Wallflower Gone Wild (16 page)

“Dreadful stuff,” Rogan confirmed, mopping his brow with a handkerchief.

“It’s libel and slander and I should call them out for it,” Phinn said in a steely voice.

“I’ll be your second,” Rogan offered eagerly, as if presented with an opportunity to earn Phinn’s forgiveness.

Dueling wouldn’t help anyone. Phinn ignored him and picked up another paper out of the dozens that lay crumpled beneath his boots. One paper was one thing. But just to confirm, he had purchased a selection. They all related variations on the same horrid theme.

“And this one says Olivia is now known as London’s Least Likely to Survive the Wedding Night,” Phinn said dryly.

“You’ll have to issue a challenge to that author as well,” Rogan said. “Impugning on Lady Olivia’s honor like that.”

“That author is a woman,” Phinn said flatly. “I don’t think it would improve my reputation to challenge a woman to a duel.”

“No, best not,” Rogan agreed.

Silence befell them.

“Brandy?” Rogan offered.

“No,” Phinn said. “The last thing I need is the wicked, noxious effects of alcohol on my already fiery temper.”

“I could use a drink,” Rogan muttered. He ambled over to the sideboard and poured a glass for himself. “I have an idea,” he ventured.

“I don’t want to hear your ideas,” Phinn said. “In fact, I’m beginning to think that all of your ideas are utterly devoid of merit.”

When Rogan didn’t reply, Phinn glanced over at him. He looked genuinely hurt as he nursed a glass of brandy.

“I was only trying to help,” Rogan said quietly. “I only want the best for you. Don’t forget that I knew Nadia, too.”

This was true. Rogan had come to visit a time or two. They’d all been down to London—he, Rogan, his brother, and Nadia—and they’d marveled at her petulant, demanding behavior. His brother lived to serve her. Phinn had seen right through her. Rogan had, too. Only George had been blinded by her charms; he couldn’t see her flaws.

Rogan had even tried to talk Phinn out of marrying her. More than once Phinn wished he had listened.

“She wasn’t easy, Phinn. You did the best you could. And Olivia hasn’t made things easy for you either. How was anyone to know a wallflower would get such a bee in her bonnet about getting married?”

Phinn’s rage started to recede, leaving guilt behind. He’d spoken cruelly in anger, and he shouldn’t have, even if Rogan did deserve it.

“There’s a ball tonight,” Rogan said.

Phinn groaned. He’d had enough of balls and soirees full of vapid guests with their accusatory stares and gossipy whispers.

“Not a tedious ton affair,” Rogan corrected. Then, with a smile, he added, “A Cyprian’s ball. A masquerade. Do you know what that means?”

“Everyone stumbles around, overintoxicated, and with limited vision because of the masks?”

“Besides that. It means that you can go out in disguise. One night when no one is whispering about you being the Mad Baron.” It’d been years since he’d been out without being known thusly. As if sensing that Phinn was tempted, Rogan pressed his advantage. “Olivia’s mother definitely won’t be there, introducing you to her boring friends. Hell, there’s no way Olivia would be there. You’ll have the rest of your life to woo her. This is your last night of freedom! After this, you will be a staid, respectable married man.”

“But I
want
that,” Phinn protested.

“But don’t you want a spot of fun first? Perhaps let off some steam?”

Phinn knew what happened when pressure continued to build without any release. Explosion. Thus, he decided to go to the party.

Chapter 12

These good natured kisses often have very bad effects, and can never be permitted without injuring the fine gloss of that exquisite modesty which is the fairest garb of virgin beauty.

—
T
HE
M
IRROR OF
G
RACES

Y
oung ladies did not sneak out to attend demimonde balls.

By some magical alignment of the stars, Olivia managed to convince her parents to allow her to spend the night with Emma, who had miraculously convinced Blake to escort the wallflowers to a Cyprian’s ball.

“If word gets out about this, I’ll be ruined,” Blake grumbled as they all climbed into his fine carriage emblazoned with the ducal crest.

“We’ll all be ruined,” Emma said brightly. “But we’ll have the best time until then.”

“Just please stay out of trouble. I beg of you,” Blake said, addressing the three young women across from him in the carriage.

Young ladies kept their word.

They murmured vague promises and exchanged glances full of mischief. But Olivia felt a tightening in her chest. All at once she felt truly happy because she loved her friends.
This
is where she belonged—not in some secluded estate in Yorkshire. And yet the happiness was bittersweet, for who knew if they would ever share moments like this again? Packed into a carriage, dressed in their finest, on their way to a scandalous ball . . . surely, she wouldn’t have moments like this as Mrs. Mad Baron in Yorkshire.

Yet it was settled. A license had been procured. Unless . . .

That was why it was so important that she live every moment to the fullest tonight, and why she could not truly promise that she’d be on her best behavior. After all, she’d been on her best behavior her whole life and where had it gotten her? Tonight she was determined to be her true self.

Away from the overbearing gaze of her mother, she already looked different.

She wore her hair only partially swept up, leaving long tendrils of soft blond curls trailing down her back. The dress she had managed to procure at the last minute was unlike anything she’d ever worn. It was a cerulean blue silk edged in black tulle. The bodice was scandalously low, revealing the swells of her breasts. Unlike her old dresses, this gown clung perfectly to her curves. For the first time, she felt sensual. Seductive. Womanly. Not like some doll that had been dressed in white lace and curled and starched within an inch of her life.

With the dark blue satin mask she wore, she also felt like a woman of mystery.

The air in the carriage was positively sizzling with excitement.

“I mean it, ladies,” Blake said. “Please do not give me cause to regret this.”

“Or get you in trouble,” Emma said, chiding her husband. “As if you’ve never had the irate parents of proper young ladies calling for your head.”

“That’s all in the past, and I prefer to keep it that way,” he replied.

Emma and her duke only had eyes for each other. The way he looked at Emma made Olivia’s breath catch in her throat every time she saw it. His eyes positively sparkled with love for her. Prudence said they smoldered. Sparkle or smolder, the duke loved her and he couldn’t hide it. Didn’t even try. That was why she was here tonight—to find a man who looked at her like that.

“Perhaps they should get another carriage,” Prudence murmured.

“Or a room,” Olivia added softly.

The two laughed softly. Blake and Emma demanded to know what was so funny.

Then, finally, they arrived.

Olivia hadn’t been clear on who was hosting this party, perhaps Lord Richmond, newly returned from India with his scandalous Indian mistress, Shilpa. Whoever it might be, it was clear to her from the moment she alighted the carriage that she was not in Mayfair anymore.

Young ladies do not gawk.
But it was impossible not to.

A thick throng of carriages and horses blocked the courtyard. Footmen and drivers lounged about, smoking, drinking, waiting, and basking in the orchestral music wafting from the house. The stone mansion rose above them, four stories tall. Every window was lit up. The sound of men and women carousing and laughing rained down from all the open windows. Men smoked on the balconies and women in barely there gowns leaned seductively against the balustrade.

“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.

T
here 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.

Y
oung 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.