“You say that as if those things are deterrents. But I like those things about you.”
“And if I caused a scandal?”
She lifted her brow. This was a challenge. Phinn held her gaze.
“I think you underestimate my talents for dealing with wild and unruly women,” he said, essentially daring her to acts of outrageous behavior. He had survived Nadia. Never in a million years would Olivia be able to upstage her. But she didn’t know that. What was the worst she would do, anyway?
Opposite him, Olivia sat in a perfectly pressed and modest day dress. Her back was ramrod straight, her posture perfect. She daintily sipped her tea. He couldn’t imagine her causing trouble.
“I think I might surprise you,” she said. “Perhaps even scare you off.”
The words were out of his mouth before he could consider the pros and cons and consequences: “Would you care to wager about that?”
A young beauty, were she as fair as Hebe, and elegant as the Goddess of Love herself, would soon lose these charms by a course of inordinate eating, drinking, and late hours.
—
T
HE
M
IRROR OF
G
RACES
British Museum
T
hree particular young ladies sought a diversion in the antiquities room of the British Museum. They lingered before the pottery, particularly the ones painted with the most intriguing scenes of naked men and women dashing about. They chatted in hush whispers, as befit both the setting and the topic of conversation.
“I am more convinced than ever that the Mad Baron did indeed murder his wife,” Olivia confided in Prudence and Emma. She’d gone over their conversation in her mind repeatedly. He did not declare his innocence—not in any way that made her feel safe enough to close her eyes in his presence, let alone marry the man.
“He was awfully determined to whisk you off alone to a secluded place at the ball the other night,” Prudence said. “Presumably for nefarious purposes.”
“That isn’t even the half of it,” Olivia added dramatically. “We had a conversation about the murder allegations.”
“You did not,” Prudence said, eyes wide.
“Honesty. Always the best course of action,” Emma replied.
“Says the woman who faked her betrothal,” Prudence remarked.
“I married him, so it doesn’t signify anyway,” Emma said with a shrug. “And anyway, it was
your
idea to fake the betrothal.”
“Olivia was the one who wrote the letter,” Prudence replied.
“Hello!” Olivia said, waving her hands in front of her bickering friends.
“He said the death was his fault,”
she whispered frantically. Both Prudence and Emma obliged her with appalled gasps and exclamations, which attracted more than a few curious stares from other museumgoers. “And he said that because of my docile and obliging temperament, he was sure we would suit because, presumably, I wouldn’t drive him into a murderous rage.”
“He has no idea what you have in store for him, does he?” Emma asked, shaking her head in pity for the poor Mad Baron.
“He might expect some trouble,” Olivia confided with a smile on her lips. She had all but promised him that she wasn’t going to behave as London’s Least Likely to Cause a Scandal. “And he all but dared me to.”
“You and the Mad Baron locked in a battle of epic proportions with your life on the line,” Prudence said. “Be still my beating heart.”
“My heart does race whenever he’s around,” Olivia confided. She felt a heightened awareness of his green eyes upon her when he was near, like a prey animal being stalked. It was torture. Just waiting. For something to happen. Something bad. Presumably.
“Are you certain you do not find him attractive?” Emma asked, tilting her head curiously. “He
is
handsome, Olivia. I quite like his eyes and his tussled hair. It gives him quite a rakish air.”
Olivia knew she might have, too, if everything were different. Like, say, if he hadn’t essentially confessed to murder in her drawing room over tea.
“I also have trouble breathing,” she said. Really, in the past few days, morning, noon, and night, she couldn’t quite catch her breath.
“So you’re saying he leaves you breathless?” Emma asked. “Really, Olivia—”
“Your corset could be laced to tightly. Or you could . . .” Prudence let her voice trail off and she awkwardly looked away. She and Emma exchanged a nervous glance.
“Or I could be what, Prudence?”
“You might be filling out your dresses more,” she said, wincing.
Olivia opened her mouth to protest. Then she thought better of it. She glanced down at her figure. Was it fuller? All those pastries she no longer refrained from eating, and all those extra helpings at meals—despite the disapproving comments from her mother—had to go somewhere. It seemed they went toward her breasts and generally giving her a rounder figure.
“It’s possible, given that I abandoned all efforts to restrain myself to ladylike portions. Extra cake and biscuits at tea has been one of the better parts of breaking the rules,” she agreed, smoothing out her skirts. “However, I truly believe my symptoms are because I am constantly left alone with a notoriously violent man. He’s likely to strangle me and leave me for dead in some dark corner of the ballroom. Or perhaps in my very own drawing room! I fear for my life. My heart is racing just thinking about it.”
“But why would he do that
before
the wedding?” Prudence asked thoughtfully as they strolled through the gallery housing the pottery and into a large, airy room lined with ancient marble statues.
“Prudence!” Emma exclaimed. “That is not helpful.”
“But it’s logical. You’re definitely safe with him at least until the vows are said,” Prudence said. “If he wanted to simply go around murdering young ladies, why go through all the bother of courtship first?”
“He just doesn’t seem that terrible,” Emma said. “I had a nice conversation with him at the ball. He answered my questions about the murder. He confirmed that he doesn’t have a dungeon. I can’t imagine that Blake would work with him if he were guilty of such a crime.”
“He is handsome,” Prudence admitted. “For a murderer.”
“He does seem a bit shy,” Emma said. “Probably because he hasn’t spent much time in the throes of the social whirl.”
“You know what they say. It’s always the quiet ones,” Olivia said gravely.
“I have heard that,” Prudence agreed solemnly.
“Oh, for Lord’s sake, Prudence! You’re distressing Olivia.” Emma’s vexed cries echoed around the room. A few other museum patrons turned to peer at them.
“Prue isn’t making me any more distressed than I already am. He basically confessed to the crime. And he wants me only because I am the perfect lady who won’t bother him. The kind of woman who won’t put up a fight,” Olivia said with a sigh. Then, brow furrowing, she added, “And he and his friends made such a joke about his show of strength.”
“All the better to carry you off, ravish you, and then . . .” Prudence said, letting her voice trail off. She mimed strangling herself. It was not pretty, and Olivia shuddered. Nearby, a mother urged her child to turn away.
“If he’s very strong, he must be very muscled. Like these,” Emma said, gesturing toward the array of statues before them.
Naked. Male. Statues.
Young ladies do not gaze upon naked men.
Olivia felt her cheeks redden and she fought the urge to avert her gaze. Most men she was acquainted with didn’t seem like they were hiding physiques like these under their jackets, waistcoats, shirts, and cravats. Even the men whose arms she stumbled into the other night didn’t seem to hint quite at
this.
The Mad Baron, on the other hand . . . from what she had felt, she thought that he might be harboring such a chiseled chest and abdomen under this clothes. Not that she would ever know.
“Do you think he is like this?” Prudence asked in a hushed whisper.
“I haven’t even considered it,” Olivia said, cheeks reddening.
Young ladies do not lie. But young ladies do not possess such wanton thoughts.
“Oh, I think you must have,” Emma said, grinning at Olivia’s blushing cheeks.
“Perhaps you noticed when you fell into his arms at the ball,” Prudence said pointedly. “And now you are wondering . . .”
“You’ll know on your wedding night,” Emma said. Still with that naughty grin.
“My wedding night. I thought I’d always look forward to it,” Olivia said glumly. She might end up married to the Mad Baron and he might have muscles like this. She’d be left alone, at his mercy, and in no way a match for this sort of strength. She took a calming deep breath.
“You needn’t wait for the wedding night itself,” Emma pointed out. Prudence looked mildly appalled. “You could always . . .”
“Highly unlikely, given that I am determined not to encourage him,” Olivia said. “In fact, he practically dared me to prove that we will not suit. More to the point, we have wagered about it.”
He’d surprised her with that dare. And that grin of his, which didn’t make him seem like a murderer
at all.
She couldn’t help but wonder: what if he had adamantly defended himself from her charges? What if he had explained everything? What if he were innocent? But if he was, he would have said so, and he did not.
“Is that so?” Prudence asked.
“Quite an interesting plot twist,” Emma remarked.
“So you see, I must do something desperate, and time is running out,” Olivia said. “My mother hopes for the banns to be read this Sunday. So what shall I do to prove that I am London’s Latest Scandal?”
“You know what you have to do,” Emma said. “Act scandalously. Improperly.”
“Nudity,” Prudence stated. “And I’m not merely speaking of leaving your gloves at home or giving a gent a glimpse of your stocking-clad ankle, either.”
“I beg your pardon?” Both Emma and Olivia peered curiously at their friend after her mad suggestion.
“Lady Clarke once wore a gown that revealed more of her bosoms and back than it covered. The ton talked for weeks. Lady Thurston is said to dampen her gowns—and all the gents throw themselves at her while respectable women never invite her to tea.”
“Nudity, Prudence?” Olivia winced, imagining herself streaking through a ballroom with
nothing
on.
“We could take a cue from these statues,” Prudence said, waving toward them.
“I am not strolling naked through a ballroom with naught but a sheet wrapped around me.”
“But you could be a bit more revealing,” Prudence said with a pointed look at Olivia’s exceedingly proper and modest day gown. “Show your ankles. Lower your bodice. Somehow procure a diaphanous gown and dampen the skirts.”
“You might just cause a sensation,” Emma remarked thoughtfully. “And perhaps attract a new beau.”
“One who will whisk you away to Gretna or procure a special license,” Prudence pointed out.
Olivia’s immediate, unbidden thought to that plan was to picture Phinn looking forlorn.
Disappointed
in her, even. He’d probably push his fingers through his hair, mussing it up, and look at her with those eyes and ask her, pained,
why
she would do such a thing. He would rue the day he wagered with her.
What did she care what he felt?
If she was going to fall in love and live happily ever after, she’d have to stop waiting for it to happen to her. She’d have to start making her own opportunities. If she didn’t want to be London’s Least Likely to Cause a Scandal—and keep the groom that came with it—then she’d have to show a little skin.
“I like this plan,” she said resolutely. “I can scare off Phinn and attract a new suitor. But how do I get out of the house dressed immodestly without my mother having a hysterical fit?”
The three women fell into a long silence. Their thoughts may have been distracted by the proximity of all the tall, impeccably muscled statues looming over them. What was under that fig leaf, anyway?
Finally, Prudence spoke. “This is where your skill with a needle and thread will finally be put to good use.”
Later that evening
Rogan succeeded in dragging Phinn to Brook’s, where there were all sorts of entertainments for gentlemen. Rogan seemed at ease in the club and familiar with more than a few patrons, making Phinn fear for the man’s inheritance.
“You wagered with your betrothed that you would suit?” Rogan lamented as they strolled through the club.
“It seemed like a good idea at the moment,” Phinn admitted. It had been positively electric. Not for the first time did he feel a connection to her, as if drawn by an unseen force, like gravity.
He knew all about gravity: it was futile to resist.
“You have basically given her every incentive to try to break with you,” Rogan said. “I think I need a drink.”
“I might have also told her Nadia’s death was my fault,” Phinn added, turning to watch Rogan’s exceedingly appalled expression. He couldn’t help but grin.
“There’s nothing funny about telling a woman you’d like to woo that you’re a murderer,” Rogan said. No. There wasn’t.
“It seemed logical at the time. I tried to explain that Nadia’s death was an accident and that because Olivia has such a different temperament she needn’t be afraid. However, I think I succeeded only in offending her and convincing her that I am a cold-blooded killer.”
“I definitely need a drink,” Rogan said, glancing about for a footman with a bottle of brandy. “Are you trying to make this impossible for yourself? Do you not want to marry her?”
“I do want to marry her. Perhaps even more than when I first set eyes on her.”
At first he’d simply thought her beautiful. There was such an innocence about her, and in her white dresses, she just radiated sweetness and purity. She was everything Nadia hadn’t been. Olivia was poised, refined, and exceedingly well-mannered. Nadia had been a dark-haired vixen, never speaking when she could weep, shout, plead, or demand. Instinctively, he craved Olivia.
Or, rather, the Olivia he first set eyes upon, and the Olivia he had been told about.
“Well seems like you are trying to give her every excuse to flee,” Rogan said. “You practically dared her to act scandalously. Fortunately, I don’t think Prissy Missy is capable of it.”
Phinn wasn’t sure about that. He saw the sparkling intensity in her gaze. The excited upturn of her lips. She might not succeed, but Lord help them all, she was going to try.
“Is it wrong that I’m curious to see what she will do?” he mused.
“No. I confess I’m intrigued as well. It ought to liven up an otherwise dull season,” Rogan replied. “But you have other problems, my friend.”
“What was I to do about that drama with Nadia? Lie?”
“Yes!” Rogan said. Phinn scowled.
“I don’t want to start my marriage on false premises,” he said. “It’ll be doomed to fail. Like constructing upon a weak foundation, or a simple mathematical error that throws off all subsequent calculations.”