Wallflower Gone Wild (10 page)

“At this point you’ll be lucky to start your marriage at all,” Rogan muttered. “If you keep talking about mathematics and whatnot.”

“You needn’t be so dark about it. I’ll just . . . keep wooing her.”

How, he was not quite sure. He could probably build a machine to do the job before he could figure out just what Lady Olivia Archer wanted.

“I’ll continue to help you,” Rogan said with a sigh. “Seeing as you desperately need my assistance.”

“Thank you.”

“That’s what friends are for,” Rogan said. Then after appearing to give the matter some thought, he grinned and said, “I’ll probably spike the lemonade at Almack’s. After a few drinks her defenses will be down and—”

“Do
not
finish that sentence. Do not speak it. By God do not ever do what you were about to suggest I do.”

“All right. So you want to win a woman without being the slightest bit roguish?”

“What would that entail?” Phinn asked.

All his life he’d endeavored to be calm, steady, and reliable. Like a machine. Like a gentleman. More to the point: utterly unlike his father, mother, and brother, all of whom had been inclined to hysterical, highly dramatic and irrational behavior.

“You’d have to flirt with everyone. Right in front of Olivia,” Rogan said, grinning, presumably, at the genius he perceived in himself. Not that Phinn had a better suggestion.

“Lady Olivia to you,” Phinn said, and his friend ignored him and continued on with his plan.

“Women love it when men play hard to get,” Rogan said. “And nothing gets their attention like competition with other birds.”

“Won’t other women be put off by my reputation, the way Olivia is?”

“Not the ones I have in mind. As long as you’re all right looking and can keep up a conversation while hinting at
more,
they’ll give you
all
the attentions you want.”

Chapter 8

On no account must they be too short; for when any design is betrayed of showing the foot or ankle, the idea of beauty is lost in that of the wearer’s odious indelicacy.

—
T
HE
M
IRROR OF
G
RACES

Almack’s assembly rooms

I
t was not difficult for Prudence to spike the lemonade at Almack’s. After all, whoever paid attention to Prude Prudence? No one, that’s who. Most young ladies would have had a terrible time coming across a bottle of gin, if they even managed it. But not her. Given that the household cook was given to drink, Prue easily nipped a bit of it. She discovered that flasks easily fit in one’s reticule. Convenient, that.

Thus Prudence waltzed into Almack’s . . .

No, she never waltzed. No one ever asked Prude Prudence if she would like to dance, and she was fine with that.

She walked in, hoping, as usual, that no one would notice her.

At the first possible moment, still quite early in the evening, Prudence spiked the lemonade.

Why, why,
why
would she do such a thing?

To help her dearest friend, of course. Olivia was so distraught about this business with the Mad Baron. While Prudence applauded her efforts to act unladylike, she also knew a hopeless case when it hit her in the face and then apologized profusely afterward. Olivia was too good. Deep down, bottom of her heart, good. Her instincts were to be polite, gracious, and kind. For years she’d watched Olivia never act abominably toward Lady Katherine, even though she’d had every justifiable reason to. Nor did Olivia ever speak ill of her mother, whose overbearing manner was the reason she couldn’t catch a gent’s eye.

In the very best way, Prudence lacked faith in her friend.

While waiting for said friend to arrive, Prue graced the wallflower patch with her presence. Emma had arrived at the ball already, but she was off dancing with her duke. Soon she would engage in her frustrating new habit of trying to force introductions between her friends and eligible gentlemen. It was awkward for everyone.

When Olivia finally arrived, Prue took one look at her and was glad she’d spiked the lemonade. She was going to need it.

Olivia wore the most modest, most demure, most unprovocative dress she had ever worn, which was really saying something. It was white muslin and silk. There was a large lace ruffle along the hem. Instead of a fashionably—and seductively—low bodice, she wore a white lace fichu that covered her up to the neck.

“You look nice,” Prudence said, her voice hollow. “You are the picture of a young, virginal, modest woman. What of our plans?”

But then she caught the wicked gleam in her friend’s eyes. Her confidence was restored. Marginally.

“For now,” Olivia drawled. “By the end of this evening, if I haven’t given my mother a fit of the vapors, I shall consider myself a failure.”

“Your mother won’t be hard to shock. I do hope that is not your only measure of success.”

“True. Then I hope to read how I have thoroughly tarnished my reputation in the next issue of
The London Weekly.
”

“Whatever have you planned?” Prue asked, excited.

“Let’s just say the stitches holding this fichu and this flounce are not the strongest ones I’ve ever sewn. I might have shortened the hem and lowered the bodice, too. They have lasted long enough to get me out of the house and past my mother’s approval. At any moment now, I hope the stitches fall out and I lose all this ghastly lace. I should also add that my coiffure won’t last long either. I have removed half the hairpins my maid used. I’ll look a tawdry wreck before the night is through.”

“One hopes. One dearly hopes,” Prudence murmured. “I feel parched. Shall we fetch some lemonade?”

“W
ait!” Olivia suddenly stopped short and grabbed Prue’s arm to hold her back. They had been weaving their way through the guests, onward to the lemonade table.

Following her gaze, Prue said, “Ah. I see.”

The Mad Baron was there.
Phinn.
Olivia didn’t want him to see her like this: the demure, proper, and biddable girl he sought as his demure, proper, biddable wife. Not when she vowed to prove otherwise.

She had imagined how tonight was supposed to go: later in the evening, after she’d lost the stupid fichu and the hideous flounce at her hem, he’d spy her across the ballroom, surrounded by a mass of suitors. As she laughed while men vied to kiss her hand, he’d realize that she was not the woman he sought and thus not worth the bother of courting her.

“That is quite a gown, Lady Olivia.” It was Lady Katherine, flanked by her pack of friends, giving her a disparaging stare. In her slinky blue silk gown decked with glass beads, she made Olivia feel frightfully unfashionable in addition to the way she usually made her feel: unfortunate, simple, and slightly ridiculous. Katherine smiled cruelly. “Already dressing for your spinsterhood, I see. Won’t even the Mad Baron have you?”

It hurt, that. Especially given that it might be true. But rather than wallow, Olivia tipped her chin up and finally came up with a retort to Lady Katherine.

“Oh look!” she exclaimed, pointing toward the far side of the ballroom. “I think I see someone who cares.”

Behind her, Prudence burst out laughing. Lady Katherine’s friends could be seen biting back laughter.

Lady Katherine just stared at her. Olivia stared right back. It was not clear who was more shocked by Olivia’s outburst. But when Katherine scoffed and slinked off, Olivia felt triumphant.

“You bested Lady Katherine!” Prudence exclaimed. “After all these years of her cutting remarks, someone has finally stood up to her. I am so proud.”

“Funny what comes out of my mouth when I stop being polite,” Olivia replied, somewhat awed by herself. Honestly, what if she had acted thusly sooner?

“And to think, the night is still young,” Prudence said. “Now, onward to the lemonade?”

Olivia glanced that way and stopped in her tracks. “No, he’s still there.”

“Is he giving a lemonade to Lady Ross?” Prudence asked, tilting her head curiously to one side.

“By all accounts it would appear to be so,” Olivia replied, as if she didn’t quite believe her eyes. He was supposed to be the most feared and loathed man in the ton.

Yet there was no denying that Phinn and his friend Rogan were engaged in an apparently charming conversation with Lady Ross, a handsome widow who got along famously with all the gentlemen. She loved to wager, be it on cards or horses, and she reputably possessed a bawdy sense of humor that appealed to men.

Whatever were they discussing so animatedly? Olivia couldn’t imagine it, thanks to her dreadfully limited knowledge. Not for the first time did she curse her Perfect Lady’s education.

“Who is his friend?” Prudence asked.

“Lord Rogan,” she answered. “I think he’s a bit of an ass.”

“Olivia!”

“I know,” Olivia replied, smiling. “Young ladies do not use such language.”

“My heart is nearly bursting with pride,” Prudence said, ginning. Olivia’s smile faltered when she saw an unconceivable sight.

“Is she
laughing
? Why is he smiling?” she asked, aghast. “Is he
flirting
with her?”

The question she didn’t dare give voice to was:
Why
did she seem to care?
She had to admit that she did. She couldn’t wrench her gaze away from the unfathomable sight of the Mad Baron having a perfectly lovely conversation with another woman. She’d just never expected it. She thought he was a brooding recluse from whom all women ran screaming in terror, and yet . . .

Phinn caught her staring. It was just a glance at first, but she saw the double take. Then his gaze settled on hers and he looked her up and down in a bold, almost possessive manner. It went without saying that no man had ever looked at her that way. What surprised her was how much she liked it. She felt him take stock of her gown, more modest than the ones she usually wore. Then he lifted one brow questioningly, as if to ask,
That’s the best you can do?

Olivia gave what she hoped was a wicked smile that promised he hadn’t seen anything yet.

“He couldn’t possibly be flirting with her,” Prudence said. “It must not be what we think it is. Let’s get closer and see if we can eavesdrop.”

As they pushed through the crowd, Olivia was shocked to see what happened next. The Mad Baron and Lady Ross linked arms and strolled off —but not before he caught her eye again.
And winked at her!

Olivia gasped. What did this mean? What was happening? The lace across her bodice started to itch, and she wanted to rip it off right then and there. But Prudence was nearly dragging her over to the drinks table now that Phinn and Lady Ross had gone.

R
ogan didn’t make an effort to follow the lively conversation between Phinn and Lady Ross. Then again, he didn’t make an effort to follow most conversations. While they were deep in conversation on mathematical something or other, he took advantage of their distraction. There were some precautionary matters he had to attend to.

His friend Phinn was a capital fellow, especially when he didn’t go on about his scientific whatnot, which was known to happen until someone shoved his head in a privy. Well, that hadn’t happened since their first year at Eton, but every once in a while Rogan had half a mind to do it. He just didn’t have much attention or appetite for serious conversation, especially when out at a ball. He reckoned the ladies didn’t either. Given that tonight was all about chatting up The Ladies, he thought a little extra something would assure success.

So in the best interests of everyone at Almack’s that evening, particularly Phinn and Olivia, Rogan poured the contents of his flask into the tureen of lemonade.

Honestly, someone ought to have done this sooner. Rogan grinned, imagining all the stuffed-up marriage-minded mamas a bit tipsy.

He glanced around to make sure no one saw him. Phinn, however, chose that moment to look over at him still lingering by the lemonade, furrowing his brow. Rogan gave him his best nothing-to-see-here smile. And then he availed himself to the lemonade before sauntering off to the card room.

“L
emonade?” Prudence said, offering a glass once they finally reached the table.

“I beg your pardon?” Olivia asked, still trying to seek out Phinn in the crowd. He’d surprised her, that was all. She thought he would have immediately sought her favor and she’d spend the entire ball avoiding him. Perhaps, once she made the alterations to her gown, she would almost certainly spend the rest of the evening dancing with other gentlemen. Why, she could have a new beau by the end of the evening and be married to someone else by the end of the week.

As Prudence said, the night was still young.

Prudence interrupted her thoughts by handing her a glass of lemonade, full to the brim.

“Oh, right. Thank you,” Olivia said. She drank the lot of it one swallow, noting that it tasted a bit sharper than usual this evening. Perhaps someone didn’t measure the sugar correctly.

Prudence smiled. “More?”

Olivia held out her glass for Prudence to refill it. It was gone in one long, unladylike sip. It was time for her to show the ton the new, scandalous, Lady Olivia Archer.

A short while later

Olivia’s blood hummed in her veins as she and Prudence strolled through the ballroom, on the prowl for scandal. She sought out the Mad Baron—it wouldn’t do to act indecently if he wasn’t watching. She saw him standing near a pillar, now speaking to Lady Hatfield and, if she wasn’t mistaken, his gaze was not on her face but just a bit lower. Olivia’s eyes narrowed. He was supposed to be courting
her.

Well, he had dared her to act outrageously. And she did want to be rid of him. It logically followed that she wouldn’t be jealous that he was lavishing his attentions on other women. And yet . . .

But she did want to be married before Lady Penelope’s Ball. Obviously, she would need to attract the attentions of another gentleman—two could play at Phinn’s game—but none were giving her a second glance. The exceedingly modest fichu wasn’t doing her any favors. It had to go.

She ought to take a trip to the ladies’ retiring room where she might carefully remove it in privacy. But tonight was about breaking the rules. Besides, she felt bolder than usual this evening.

“Why are you stopping?” Prudence asked. “And you look like you’re considering something wicked.”

“Because I’m about to do something wicked,” Olivia said. She grabbed a fistful of lace and gave it a good tug. The whole thing came right off, leaving a large portion of her back and bosom exposed. Olivia breathed deeply—freedom!—or as deeply as she could mange, given how tightly her corset was laced tonight.

Then she tossed the lace up into the air.

A hush fell over the people nearby as they saw the scrap of white fabric rise high above their heads. The whispers and murmurs and second glances began immediately.

“Did she . . . ?”

“Prissy Missy did what?”

It was happening. London’s Least Likely to Cause a Scandal was officially causing a scene. Young ladies did not forcefully remove offending parts of their garments in public. If anyone knew better than to divest herself of her garments in a ballroom, it was she.

“Your eyes do not deceive you,” Olivia declared “Prissy Missy just ripped off part of her dress. It was altogether too confining.”

The matrons clucked their disapproval. The younger ladies wore expressions of obvious shock. Were they jealous? Olivia wondered. And the men—they stared. And not in a horrified way. Olivia felt her heartbeat quickening and her temperature rising as the men’s gazes raked over her,
considering
her.

She’d never been considered before, and it was oddly disconcerting.

“Do you feel liberated now, Lady Olivia?” Prudence asked.

“I do, Miss Payton,” Olivia replied. “Shall we be off? Who knows what trouble I might find myself in before the evening is over.”