“Emma!” Blake exclaimed.
“He’s intent upon marrying my best friend,” she explained. “I
must
inquire.”
“Women,” Blake muttered, shaking his head. Phinn grinned, not daring to show his agreement any other way.
Lord Archer hadn’t inquired. He’d merely said,
I trust those rumors about your previous wife are nonsense,
and then moved on to talk of Olivia’s generous dowry.
“Does your house truly have a dungeon?” Emma asked, and he peered at her curiously, wondering where the devil she got an idea like that. “And after the wedding—
if
there is one—will you really lock Olivia away in your vast and remote country estate?”
Phinn was still trying to fathom what the devil she was talking about.
“Pardon my wife and her intrusive—though entertaining—questions,” the duke said.
“We’ll see how the courtship goes first,” Phinn replied evasively.
“Yes, we shall,” Emma replied in a manner that made him distinctly uneasy.
A commotion by the lemonade table caught his attention. It involved Olivia—and her hands on another man. She wasn’t
his,
but Phinn still experienced a surge of possessiveness that woke his Radcliffe temper. He took a deep breath, forcing it back.
T
here was a mob around the lemonade table. Olivia and Prudence joined the crowd not for a drink, but to be in the vicinity of Lord Gerard, who had recently appeared in the gossip columns after suffering a carriage accident at first light, upon which it was discovered that his friend’s wife was in the carriage with him. Given their lack of attire, there was little doubt as to what they had been doing together. There was a duel, of course, and it was rather remarkable for him to show his face this evening.
“You ask him,” Prudence said, gently nudging Olivia, while eyeing Lord Gerard’s broad shoulders, clad in a fine black wool jacket. His tawny colored hair was long, curling around the collar.
“No, you ask him,” Olivia replied. He was such a tower of virile masculinity. The idea of talking to him made her feel out of sorts. She hadn’t prepared for this, and in her nervousness, her palms became damp.
“You’re the one who’s supposed to be cavorting with disreputable gentlemen,” Prudence pointed out in a whisper.
“Cavorting?” Olivia echoed. “I’m not sure I know how to cavort.”
“Just think what Lady Katherine would do,” Prudence advised. Olivia could just imagine it: she would probably purr and caress his arm while promising sin with her gaze. Could Olivia do that? Her heart started to pound. Nerves were certainly going to get the better of her. “I thought I just needed to be seen in the vicinity of a rake.”
“You are too good for your own good,” Prudence declared.
Mustering her courage, Olivia lightly pressed her gloved fingertips on Lord Gerard’s sleeve, getting his attention. He turned. Slowly. And then looked down at her.
Olivia peered up at the face that launched a thousand sighs among the ton. His features were sharply defined and utterly noble. He peered down at her with a jaded expression. Lord Gerard’s eyes were heavy-lidded and dark, making her wonder if he were tired or bored or hiding something.
How on earth was she supposed to speak to him? Let alone purr and caress him?
“Excuse me,” she said, ever polite. “If you wouldn’t mind, my lord, handing a glass to my friend and me . . .” She’d begun to stammer.
By now a few people had turned to glance at the unusual sight of Lord Gerard paying attention to one of London’s Least Likely. She couldn’t flee, even if she wanted to.
Good manners compelled him to honor the request of a lady. Even if he glanced nervously at the said lady, as if expecting a lecture on good manners.
“As you wish,” he murmured in the most devastating way. Olivia thought she ought to have been so daring sooner. Lord Gerard was speaking to her and fetching her a drink!
He handed Olivia and Prudence a glass of lemonade.
Olivia smiled prettily up at him. That she could do. Promising sin with her smoldering gaze would have to wait until she could practice.
He warily returned her smile. Was she making him nervous? Why did that prospect make her giddy?
She should say something witty or flirtatious. If only she could wink without contorting her face into an unappealing expression. Instead, she sipped her lemonade in what she hoped was a seductive and inviting manner. Again, something they really ought to have covered at Lady Penelope’s School for Young Ladies.
“Thank you,” she said.
“My pleasure,” he replied. There was a faint upturn at the corners of his mouth. This was ever so slightly amusing to him. But at least he wasn’t dismissing her outright.
“Are you enjoying this evening?” Olivia asked.
“Yes. And you?”
“Yes,” Olivia said, a touch too breathlessly. Lord Gerard noticed, too, which made her blush.
Truly, this could be the beginning of a grand romance if she could only think of something perfect to say. Then he’d raise his brow, intrigued, as rogues were known to do—as Emma had informed them from the novels she read. Then they’d waltz and years of dancing lessons wouldn’t have gone to waste after all. They’d fall in love, quickly, and he’d wickedly suggest they elope to Gretna Green and—
“Oh!” Olivia cried out as
someone
—Prudence— bumped into her, causing her to spill her lemonade all over the front of Lord Gerard’s pale blue silk waistcoat. She fearfully glanced up at him; his expression was as inscrutable as ever, though that mere hint of a smile was now definitely a frown.
“I’m so sorry!” she said, also terribly sorry to have ruined their almost-moment. “You have my sincere apologies.”
“It’s all right,” he said. But it wasn’t really. He’d been doused with lemonade and would have to retire early or smell of lemons or take his waistcoat off. The thought of
that
brought a furious blush to her cheeks.
She pulled a handkerchief from her reticule (
young ladies are always prepared
) and attempted to dry off Gerard’s waistcoat, which of course resulted in her hands upon him . . . and his waistcoat, which was his abdomen, really. Olivia was aware that it was firm under her touch and that this was the first time she’d had such intimate contact with a man.
Although it didn’t feel intimate—not with dozens of people looking on with slightly bemused, slightly horrified expressions. Her cheeks were still hot. She was hot, all over. She straightened, awkwardly clutching the handkerchief, and looked around. For once, everyone was staring at her.
Olivia’s gaze locked with the Mad Baron’s even though he stood at a distance. How she managed to find him in the crowd escaped her. There was just some pull between them, she supposed, even though she knew better now.
Still . . . still . . . she could see his green eyes fixed intently upon hers. The intensity of his gaze unnerved her. Had she made him angry? Had she embarrassed him? Was that not the point of this ridiculous exercise?
Above all,
why
did she have the urge to smooth back his hair and apologize? Prudence was right: she was too good for her own good.
P
hinn set off after Olivia, only to be stopped by Rogan, who had deigned to appear in the ballroom after disappearing into the card rooms upon their arrival hours ago. Phinn scanned the room to see where Olivia had gone to now.
She’d had her hands all over some fellow, which led to the inconvenient revelation that he already felt possessive of her. There was no logical reason he should feel that way. Such a sentiment also revealed that his attraction to her was not entirely based upon her lovely appearance and perfect reputation. It was deeper, more primal. He wanted her hands on
him.
“Ah there you are,” Rogan said brightly.
“How fares your wagering? Losing more than you can afford?” Phinn inquired, still scanning the room for Olivia.
“I was. Sadly,” Rogan said dejectedly. “We don’t all have your freakish ability to predict winning hands and to be so inscrutable about it.”
“It’s mathematics. Probabilities, etcetera, etcetera,” Phinn explained again. “I’ve spent hours trying to teach you.” Rogan would just prattle on about luck and the rush of the game.
“You lost me at mathematics,” Rogan said jovially. And loudly. “How fares your quest to steal away with your intended?”
“Shhh,” Phinn urged when a few people nearby turned with alarmed expressions. Bloody hell, now he’d read about his nefarious plans to abscond with an unwilling bride in the morning papers. “I don’t want to steal her away. Just have a bloody moment alone,” Phinn said, pushing his fingers through his hair. And then lowering his voice he added, “I have managed to divest myself of Lady Archer’s company.”
“Well that’s a start,” Rogan concurred.
“Then I ran into Ashbrooke and his wife,” Phinn said, still unsure if he was annoyed or amused by Lady Emma. It spoke well of Olivia that her friends cared so deeply as to make the inquiries she did. But what was this talk of dungeons?
“Look at the lofty company you keep,” Rogan retorted.
“Meanwhile,” Phinn went on, “Olivia manhandled some gentleman by the lemonade table.”
Rogan began to choke on his whiskey and Phinn thought about smacking him on his back. Hard.
“And now . . .” Phinn’s voice trailed off as he caught a glimpse of Olivia’s lovely blond hair. She was heading toward the terrace. If he could meet here there, it would be perfect. They’d be able to talk without the horrid crush in the ballroom interfering.
“Lady Archer! Good evening,” Rogan said.
“Good evening,” she replied, looking from one gentleman to the other.
“This is Lord Rogan, one of my oldest friends,” Phinn said. “He was just telling me he fancied a waltz, and I do believe I heard one starting now.”
“Actually, it’s a quadrille,” Lady Archer corrected.
“I’ve been spending far too much time in the country,” Phinn said, adopting a dejected expression. If he had a wife like Olivia, he’d know these things. Or she would know them for him. “Perhaps you two will dance and talk about the wedding.”
Lord Rogan, who usually consorted with the light-skirts of the demimonde and women of negotiable affections, had no choice but to smile and ask Lady Archer to dance. Phinn made his escape.
P
rudence led Olivia away from Lord Gerard and his soaking waistcoat, seeking another opportunity for scandal. Olivia must cavort with rogues, plural.
“What just happened?” Olivia asked, aghast.
Prudence just smiled and explained: “What happened was that you broke at least seven rules of etiquette. You spoke to a gentleman to whom you had not been introduced. You asked for something you wanted, rather than wait prettily for someone to notice that perhaps you were parched and in need of refreshment. And then you had your hands all over Lord Gerard’s abdomen!” Prudence paused before concluding with, “You’re welcome.”
“I suppose you’re the mysterious push that caused me to lose my balance and spill my drink,” Olivia remarked.
They paused to chat near a pillar. Before them dozens of couples were dancing, including—Prue gasped—was that Lady Archer doing the quadrille with a young man? No, it couldn’t be. But it was. Best not to mention it. Olivia and Prue lingered near the doors to the terrace, while Prudence explained the situation.
“You were seen cavorting with a rake instead of just standing next to one,” she said. “Everyone will be speaking about it. Perhaps even the Mad Baron saw you, and thinks that you are not the docile, chaste creature he envisioned.”
“Thank you?” Olivia said, though it sounded to Prue rather like a question.
“Of course,” Prue said, smiling. “What are friends for, if not helping to derail an unwanted marriage by causing numerous scandals in one night?”
But Prudence knew it was more than that. When her friend inevitably married, she would officially be the last graduate of Lady Penelope’s School for Young Ladies who hadn’t wed. The anniversary ball was just over a month away and she didn’t have even
one
suitor. Not one. She’d need Olivia by her side for that event and ever after.
They could rent a cottage in Brighton and be spinsters by the sea . . .
If Olivia
loved
the Mad Baron, then she wouldn’t interfere with a nudge or a push or a crazy scheme. But she knew Olivia didn’t want to marry him, and unlike her, didn’t possess a wicked mind, so it was her noble duty as a friend to help.
“Olivia, I have only your best interests at heart.”
“I know. And I would do the same for you,” Olivia said, smiling and affectionately squeezing her hand. Prue felt her breath catch. She had to remember this moment when everything was still amusing and lovely. Before Olivia inevitably wed someone and she herself was left on her own. It was a bittersweet moment, feeling this happiness but knowing it wouldn’t last.
Forcing such maudlin sentiments aside, Prudence focused upon the quest of the evening. Cavorting with rogues. Plural.
“Remember that,” she said, smiling mischievously.
“What? Why?” Olivia asked, now looking nervous.
“So you won’t be angry when I do this,” Prue said, giving a gentle—very well, firm—nudge to her friend, which sent her stumbling forward and into the arms of a rake.
O
livia shrieked as she pitched forward into the arms of . . . Whose arms were these? She looked up, into a wall of a man’s chest clad in a cerulean blue silk waistcoat. Laughter reached her ears. She looked higher still, into the laughing brown eyes of a rather handsome dark-haired gentleman.
A man she didn’t recognize provided some illumination on the matter: “What did you catch, there, Beaumont?”
Oh Lord Above, this was
Lord Beaumont.
She didn’t think he even attended proper ton functions, preferring instead to frequent less formal events with much looser women. It was said—in hushed whispers—that he’d bedded a different woman every night since he’d turned fifteen. Prudence had once added it up, but Olivia couldn’t remember the outrageously high number now. She couldn’t remember anything. This was Beaumont and she was in his arms.