile. This was her chance to show the haute ton that she was a gifted and graceful dancer. After all, she’d had private dancing lessons thrice a week since she had turned twelve.
And no one ever asked her to dance.
Why, she could probably dance every step with perfect poise and precision whilst on a ship. At sea. During a squalling storm with hundred foot waves. What she could not quite manage was dancing whilst under the effect of very spiked lemonade. The floor had strangely become uneven.
His grasp on her hand was light, as was the pressure of his palm on the middle of her back. There was a vast height difference between them, which made it all the more possible for them to do the steps of the waltz in slightly different time.
Given the awkward circumstances of the initiation of this dance—and the, oh, significant fact that they had not been introduced, ever—Olivia did not quite know where to look. Directly into his cravat? No, that was dull. She glanced up at his face and saw his jaw firmly set. He also seemed to be glancing here and there, but not at her.
She felt her cheeks starting to flush with mortification.
The blush deepened when she managed to glance around the ballroom. She saw faces staring at her. She saw men murmuring discreet and obviously inappropriate comments, judging by the smirks on their faces. Olivia became all too aware of the vast amounts of skin she had exposed.
The collective attentions of the ton were fixed upon the spectacle that was Olivia, quite underdressed, waltzing disastrously. She lifted her head high and carried herself as proudly as she could manage. Ladies snapped open their fans, covering their mouths whilst whispering what Olivia presumed to be the most cruel remarks. She started to burn with a horrid combination of embarrassment and remorse, then she caught herself. The ton had always made snide comments about her, if they bothered to spare a thought for her at all.
Because she and Lord Harvey were waltzing while trying not to acknowledge each other as they missed every cue to turn here or spin there. More than once did they collide with another couple—Lord and Lady Farnsworth seemed particularly put out. Both versions of them.
Olivia was now, strangely, seeing everything double. All the whirling and spinning was making her very dizzy and, truth be told, rather nauseous.
Young ladies do not cast up their accounts during a waltz, in the ballroom.
She caught a glance of Phinn, with Rogan and yet another woman by his side. Olivia recognized her as Lady Bellande, a notoriously merry widow. She preyed ruthlessly on every available—and even unavailable—men. And now she was after Phinn!
His expression was inscrutable. Round and around Lord Harvey whirled them both. Was Phinn angry? Jealous? Embarrassed? Round and round and round they went. Or did he feel nothing because he was a monster and would murder her on their wedding night or soon after?
With that, she stumbled, falling face first into Lord Harvey’s cravat. It smelled like fresh linen and bergamot. Why did she know that? She really did not wish to know that.
“Excuse me,” a male voice cut in. Olivia peered up at the one and only Duke of Ashbrooke, Emma’s husband. Well, two of them. She was having such trouble seeing clearly. And someone ought to do something about the uneven floor at Almack’s.
Ashbrooke was tall, devastatingly handsome, and incredibly imposing. The sun rose and set at his command. Lord Harvey fled.
Ashbrooke swept Olivia into his arms.
“If you’re trying to cause a scandal, you’re doing a bang up job of it,” he remarked. But he grinned as he said it.
“Huzzah,” Olivia said flatly, which only made his grin broaden.
Unlike Lord Harvey, Ashbrooke was a master of waltzing. His grasp was just firm and possessive enough. With the duke as her partner, Olivia could have had three more of those wicked lemonades and waltzed on a ship, at sea, during a squalling storm with hundred foot waves without missing a step.
They moved in perfect time to the music.
Olivia’s heart sort of broke with happiness for Emma that she should have the steadfast and eternal love of this man. And she was so glad that he was so good as to extend his kindness to her friends. And to her dismay, she was jealous. Oh, she didn’t covet Ashbrooke, but she coveted the sort of love they possessed.
That
was what she wanted. That was what she’d never have with the Mad Baron. Not when he’d spend all his time at work on his bizarre machines, leaving her to manage the servants and embroider. That is, before her murdered her.
She spotted the Mad Baron in the crowd. There was no woman with him now. He stood alone, brooding. Watching her. With that dark scowl and the scar, he seemed far too dangerous.
As they waltzed around—without too many spins, because he was Ashbrooke and was probably an expert at dancing with slightly intoxicated women—Olivia alternated between staring at his cravat and everyone in the ballroom.
Most people had gone back to minding their own business. The Mad Baron still brooded, even though Olivia was no longer making a spectacle of herself. Everyone knew Ashbrooke had married her best friend, and thus there was nothing untoward to be made of the association. It was completely and utterly unremarkable.
The orchestra closed the song with a flourish.
“Thank you,” Olivia said, not too intoxicated to recognize a real gentleman.
“My pleasure.” And then, leaning in close, Blake murmured, “He’s not so bad, you know.”
T
he Mad Baron was waiting for her on the terrace, cutting a devastatingly handsome figure as he leaned against the balustrade. Broad shoulders. Long limbs. Strong features. Eyes that saw her when no one else did. And a scar that could never let her forget what he’d been accused of, and what he had not denied.
Ashbrooke delivered her to him and then went off in search of his wife, leaving Olivia alone with the man she’d been trying to avoid . . .
. . . and the man she couldn’t stop fixating on.
Once again she felt that connection between them, like that first night. She felt his gaze upon her,
all
of her. Soft strands of her hair had tumbled down and brushed against her shoulders. She must look ridiculous. Looking into his darkened eyes, she felt terrified.
Nervously, she waited for him to speak. Causing trouble, and the subsequent ache in her stomach, was an unfamiliar feeling. She’d never really gotten in trouble before, or forgot to prepare for lessons, or really done anything
wrong
.
All she wanted was to be different; she hadn’t stopped to consider the consequences.
“You didn’t need to do all that, you know,” he said softly, surprising her. She expected him to be enraged. A small part of her feared he might hurt her in front of everyone.
“But I did,” she said softly. “For me.”
Then she wavered on her feet. It seemed the paving stones on the terrace were as uneven as the ballroom floor.
“Olivia, are you alright?” Phinn asked. He peered down at her with concern. Or was the spiked lemonade still affecting her vision? He was a bit blurry.
“I’m fine,” she replied. Because ladies were always
fine.
But she wasn’t. He wasn’t angry with her at all, even though she behaved abominably. She’d made quite a spectacle of herself, what with ripping off bits of her dress and asking a complete stranger to waltz, both of which were things were just Not Done.
He was supposed to be furious because she wasn’t what he wanted and she had embarrassed him by embarrassing herself. He was supposed to pull her away and rage at her or worse because he was the Mad Baron and that’s what he did, according the broadsides and the gossip.
Phinn then did the most surprising thing: he reached to push a wayward strand of hair away from her face. It ought to have been a tender, romantic gesture.
If only she hadn’t flinched.
“Oh, Olivia,” he murmured. “I’m so sorry.”
She didn’t know quite what he was apologizing for.
“I didn’t think Rogan would actually spike the lemonade,” Phinn said grimly. “I told him not to in no uncertain terms. And because of that, you have gotten everyone talking.”
Again she swayed on her feet. Prudence and Rogan spiked the lemonade? That would explain why the world was terribly out of sorts. She might have felt emboldened before but she felt faint now. Just as she lurched toward the balustrade for support, Phinn shouted her name and lunged forward to catch her.
As she tumbled into his arms, he happened to step on her loosely sewn flounce. The swath of lace hardly attached to such delicate fabrics as silk and muslin were no match for the force of a man’s step. The entire thing ripped off, stuck under Phinn’s boot, leaving Olivia’s ankles and bare legs quite exposed.
Horrors. Truly, horrors.
Phinn apologized profusely and dropped to his knees, apparently with some vague notion of reattaching the flounce to the dress, seamstress though he was not. And then something happened.
Olivia glanced down and caught the way he stared at her ankles. Then, slowly, he lifted his gaze to hers. His eyes had darkened considerably. And lud, the way he looked at her . . . she
felt
it. The warmth of his gaze, like a caress. The heat smoldered in her belly and radiated through her limbs, going straight to her head. She became aware of how tight her dress was—she wanted to tug the rest of it off. She also became aware of how light-headed she felt, and thought about fainting. In his arms.
In this moment, her fear was no match for a feeling quite like desire.
This is why young ladies ought not drink to excess.
I
n the moment—the most inconvenient, inappropriate, and deuced uncomfortable moment—Phinn could only think about how badly he wanted to touch Olivia. He wanted to reach out, clasp his hands around her ankles and skim higher and higher until he was able to show her true pleasure. But if she was too afraid to be alone with him, and flinched when he only meant to caress her, she wouldn’t trust him enough to surrender to the pleasure of his touch.