“You’re right,” Prudence agreed. “All our lives we were told to stand up straighter, smile when we didn’t feel like it, never refuse an invitation to waltz, always be kind and obliging under every circumstance. How well has it worked out for us?”
The three girls fell silent. It hadn’t worked out very well for them at all. Two were practically confirmed spinsters and about to become the matrimonial failures of Lady Penelope’s Finishing School.
But one of them had landed a duke.
“Well, it worked out for Emma,” Olivia said finally. She was truly happy for her friend. Deeply and truly happy. Just weeks ago they’d all had such dismal prospects. But it wasn’t fair that Emma should have the magical experience of falling in love and Olivia should be forcibly betrothed to the Mad and Murderous Baron.
“My luck didn’t change until
we
very improperly and wickedly and falsely announced my engagement to the duke,” Emma said. “And by ‘we’ I mean you two.”
“You’re welcome,” Prudence said kindly.
“Interesting point from London’s Least Likely to Misbehave,” Olivia said, referring to Emma’s old nickname. “We’ve all been far too good for far too long.”
“So it logically follows that we ought to misbehave,” Prudence stated. “Especially you, Olivia.”
“Do go on,” Olivia murmured. Her heart started thudding because Prue had that mischievous look in her eye that foretold mischief, possibly trouble, potentially disaster.
Prudence explained: “If perfect ladylike behavior has gotten you practically betrothed against your will to a man who desires you for precisely that quality, then it logically follows that unladylike behavior will get you out of it.”
“She has a point,” Emma said with a growing enthusiasm. “Your parents will never let you out of the match, but he might. Especially if the biddable bride he wanted turns out to be a hysterical, troublesome shrew who constantly plagues him with scandals.”
“They will pressure me into accepting,” Olivia said, seeing the potential of Prue’s plan. “But they cannot force him to wed me if he decides we don’t suit.”
It went without saying she would do everything in her power to prove to him that they did not suit. Her life and future happiness depended upon it.
“You must break all those ladylike rules of your mother’s,” Prudence confirmed.
Young ladies do not break the rules.
Olivia smiled mischievously.
They do now.
“And then he’ll break the betrothal!” Emma exclaimed. “Oh, this shall be fun!”
“What shall Olivia do that will shock the ton and repel the Mad Baron?” Prudence wondered.
The girls fell silent. Brows furrowed thoughtfully. Heartfelt sighs were heaved.
“Well if I’m not going to be a perfect lady, then I’m going to have a second pastry,” Olivia said, helping herself to one. And then another. She thought about telling her friends about the stranger, but it was all too sad now. Besides, she didn’t want to interrupt their scheming.
Then their furrowed brows and frowns turned into wicked grins as outrageous acts of impropriety occurred to them.
“You must wear different gowns, for one thing,” Emma said, and they all glanced at Olivia’s plain and modest day dress of ivory and blue striped muslin. “Something that says Woman of Mystery rather than Virginal Spinster.”
“You could appear drunk at a ball,” Prudence suggested. “That would horrify all the dowagers and marriage-minded mamas. And the stuffier gentlemen, including the Mad Baron.”
“And then you ought to smoke a cheroot on the terrace in the company of rogues,” Emma added. “The gentlemen will be terribly awkward from the shock of a lady intruding upon their boring conversation about horses and whatnot.”
“And when I’m at a ball, drunk and stinking of smoke, I’ll speak my mind instead of always saying the polite thing,” Olivia said, thinking of all the times she bit her tongue.
“No more polite conversations on the weather!” Emma said. “I think we should all join Olivia on her quest.”
“You ought to stroll into White’s,” Prudence started. “And then sit down, put your feet on the table—and do let your ankles show—and then order a brandy.”
Olivia wrinkled her nose. “Do I have to drink it?”
“Yes,” Prudence said. “In one swallow and then slam the glass down on the tabletop for emphasis.”
“Then I shall demand they bring me the betting book and I shall cross out our names as London’s Least Likely,” Olivia said, grinning. Her stomach turned somersaults at the thought. She would
never,
of course. But what if she dared?
“You must have an unchaperoned encounter with a gentleman, preferably a scandalous one,” Emma added.
“But then you must be seen by a gossiping busybody,” Prudence said. “Otherwise it doesn’t count.”
“After all, if you are alone with a rogue and no one saw it, did it really happen?” Emma punctuated this philosophical question with a lift of her brow.
“A deep, philosophical question from a duchess,” Prudence remarked.
“In general, you must spend as much time as possible in the company of rogues and women with scandalous reputations,” Prudence added matter-of-factly. As if gentlemen hadn’t been known to launch themselves into hedges to avoid Olivia. That would have to change immediately.
“Perhaps you’ll even fall in love with one,” Emma said.
“And he’ll whisk you off to Gretna Green before the Mad Baron knows what hit him,” Prudence concluded.
“You know all the rules, Olivia,” Emma said. “You just have to break them, one by one, as you encounter them.”
A violently rouged woman is one of the most disgusting objects to the eye.
—
T
HE
M
IRROR OF
G
RACES,
A
R
EGENCY CONDUCT BOOK GIVEN TO
O
LIVIA ON THE OCCASION OF HER TWELFTH BIRTHDAY
Archer House
The following day
O
livia sat before the mirror whilst her maid, Mary, forced her pale blond hair to curl. Lord Radcliffe was coming to tea and Lady Archer had given strict orders that Olivia was to appear at her very best, which meant she’d endure the hot iron and have her hair tangled up in an arrangement with strings of pearls and hair ribbons. She’d don one of her prim white day dresses and conduct herself with the utmost delicacy and care to avoid dirtying the gown. Young ladies must always be impeccably turned out and above reproach.
There was no other option.
Or was there?
Break the rules, one by one, as you encounter them.
Having spent her whole life dutifully obeying every order, it was a strange and curious thought to consider deliberately doing the opposite. Oh, she had entertained thoughts of, say, putting Lady Katherine in her place with a cutting remark, or playing bawdy songs on the pianoforte at a musicale, or forsaking conduct books in favor of the romantic novels Emma was always reading (and Olivia discretely borrowed because
ladies did not read such rubbish
)
.
She’d like to lift her skirts and run through Hyde Park instead of strolling. Wear lip paint and diaphanous gowns. Flirt with a rake and perhaps be the subject of a rumor.
Olivia always thought
one day . . .
one day she’d get to do all of these things when she left her parents’ house and married the sort of dashing man who unlocked this side of her and encouraged high-spirited behavior.
She had nurtured her vision of this perfect happily-ever-after. Her husband would be handsome, charming, and always know what to say. He’d look at her with a gaze that sparkled lovingly and would always try to steal a kiss. They’d live in a large house with a pack of noisy children and she would
never
yell at them if they got jam on their skirts or broke a vase. In beautiful dresses and on the arm of this perfect husband, everyone would forget they’d ever called her Prissy Missy and that Mr. Middleton had jumped into a hedge to avoid her.
But if she married the Mad Baron, who selected for her
because
she was Prissy Missy London’s Least Likely to Cause a Scandal, then she’d be condemning herself to a short life of the utmost propriety. The very thought made her want to jump into a hedge to avoid him.
It was a dreadful fate, one sorely lacking in kisses, waltzes, and adventures of all kinds. She’d never fall in love. Or be deeply loved and passionately desired. Instead, she’d manage servants and embroider in solitude until her fingers bled.
“You’re awfully quiet today, Lady Olivia,” said Mary, while she took care not to burn her with the iron. “Are you nervous about meeting your intended?”
“Wouldn’t you be? Especially given his reputation as a murderer?” Olivia replied. But she was more nervous about what she was going to do.
Something scandalous.
Something unladylike.
The sooner she made it clear she was
not
the woman he expected, the sooner she could . . . return to being a wallflower. Or do something outrageous to land a loving husband, as Emma had done.
“I suppose,” Mary agreed. “But it could just be gossip. He’s here already, you know. He came with his solicitor. They’re both meeting with your father right now.”
There was only one reason a solicitor would be here: to draw up marriage contracts. It was absurd that they’d progress with such alacrity when she’d never even met the man! They must think her so docile, obliging, and desperate to be wed that she’d agree to any proposal. It seemed she would have to show they were gravely mistaken. She was finished being the Dutiful Daughter.
“Have you seen him?” Olivia asked.
“I have,” Mary said, not quite meeting Olivia’s eye in the mirror.
“And?”
“His solicitor is more handsome,” Mary ventured. And that said it all, really.
“I suppose he is wretched. Tell me, is he old and fat with beady eyes and a malevolent air?” If she learned anything from novels, it was that villains always possessed beady eyes and a malevolent air.
“Time to tighten your corset and put your gown on,” Mary said brightly, thus confirming that the Mad Baron was the most repulsive, loathsome man in Christendom and that she must do whatever it took to get out of this match.
If only she had kissed that stranger!
“Mary, I think I seem a bit pale,” Olivia said as an idea occurred to her.
“That’s your complexion,” Mary said. “Lovely and fair, like porcelain.”
Indeed, everything about her was pale and fair and angelic and forgettable. She wasn’t colorful or wild or desirable.
“But perhaps I could use a spot of color on my lips,” Olivia said. “And perhaps some kohl for my eyes. Do you have any?”
“This is an unusual request, Lady Olivia,” Mary said uneasily. She glanced toward the bedchamber door. “I fear your mother . . .”
Proper Ladies did not wear lip paint or otherwise adorn their face.
Only a certain kind of woman did that, and men in search of docile, biddable wives were not interested in Those Women.
“I’ll take care of my mother if you fetch me some lip paint. Please, Mary. My future happiness depends on it.”
W
hen Olivia descended the marble steps to greet her parents and the Mad Baron in the foyer, she was perfectly poised and the very picture of a Perfect Lady. From the neck down.
Thanks to a heavy-handed application of lip paint and rouge, she looked like a trollop. A drunk trollop. A drunk trollop who had applied makeup while standing on one foot on a ship at sea during a storm. Her lips—and a bit beyond—were a fierce shade of crimson. Her cheeks were pink, perhaps even fuchsia. As if she were her father in one of his rages, or as if she were burning up with embarrassment. Her eyes had been lined with enough kohl for her to be mistaken for a raccoon.
Olivia felt absolutely ridiculous, but completely resolved in her rebellion.
She thought she looked tremendously unappealing.
Now if only the Mad Baron would think so as well.
Her mother shrieked before clamping her gloved hand over her mouth and muffling her sobs with one of her handkerchiefs. Her father, clearly mortified, reddened considerably. His jaw clenched and his eyes bulged under the strain of withholding an enormous bellow of rage.
Olivia
never
made her parents angry. In fact, this was the first time she was the subject of anything other than praise. She felt her stomach twist. It took every ounce of her determination not to run upstairs, scrub her face, and return with her sincerest apologies. Any such instinct vanished when she set eyes on the loathsome man himself.
The Mad Baron—who was indeed a corpulent elderly man with a dark scowl of disapproval—loudly cleared his throat of phlegm. Olivia did not conceal her shudder of revulsion. The thought of sharing a bed with this man strengthened her resolve immeasurably.
She would
not
marry the loathsome man who looked so dismissively at her. She would not have him touch her. Honestly, she should have drenched a bottle of perfume on herself as well.
The other man—his solicitor, presumably—stepped forward and provided more of a heart-stopping shock.
She recognized his captivating green eyes and his mouth, which she had almost kissed.
The scar she had noted in the candlelight was far more foreboding in the daylight.
The handsome stranger merely lifted one brow. Olivia thought his lips might have quirked up at the corners—dear God, he was laughing at her! Dear God, this was more mortifying than she had expected.
Perhaps the solicitor was amenable to bribery—and if so, she’d just need to fetch her pin money in exchange for him burning the marriage documents. Then she hoped never to see him or the Mad Baron again.
“Olivia! Go upstairs immediately,” her mother hissed.
“Whatever for?” she inquired, as if she had no idea, honestly.
“What impertinence!” her mother gasped. Olivia felt an odd thrill. She’d never been impertinent in her life.
“Never mind that, wife. Let’s get on with the introductions and this bloody tea party,” Lord Archer said with a
furious
look at his daughter. His cheeks reddened to the color of a soldier’s red jacket. Olivia hadn’t seen that shade since she had unwittingly used his smuggled French brandy during a tea party with her dolls. “Lord Radcliffe, may I present my daughter Lady Olivia,” Lord Archer ground out. “I have no idea what has gotten into her. Or on her face.”
But it wasn’t the corpulent old man with the beady eyes who stepped forward. For a second Olivia felt relief. That is, before the truth of it dawned upon her.
Lord Radcliffe—the man she’d presumed to be the solicitor, the man who was her handsome stranger—fixed his gaze on her raccoon eyes and bowed slightly. A tremor of fear rocketed up her spine.
She had nearly kissed a murderer!
Thank God she hadn’t.
“It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Lady Olivia.” It was the Mad Baron himself, bending over her outstretched hand. He wasn’t what she had expected, but he terrified her all the same. His gaze fixed on her was unnerving, as if he were memorizing her to think of later.
The scar, she noted, stretched from his temple to his sharply slanting cheekbone, just below his eye. Was it the work of his late wife, acting violently in self-defense? Olivia assumed so.
His mouth was full. Sensual. It was the kind of mouth she might have imagined kissing if it weren’t curved into a faintly bemused smile. He thought her ridiculous.
Good.
Olivia merely stared at him in horror. The kohl made her eyes twitch. Her lips tasted like bitter paint. She ought to say,
It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord,
but the words stuck in her throat.
Her wits struggled to function, save for one thought: she should have added more paint. Or fled already. Her knees weakened as she took note of his towering height and broad shoulders. He could overpower her in an instant if he so chose.
Her every instinct told her to run. But instead Olivia fixated upon what seemed to be her only course of action: behave so abominably that a man who sought her out for her biddable, ladylike qualities, would run screaming back to whatever shire he’d come from.
“Olivia.” Her mother nudged her in the ribs. She was supposed to reply to the Mad Baron.
Olivia had spent an inordinate number of hours perfecting a curtsy that highlighted the grace of her movements and conveyed her regal bearing yet deferential temperament. Today she gave a short perfunctory bob, the sort a servant might give when asked to forgo their afternoon off and empty chamber pots instead.
“Terribly sorry, my lord,” her mother begged his pardon. He merely nodded. She anxiously clutched at one of her embroidered handkerchiefs. “Olivia does excel at the curtsy. Olivia, do try again. Endeavor not to embarrass us. “
Seething inwardly, Olivia sank into the lowest most obsequious bow imaginable, exaggerating each movement from the extra deep bend in her knees to the pompously raised pinky fingers holding her gown aloft.
“Very nice,” Lord Radcliffe remarked, glancing from mother to daughter. Olivia refused to acknowledge his gaze. She just couldn’t.
She was introduced to the solicitor next, a Mr. Morris, who left with the finalized marriage contracts in his hands after bidding them good day. His parting words: “They only need to be signed.”
“Tea. Let’s do have some tea,” her mother said, bustling ahead and urging everyone to take their seats on the settees near the fireplace. “Olivia, why don’t you pour?”
“Of course, Mother,” Olivia said with an exaggerated sweetness, because that was expected of her. “I should be delighted to pour the tea for our esteemed guest.”
No one knew the etiquette of serving tea better than Olivia (practiced daily at three o’clock), which was how she was now so deftly able to violate every small point of etiquette. She gripped the handle with her fist and clasped the spout as well. She did not inquire if the Mad Baron preferred one lump of sugar or two, or if he took milk, or enjoyed it plain and bitter.
The only thing preventing Lady Archer from exploding into a furious tirade was the rule that Ladies Do Not Explode in Furious Tirades, especially when they had company.
But when Olivia overpoured the tea so that it spilled into the saucer, it was purely an accident due to the unnerving way Lord Radcliffe fixed his green eyes upon her.
She became all too aware of the ridiculous paint on her face and her outrageously poor manners. She remembered the heat she’d felt from his gaze the other night. The powerful connection she’d felt with him was still lodged in her memory. Worst of all, she still viscerally recalled the hope she felt when their gazes locked.
And now she was embarrassed and terrified.
In handing a cup of tea to the Mad Baron, she saw the mean-looking scars on his hands and almost dropped the cup.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” she replied.
They had officially spoken almost five words to each other. Next, the wedding night.
Olivia reached out for one of the ginger biscuits on the tray. Her mother said a lady only ever ate one, to be polite, and no more, lest she be thought to have insatiable appetites.
“How are you finding London, Lord Radcliffe?” Lord Archer inquired.
“It’s incredibly busy and intriguing, isn’t it?” he replied, with a smile that Olivia might have conceded made him handsome if she were so inclined, which she obviously was not. “I’m enjoying the taste of city life, though I do prefer my home in Yorkshire. I have a large, rambling estate with much privacy.”