by Maya Rodale
“You really do not wish to marry him, do you?” Emma asked softly, her expression full of concern.
Olivia shook her head no. The vision of her life as his bride saddened her. The man himself scared her. Why, everything seemed to go horribly wrong when they were together. Oh, there were moments when she was intrigued about his work or his past, even tempted by a kiss or his touch. But were mere moments enough to base a lifetime on?
“Even if it means you would be unwed for Lady Penelope’s Ball?” Prudence asked.
“I’d rather attend Lady Penelope’s Ball as a ruined spinster,” Olivia declared, sounding more convinced than she felt.
Her future happiness was at stake, and she couldn’t see a way for her and Phinn to be happy together. They’d make each other miserable and what happened with his first wife would happen to her. The madness. The desperation. The end.
“Then you have very little time to cause a scandal so great that you never recover from it,” Prudence said.
“And one night to meet another man, fall in love, and elope to Gretna Green,” Emma added.
“Given that I haven’t managed to do that in four seasons, for it to happen in one night would be a miracle,” Olivia pointed out. “Much as I want the plan to work.”
“You’ll have to take a risk, won’t you?” Emma asked, tilting her head with the slight dare. “Especially if he’s so horrid.”
“I thought you and Blake liked him,” Olivia replied.
“I do like him,” Emma said. “But I love you and I would hate to see you miserable.”
“Also, we don’t fancy having to go all the way out to Yorkshire to visit you,” Prudence added. “We’d much prefer you here in London.”
Olivia also preferred herself in London.
“Even if I don’t meet a man to run off with, I want just one night where I can be free,” Olivia said. “I don’t want to be Prissy Missy, London’s Least Likely, or the future Mad Baroness. For one night, I just want to be me.”
The tightness in her chest eased at the prospect of doing something drastic and daring just for herself.
“So we have one night in which to thoroughly and completely ruin Prissy Missy,” Emma said. “There is only one problem with that plan. Possibly several.”
“Will I never find happiness?” Olivia lamented. “What are the problems? Can I not just wear a scandalous gown and contrive to find myself in a compromising position with a known rogue?”
“Of course. But what happens next? You’ll be ruined. You basically are ruined after that incident in the park. Marrying anyone else will be . . . unlikely.”
For a moment Olivia wavered. Should she just marry him and hope for the best? He couldn’t possibly murder two wives. What were the odds?
“You’ll live with me,” Prudence said, squeezing Olivia’s hand. “We can live our spinsterhood in a nice cottage by the sea.”
“And your aunt?” Emma asked skeptically. Prudence’s aunt was Something Else.
“It’s either my crazy aunt or the Mad Baron,” Prudence said. “Take your pick.”
“My father has probably procured a special license already,” Olivia said flatly, as the truth was harder and harder to avoid. There’d never been a chance at something else, from the moment Phinn sought permission from her father to court her. Now that she’d been seen unconscious and possibly dead in Phinn’s arms, there really was no hope for any alternative.
Lovely as living by the sea in a neat little cottage with Prudence would be, Olivia couldn’t hinder her friend’s chances at true love. Prue deserved more than being saddled with her downfallen friend who, as a ruined spinster, wouldn’t be received by anyone.
The Mad Baron was her most likely and possibly only option for matrimony. Unless by some magical twist of fate she met someone else, fell in love, and ran off with him in one night. The odds of that happening were very low indeed.
She felt a sob stick in her throat. Which meant . . .
“I have only one more night of freedom,” she said. “One night to dare to try to be anyone else. One night where I might waltz with rogues or steal kisses or flirt outrageously.”
“I have an idea,” Emma said, grinning. “It’s either perfect or disastrous.”
“Or perfectly disastrous,” Prudence mused.
“There is a masquerade ball tomorrow night,” Emma said, which was news to the others.
“I did not receive an invitation to that,” Olivia said, dejected. “I am already being cut for my association with the Mad Baron.”
“Neither did I,” Prudence muttered. “And I have no such excuse.”
“That’s because it’s being held by the demimonde,” Emma explained with a mischievous smile. “Blake was invited through his scientific friends. I have heard that such soirees are always much more lively than ton events.”
“Do you think the Mad Baron will be there?” Olivia worried. “It wouldn’t do if he were there on my night of freedom, and possible elopement.”
“It’s possible, I suppose,” Emma replied. “But being so dark and brooding, he doesn’t seem like the sort to attend such raucous parties. At least, I am led to believe they are raucous.”
“Just to be safe,” Prudence said, “we can ensure you are unrecognizable in your dress and mask. That way you will be free to dally with all sorts of disreputable gentlemen. No one will ever know you were there until you return from Gretna with a ring on your finger and a man on your arm.”
“What will I tell my mother?” Olivia asked. For a second she imagined informing her that she would be attending a demimonde ball without a chaperone. Her mother would shriek, swoon, and take to her bedchamber with a stockpile of smelling salts—leaving her free to go.
“Tell your mother you are coming to stay with me,” Emma said. “And then we shall dress in costume and attend the masquerade. You will have one night in which you can be anyone you want, Olivia.”
“One night of freedom,” Olivia said with a sigh. “My first and last night of freedom.”
Lord Rogan’s Residence
“I’m sorry,” Rogan said, possibly for the thousandth time.
Phinn ignored him. If the Difference Engine hadn’t fallen so far behind schedule because of the distractions and delays of his courtship, it would be finished by now. Then he could use it to add up Rogan’s every apology. The decent thing to do would be accept at least one of them.
But the Difference Engine hadn’t yet been built. It seemed he would be marrying Olivia under the worst circumstances. He’d had a word with her father about that. They had no choice in the matter now, after her shocking behavior at the ball, their disastrous picnic, and the subsequent scandal.
He’d come to London with two intentions: take a wife, build the engine. He hadn’t quite failed, but he also couldn’t shake the feeling that he should have stayed in Yorkshire.
“I am deeply, deeply sorry,” Rogan carried on.
Phinn glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. The man did seem to genuinely regret the damage he’d done by inviting a dozen gossips to witness yet another romantic failure. Then he had to go and mention poisoning. Rogan not only terrified Olivia after he had managed to assuage her fears, but he got tongues wagging. The Mad Baron offs another bride.
Poisoning was such a miss-ish way to kill people, too, Phinn thought meanly. Insult to injury. Not that he injured anyone, ever. That was the most ridiculous thing of all—he had a temper, but he’d never raised a hand to anyone.
“I had only the best intentions.”
Rogan was, inexplicably, still talking. Phinn was just trying to cool his boiling blood and calm his pounding heart. He’d lost his temper earlier and hadn’t quite gotten it back.
Miss-ish or not, if he had some poison right now . . .
Instead he focused on breathing in and out. And staying seated in this chair. He glanced down at his hands—the knuckles had gone white, he was gripping the arms so tightly. It was either that or pummel his frien
d within an inch of his life.
Not exactly what his reputation needed right now.
Not for the first time did Phinn curse the Radcliffe temper.
“It was Ralph’s idea to pop ’round and see how you two were doing,” Rogan explained. Phinn had no idea who Ralph was, and thought it was probably for the best that he never knew. Because of his temper.
He had lost it the night Nadia died. She had been harping on him, nagging incessantly. He’d been distracted, for his work wasn’t going well. Making matters worse, he’d been slightly drunk and in need of a good meal. And she kept on and on at him about leaving her alone at supper, embarrassing her in front of the servants, boring her . . .
He’d just snapped. It was the Radcliffe temper. He hadn’t laid a finger on her. But he had roared. Sent her running.
The thing was, Nadia had a temper, too. And she went running to his workshop, intent on revenge. Or attention. He wasn’t sure.
He hadn’t mentioned any of this to Olivia. He might have if Some People hadn’t interrupted him. He might have shown her his past and shown her his remorse. Instead, he revealed how quickly he could turn from gentleman to beast.
“I didn’t think Ralph would want to crash your picnic,” Rogan added.
Phinn finally fixed a steely gaze upon his friend, who shrank back.
“And how did he know that I was taking Olivia on a picnic?”
“I might have let it slip,” Rogan said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “But you didn’t say it was a secret.”
“I like to keep my personal affairs private,” Phinn said. “Always. As a rule.”
A rule that no one followed. Witness: The Mad Baron: The Gruesome Story of an Innocent Maiden’s Tragic Love and Untimely Death. A True Story. Witness: the gossip columns since he’d arrived in town.
“Look, I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think it is,” Rogan said in a conciliatory tone.
“Really? Are you certain of that?” Phinn challenged. He picked up on the newspapers that lay strewn about his feet. “The ‘Man About Town’ writes, ‘The Mad Baron couldn’t wait for the wedding night. His new bride has suffered the same fate as his first—without even a trip down the aisle first.’ ”
“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.
—THE MIRROR OF GRACES
Young 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 s
ilk 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.