Wallflower Gone Wild (2 page)

Chapter 1

Lord Castleton, who embarked on his ritual grand tour and extended it by quite a few years, has sent word that he will soon return to England.

—“
F
ASHIONABLE
I
NTELLIGENCE” BY
A
L
ADY OF
D
ISTINCTION

T
HE
L
ONDON
W
EEKLY

Lady Olivia’s
fourth
season

A
s Olivia stood along the perimeter of the ballroom, amongst the wallflowers, she was achingly aware of the minutes ticking by. Minutes in which her prospects for marriage grew dimmer. She tried to calculate how many minutes were remaining before Lady Penelope’s Ball commemorating the hundredth anniversary of the school, and thus how many minutes remained before she was a confirmed spinster, a failure on the marriage mart, and an utterly hopeless case.

No graduate in the history of the school had failed to make a match within four seasons. Except, perhaps, for Olivia. They might as well call her London’s Least Likely to Marry.

“Is everything alright?” Prudence asked just when Olivia was trying to divide forty-four days by the number of minutes in a day. “You look ill.”

“I’m trying to do maths,” Olivia explained, before giving up. She was terrible with numbers.

“It’s not a good look for you,” Prudence told her in the way that only a dearest friend would.

“What do you think of taking a turn about the ballroom?” Olivia asked. She was impatient just standing there. Waiting. Always, waiting.

“Yes, let’s. How diverting,” Prudence murmured. Arm in arm they ventured from the wallflower corner into the rest of the ballroom where, all around them, men and women flirted and conversed and arranged for marriages or assignations. They found their way to the balcony that lined the upper portion of the ballroom.

“There you both are!” Emma exclaimed. “I want to introduce you to some friends of Blake’s.”

Both Olivia and Prudence frowned. Blake was the Duke of Ashbrooke, and until he married Emma, had been a notorious libertine. His friends were not interested in the likes of London’s Least Likely.

“I think that perhaps . . .” Olivia began. There was something about being foisted on uninterested gentlemen that her confidence couldn’t quite take this evening. Much as she wanted to fall in love and marry, she was just exhausted with the constant failure of trying. It was time to consider what she might do instead. Perhaps she and Prudence could share a house and be spinsters together.

Emma was having none of that, though.

“Oh, do come!” she exclaimed before practically dragging Prudence with her.

“I’ll be right there,” Olivia said. “I just need a moment.”

Slowly, she paced along the balcony, allowing her fingers to trail upon the balustrade. Gazing down, she watched the surge and pull of the crowd, enjoying the view of the dancers spinning in circles from high above . . . but
oh
how she wished to be among them. She was so tired of standing by, waiting.

And then she saw him.

Rather, she saw how the crowd moved around him. They seemed to step aside as if he were Someone of Great Importance. Like every other man in the room, he wore a suit of evening clothes. But the similarities seemed to end there. This man was taller, his shoulders broader. The way he moved suggested he was a man of determination and action. His hair was cut short but tussled, as if he’d pushed his fingers through it rakishly or . . . as if he’d wickedly come from a woman’s bed.

One could easily imagine him as a rogue or a pirate. In fact, one did.

Intrigued, Olivia strolled slowly along the balcony, keeping pace with this man as he walked through the ballroom.
Who was he?
She didn’t recognize him from previous parties. Perhaps he was the Lord Castleton mentioned in the newspapers—the one who was expected to return to town after an extended period abroad. Olivia didn’t care: whoever he was, he was new and thus he didn’t know that she was Prissy Missy or one of London’s Least Likely. Her heart started beating in triple time at the possibilities.

And then, inexplicably, he turned and looked directly at her.

Her heartbeat stopped.

Her breath caught in her throat.

He was beautiful. And he was gazing intently at her. Until this moment, Olivia had no idea that one could
feel
another person’s gaze from across the ballroom. She had never been hit by lightning, but she could imagine it might have felt something like this. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. She felt the spark of intrigue, the spark of lust, the spark of possibility.

She watched as he murmured something to a nearby friend before he started walking toward the stairs leading up to the balcony.

She had to meet him. Immediately.

Olivia walked quickly to the stairs leading down to the ballroom. Was this the moment she met the love of her life? All had seemed lost—was this the moment her lucked changed and her life truly began?

The handsome stranger was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. As Olivia made her way down, step by step, she thought how Lady Penelope’s education had prepared her for this moment: after hours of walking up and down stairs with books on her head, she was now able to hold his gaze as she descended the stairs.

“Hello,” he said. His voice was everything a man’s ought to be: low and strong, and somehow the sound of it made her feel warm from the inside out.

Ladies did not converse with gentlemen to whom they were not introduced.
She heard her mother’s voice in her head, reminding her of the rules. But what was she to do—run off and find someone to introduce them? The spell would be broken. Even though it went against everything she’d been taught, she fought her instincts and whispered, “Hello.”

The handsome stranger reached for her hand, which she gracefully extended. His fingers closed around hers. He pressed a kiss upon her hand. It was a perfectly proper gesture and yet it felt . . . wicked. She had never felt wicked before. Why had no one told her how thrilling it was?

For a moment they just gazed at each other.

And then, not having much practice speaking with gentlemen, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind: “Your eyes are very green.”

Indeed they were: green, and shadowed by dark lashes, and when he smiled—as he did now—his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. It was then that she noticed the scar. It was a thin slash stretching from his temple to his cheekbone.

Who was this man? Where had he been these past four seasons?

He took a step closer to her and gazed down at her mouth. Her lips parted. Was this the moment of her first kiss? Olivia’s every nerve tingled. It was those sparks again.

Stupid thoughts intruded, this time in the voice of Lady Penelope herself:
Ladies did not engage in unchaperoned interludes with gentlemen, acquainted or not.

If she kissed him now, he might think she was That Sort of Girl. According to everything she’d been told, men did not marry That Sort of Girl. And given the almost palpable attraction between her and this stranger, she didn’t think one kiss would be enough. Given that her sole aim in life was to marry, and immediately . . .

Olivia sighed, with wanting to be wicked and yet feeling so reined in by the rules.

Just as she started to consider throwing caution to the wind, wrapping her arms around this handsome stranger, and pressing her lips against his, the sharp and cruel voice of Lady Katherine intruded. Worse, she was accompanied by her coven of shrewish friends, including the Ladies Crawford, Mulberry, Falmouth, and Montague.

“Lady Olivia, is that you?
With a gentleman?
” Lady Katherine’s incredulousness was all too clear. Olivia bit her lip in annoyance. Of course she would have to ruin this moment by intruding and informing this handsome stranger that he was with one of London’s Least Likely. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

The gentleman lifted his brow questioningly. Olivia wanted to die. Or perhaps flee. However, both the gentleman and the vicious pack of ladies blocked her path back to the ballroom.

She turned to glare at Lady Katherine as she passed by on the stairs. But Katherine just gave a cruel smile before pushing Olivia into the man’s arms with a sudden nudge of her elbow.

He caught her, of course. Olivia gasped as she hit the firm wall of his chest. His arms closed around her for one precious, maddening second. Breathing deeply, she found herself intoxicated by his scent. For just a moment, she closed her eyes, wanting all the rules to vanish, along with Lady Katherine and the rest of the haute ton who called her Prissy Missy and London’s Least Likely. She just wanted to
be
and she wanted to just be with this man, whoever he was.

Young ladies do not amorously embrace gentlemen to whom they are not married.

Her mother’s voice intruded upon her thoughts with yet another rule, although . . .

“Oh my God,” Olivia muttered. That
was
her mother’s voice she heard nearby, inquiring if anyone had seen her daughter. Fearing her mother would discover her thusly—and ruin
everything
by having a hysterical fit or worse, telling her to enlighten this man about her embroidery—Olivia scrambled out of his embrace and fled into the safety of the crowded ballroom, where her mother found her and demanded they return home directly because Lady Archer was feeling unwell.

Olivia went to sleep dreaming of that handsome stranger and how they might meet again.

Chapter 2

Lady Penelope requests the attendance of her graduates and their husbands at a ball celebrating the one hundredth anniversary of the school.

—
A
N
I
NVITATION

Lord Archer’s library

The following day

O
livia reluctantly joined her parents in the study for what was likely to be another dreadful interview about her marital status. For approximately ten minutes the previous evening she thought there might be hope for her yet. If only she could see that handsome stranger again . . .

“Splendid news, Olivia!” her mother exclaimed with a bright smile upon her face.

“Oh?” Olivia said cautiously, having long ago learned they had very different ideas of splendid. “What is it?”

“Your father has an excellent prospect for your hand in marriage.”

“Who is it?” The hair on the back of Olivia’s neck stood up in warning. Her parents had, in their previous efforts, shown a deplorable definition of what made a gentleman excellent. She didn’t dare entertain the possibility the handsome man from the night before had tracked her down and asked to wed her already.

“It’s a good match!” Lady Archer said brightly. Perhaps even too brightly. Olivia’s eyes narrowed. “His lordship has an income of ten thousand a year and . . . well, he is titled. He has asked to court you and has expressed an interest in marriage already!”

A formal agreement of courtship was tantamount to a betrothal, especially once the news hit the ton.

“Yes, but who is it?” Olivia asked impatiently. Was it that man with the green eyes? She hadn’t any suitors, just a few gentlemen who asked for the occasional waltz or politely conversed with her when they found themselves idling in a ballroom. Not one of whom seemed to possess anything resembling an ardent passion for her, or even a remote inclination toward matrimony . . . or a title and ten thousand a year.

Her mother smiled. Her father cleared his throat.

“ ’Tis Lord Radcliffe.”

Olivia gave a startled cry as she leapt to her feet. “
The Mad Baron?
You cannot be serious!
”

Every girl in London was familiar with the Mad Baron, who served as a cautionary tale of the perils of what lurked on the marriage mart. His first wife died under his roof—and under mysterious circumstances—after they had fought bitterly. Some say she’d been poisoned, others said she’d been strangled. What was agreed upon was that the circumstances were highly suspicious and not natural.

He never ventured into society, for who would receive him?

Every girl feared finding herself betrothed to the likes of him—a vile, reclusive, murderous seducer.

“You want to marry me off to the Mad Baron who reportedly killed his previous wife?” Olivia choked out the words and tears stung her eyes.

“He was never charged,” her father remarked. A strangled sob escaped Olivia.

“Really, there is no need for hysterics,” her mother said briskly. “It’s just gossip. Ladies do not gossip.”

“I do not want to be courted by him and I absolutely do not want marry him!” Olivia protested, finding it very difficult to modulate the tone of her voice.

“Nonsense! You don’t even know him,” her mother cried.

“Which is one of the reasons I would not like to be married to him,” Olivia replied. She carried on, even though her father’s face was pink and darkening into angry shades of scarlet. “We are strangers. What kind of man inquires about marrying a woman he’s never met?”

The kind who was so reprehensible no woman would have him unless he resorted to such secretive and manipulative measures. Had they been properly introduced at a ball, she might have rebuffed him. But no, he’d now enlisted her parents in a formal courtship, which left her little recourse.

“He has seen you. And made inquiries about you,” her father said. “Told me that he had come to London to find a wife and learned you were the kind of girl that didn’t make trouble, which was exactly what he was looking for. I told him you were a docile, biddable girl who would make him a fine wife, and he was pleased to hear it.”

“See, Olivia!” her mother said with glee. “All of our efforts have come to fruition. You are the perfect lady and shall make the perfect wife for this gentleman.”

Olivia fell silent. She’d prepared her whole life to be the perfect lady and perfect wife for a perfect gentleman. Not a Mad Baron. Not a man who cared so little for her heart or mind or feelings that he wouldn’t even arrange an informal meeting before a formal courtship. Not a man who
murdered his wife.

She’d never been disobedient in her life. Even last night, when she’d had every temptation to act recklessly, she hadn’t because good girls made good matches. The slow burn of regret started to smolder in her belly. If only she had done things differently in the beginning . . . or at least kissed that man last night. If only . . . if only . . .

It was too late for all that.

Or was it?

“I won’t do it,” Olivia said firmly. “Tell him that I said no.”

“Olivia!” her mother shrieked. Even though ladies did not shriek.

“You must marry!” her father thundered. “Young ladies marry! That is what they do.”

She knew it was pointless to explain that she
wanted
to marry. She just didn’t want to marry
the Mad Baron.

“No, thank you. I am ever so flattered by his attentions,” she said with a nod toward politeness. “But the answer is no.”

Her mother and father exchanged the sort of concerned glances that spoke volumes. There was a sinking feeling in her stomach and she wasn’t quite sure she could breathe. This couldn’t be happening. Not him. Not her. She’d been so good.

She did not deserve this.

“Well you see, daughter, the matter is all but settled,” her father said gravely. “I have given my permission to the marriage. The contracts have been drawn up. All that awaits is a perfunctory courtship and your acceptance. Do you recall our conversation last season?”

“How could I forget?” Olivia asked bitterly.

“The fact of the matter is that you need to marry and you have shown that you require assistance in the endeavor,” her father said. “We have made a suitable match for you. Lord Radcliffe has a title and a good income.”

“His estate isn’t too far from our country seat, so we can come make frequent visits,” her mother said encouragingly.

Worse and worse! A vision of her future life as the Mad Baroness appeared before her eyes: long stretches of solitude punctured only by visits from her parents. That is, if she wasn’t murdered on her wedding night.

She’d be bound irrevocably to a man who valued her for her docile, biddable nature. She’d never fall in love, or have a man fall in love with her.

“But what of my wishes?” Olivia whispered. “What of love or—”

“Olivia, it is high time you set aside such foolish notions,” her mother said. “We’d like to have the banns read on Sunday.”

In other words, she was to meet him. He was to propose. She was to say yes.

This was the moment where she ought to nod and thank her parents for sorting out the pesky business of who would own her for the rest of her life. A dutiful daughter would do it. A good girl would be grateful for the attention to her welfare. A better person would appeal to their emotions or care for her happiness.

Olivia had always been a dutiful daughter, a good girl, and a good person. And all it had landed her was a vile and violent fiancé. So she didn’t thank them or wordlessly accept her fate. She appealed not to their emotion or reason. She simply refused.

“I won’t do it.” Her voice sounded foreign to her ears—there was an edge and depth to it she’d never heard before.

“You will marry him, Olivia Elizabeth Catherine Archer—” her mother threatened.

“If I have to drag you down the aisle myself,” Lord Archer finished, his face now the color of port.

To which Olivia uncharacteristically replied in a steely voice, “We shall see about that.”

Duchess of Ashbrooke’s sitting room

“It so happens that there are worse fates than remaining unwed for Lady Penelope’s Ball,” Olivia declared. Catching a glimpse of herself in a mirror, she saw that her eyes were bright with anger and her cheeks uncharacteristically flushed.

Emma (once a Wallflower and now a duchess) and Prudence (still London’s Least Likely to Be Caught in a Compromising Position) fell silent, sipped their tea and considered the possibilities of what could possibly be worse than the worst thing in the world.

Meanwhile, Olivia seethed. A portion of her anger was reserved for her parents, of course, for making such an unconscionable match without consulting her. She seethed because the world was unfair to young ladies who had such little say in their fate.

Oh, she didn’t
have
to marry the Mad Baron. But as soon as word got out, it was highly unlikely that she would attract any competing suitors. Except for the handsome stranger from the other night—from whom she foolishly fled—no one was interested in her.

Olivia burned as she recalled all those
years
in which she had simply watched and waited and hoped, to no avail. She’d followed all the rules and now—this. A fate worse than remaining unwed for Lady Penelope’s Ball. A fate worse than eternal spinsterhood. Once she was wed to this cruel, murderous baron there would be no chance of falling in love. She could kiss happily ever after goodbye.

“Very well, I can’t imagine anything worse,” Emma said, breaking the silence and Olivia’s raging sulk.

Then she told them. The words tumbled out. Enraged, her tongue tripped over the sentences as she described her misfortune. Her voice was decidedly not in the moderate, dulcet tones she’d been cultivating her whole life. She was raw. Scared. Angry.

“The Mad Baron?”
Her friends had the expected reaction: a startled cry of shock and fear.

Prudence and Emma shared matching looks of horror, combined with pity and a dash of concern. Olivia took some satisfaction that they shared her distress at the news, but on the whole it felt much, much worse. Her fears were not unfounded. Her anger was not an overreaction. This was not a bad dream from which she would awaken.

It was real and it was awful.

“Is he as horrid as I’m imagining?” Emma asked. “Keep in mind that I have a very active imagination and a taste for gothic novels.”

“I have yet to make his acquaintance,” Olivia answered bitterly. “Which has not stopped my parents from giving him permission to court me and marry me. Thus, I have no idea how horrid he is, but I suspect given his reputation and devious methods of courtship, he is quite horrid indeed.”

“Let us not forget that he killed his first wife,” Prudence unnecessarily pointed out. One could hardly forget that gruesome detail.

“Allegedly, according to my father,” Olivia muttered. “He has not come to town since he ‘allegedly’ murdered his wife. But why would he? No one would receive him,
except for my parents.
”

Had they such little care for her? Such little faith in her prospects? There was no denying she wasn’t a success on the marriage mart. But courtship from the Mad Baron would be a new, unfathomable low.

From every angle, this situation made Olivia feel utterly worthless. The only person who wanted her did so for all the most heartbreaking reasons: because she was biddable. And docile. And a good little girl. As if she were nothing more than a conduct book personified. As if she weren’t a woman who wanted to be loved.

“At least you won’t be a spinster for Lady Penelope’s Anniversary Ball,” Prudence pointed out. “Which will take place in forty-three days. Not that anyone is counting.”

“But is it a fate worse than death?” Emma mused.

“Your perspective is soothing my nerves immeasurably,” Olivia replied dryly. “My choices are to be the only unwed girl in the history of Lady Penelope’s Finishing School for Young Ladies of Fine Families or to marry the Mad Baron and then suffer an untimely demise.”

“I’ll probably be unwed as well,” Prudence added, affectionately patting Olivia on the hand. “We can suffer together.”

“Both of you, enough!” Emma cried. “You will be find good husbands in time. I am sure of it.”

“Words to live by. From the starry-eyed, deeply-in-love duchess,” Prudence remarked dryly. She and Olivia shared A Look. Ever since Emma had fallen in love and wed her handsome, charming, and utterly besotted duke, she’d been insufferably optimistic in all things. She’d even begun to play matchmaker, introducing Olivia and Prue to the duke’s eligible friends at every opportunity. Unfortunately it was all the more apparent that they just didn’t quite take. Their reputations as London’s Least Likely preceded them, and none of the rakes, rogues, or bachelors of the ton were inclined to forget it, as much as the Duchess of Ashbrooke might encourage them to.

Honestly, it was embarrassing. It was almost worse than the wallflower corner.

“Lady Penelope’s Ball is but one night of torture, but this marriage will be for the rest of my life,” Olivia said.

“Which probably won’t be long,” Prudence said. “If you do marry the Mad Baron.”

“Prudence!” Emma exclaimed, horrified.

“Well that is some consolation,” Olivia said darkly. It also made her think.

If she didn’t have long to live . . . what would she do?

She wouldn’t marry the Mad Baron, for one thing. She wouldn’t paint another flower arrangement or stitch another sampler. She’d devote herself to what mattered: a delicious first kiss that made her weak in the knees, waltzes with handsome gentlemen who held her far closer than was proper, somehow finding the love of a reformed rogue, and above all, discovering what
she
liked and who she was when she wasn’t delicately walking the straight and narrow with the promise of a reward on some far off day. She would find that handsome stranger and kiss him until she was weak in the knees.

She would live
now
.

“I have been the perfect lady,” Olivia said slowly, stating the obvious. “We were led to believe that ladylike behavior would be rewarded with good husbands and happily-ever-after. We were gravely misled.”