Wallflower Gone Wild (17 page)

“I don’t know about you, darling, but I could use some air,” Brendon (Brandon?) said.

“Yes, please,” she said, breathing heavily. She’d been dancing for the past hour—or two? Her soldier linked their arms and led her to the terrace.

Young ladies do not stroll on the terrace with gentlemen.

The terrace was crowded with people. Gentlemen stood in groups, puffing away on cigars and cheroots. Women lingered, drawing men away for private tête-à-têtes. There were so many people out for a spot of air that they spilled down the stairs, into the gardens.

Brendon (Brandon?) smiled at her in the seductive way she had always wanted a man to smile at her. There was a sparkle in his eyes. She smiled back, utterly happy, but all too aware of not knowing quite what to
say
to him. Already they were more physically intimate than she’d been with any other man—his hands may have strayed during their dance,
not
that she minded. But they hadn’t really talked. Perhaps she’d break the ice with a jest.

“Was your father a thief?” she inquired, tilting her head inquisitively as she’d seen other flirtatious women do.

“What?” He seemed perplexed. A bit of her died inside when he didn’t immediately seem to understand. Then she felt an intense pang of empathy for Phinn, who’d encountered much the same reaction. Had he also feared dying from embarrassment?

“The sparkle from the stars,” she said, stumbling over the words. “In your eyes.”

The rogue grinned, then burst out laughing. Was he mocking her or laughing at her cleverness? Well, Phinn’s cleverness. Would these floorboards kindly open up and swallow her whole? Now? Please?

“I’ll show you stars, darling,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Very well.” She put her hand in his.

Olivia wasn’t quite sure how he managed it, but one thing led to another—crowds, light in his eyes, avoiding one person and trying to say hello to another, finding a place to rest their feet, seeking a better view of the stars—and she found herself alone with him.

What was his name? Good Lord, she did not know his name. But did she need to? For that matter, did he even know hers? It was best if he did not.

Young ladies do not wander into the gardens at night. Especially without a chaperone. One mustn’t do anything, ever, without a chaperone.

She was alone with Brendon (Brandon?). The stars sparkled. The bubbles of the champagne had gone straight to her head. She ought to be inside. She ought to be home, tucked into her bed. But she was tired of what she ought to be: an obliging and demure paragon of virtue.

Tonight she wanted passion. Wild, wanton, leave her breathless, make her dizzy, heart-pounding passion.

And stars. Sparkling, twinkly, make-a-wish, remember this moment stars.

And a kiss—the kind that she’d always been warned about. The kind that made her weak in the knees, forget her own name, and with enough pleasure and passion to last her a lifetime.

“Darling,” he murmured, pulling her into his arms. He definitely did not know her name. Nevertheless, Olivia’s heart started thudding in a pleasant way because her first kiss was so close she could almost taste it.

“Darling,” she repeated, because she wasn’t quite sure of his name. This was horribly wanton of her. But she didn’t care. She was done being a good girl, a perfect lady. So very done.

And then he pressed his lips against hers.

Finally, finally, finally, oh God, finally, one of London’s Least Likely had her first kiss. His lips were firm and insistent against hers. Olivia yielded, eager to follow his lead, for what did she know of kisses?

And then she had more than she bargained for.

Young ladies do not find themselves at the mercy of a rogue.

He tugged her into his arms. She stumbled forward, giggling. His chest was firm and his hands were warm and determined as they explored her in places no one ever dared to touch her before. It was exciting and thrilling and wonderful.

Until it wasn’t.

His touch became insistent. Bodice,
down.
Skirts,
up.
He thought her a light-skirt, and obviously had no idea that she was one of the more innocent girls ever to make her debut. They didn’t call her Prissy Missy for nothing
.
She could not disrobe for a stranger, in a garden, no matter how many glasses of champagne she had drunk. She just could not.

She didn’t
want
to. She wanted to dance and kiss and flirt and only now did she realize that was all she wanted. The rest scared her.
This
scared her. If she was going to do such an intimate, scary thing it ought to be with a man whose name she knew.

“No,” she said, pushing him away. Because tonight was about her pleasure, and this wasn’t it.

“No?” The rogue laughed. And then pulled her closer, held her tighter, kissed her harder.

“Stop That Right Now,” Olivia said, summoning the voice her mother used when dealing with wayward servants and troublesome children.

Brendon (Brandon?) laughed softly in her ear. She felt the rush of his hot breath on her skin. Warm. Dangerous.

“No,” she insisted, now struggling in his arms. Her heart was pounding, and not in a good way. “No.” This was fear. “Stop.” This was everything she’d been warned against. This is why girls didn’t drink to excess or wander into the gardens with strange gentlemen. This is why they wore demure gowns and did not speak with men to whom they had not been introduced. This is why they had chaperones. This was why they followed the rules.

“Stop.
Please
.”

But he didn’t. Tears pricked Olivia’s eyes.
Where
was a pair of embroidery scissors when she needed them?

“The lady said no.”

A man’s gruff voice cut through the night air. It was stronger than her stupidly girlish protests, and the scoundrel gripping her tightly stopped only for a moment to say, “Get your own, mate.”

Olivia winced as the crack of the stranger’s fist connected firmly with the jaw of Brendon (Brandon?). She winced again when the soldier stumbled back uttering swear words she’d never imagined. And she gasped when, after rubbing his jaw for a moment, Brendon (Brandon?) lunged, hurling himself at her savior.

It was dark but she could hear the grunts and smacks and the crack of fists meeting flesh and bone. A nest of ducklings seemed to have been disturbed in the fight; the mother and chicks came running in search of a safer nesting spot, giving her a terrible fright until she realized what they were. But first she shrieked.

Eventually the fight sounds ceased and there was silence, save for the faint, faraway party sounds from the house. A cool breeze rustled the leaves on the trees. A cloud passed away from the moon, revealing a man who was tall—but not too tall. Muscled, but not overly so. He wore evening clothes, and a black domino obscured his face. But she could see he was handsome. A firm sensual mouth, a clenched jaw. Was he angry with her? He didn’t even know her.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I think so,” she said softly. She was such a fool, courting danger like that. She
knew
better. She was so very lucky this man had turned up when he did. Although she was now at
his
mercy, and she sensed that while his anger was receding, he wasn’t entirely a virtuous angel of goodness and light. “Thank you.”

He didn’t say “You’re welcome” or make a quip about saving a damsel in distress, or lecture her on her exceedingly foolish decisions that evening. She deserved every possible lecture or to be dragged unceremoniously back to the ballroom
or worse.

He exhaled slowly, as if frustrated and trying to control his temper. When he spoke, the words were clipped, gritted out.

“You just wanted to have fun,” he said.

Yes. Yes that was it exactly. This man understood that she only wanted to have a spot of amusement before she’d never enjoy herself again. Who was he?

She gazed at him.

He gazed at her.

Young ladies do not fall in love with mysterious heroic strangers the night before their wedding . . .

Chapter 13

It is the height of folly for a young woman to find herself alone in a darkened garden with a gentleman.

—
C
OMMON KNOWLEDGE AMONGST YOUNG LADIES

H
ere, in the depths of the garden, there was only silence and the sound of a man breathing deeply and exhaling slowly.

Her eyes, adjusting to the light, saw this mystery savior toe the unconscious form of Brendon (Brandon?). He might be dead. At the moment she only cared that she had survived. She’d kept her innocence and her virtue and her
self.
Thanks to this man.

He cut a dashing figure, broad-shouldered, tall, and mysterious. The domino obscured most of his face, but she saw his firm jaw, his mouth.

Olivia gazed at him.

He gazed at her.

“Would you like me to escort you back to the ballroom?” he asked. He certainly wasn’t leaving her to fend for herself out here.

This man intrigued her. Strangely, she felt safe with him, perhaps because he’d just come to her defense even though they were perfect strangers. Not that she trusted her judgment at the moment. Which is why she said, “Yes. But I think I just need a moment to collect myself.”

Then she took a few steps and sat on a nearby stone bench. Weak knees. Like him, she took deep breaths. What would she have done if he hadn’t come? She didn’t want to think about it.

He, whoever he was, took the liberty of sitting beside her. Out of the corner of her eye she watched as he gingerly flexed his fingers. There was a sharp hiss and intake of breath. He had hurt himself. For her.

Whoever it was had suffered because of her wanton disregard for ladylike rules, common sense, and decency. Because of her selfish and stupid behavior, people had been hurt. The first sob came, unbidden. And then another and another as it dawned on her what a truly horrible fate she had barely escaped. She was a fool. But she was lucky. A lucky fool. She’d gone courting magic, adventure, and romance. Instead she’d nearly been broken.

And still, she didn’t know
this
man! He could be even worse. Nevertheless, she turned and clasped his coat and buried her face in his wool jacket. Vaguely, she noted that it smelled of clean wool and something she couldn’t quite identify, but that she liked.

Then he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer into his embrace. She nestled against his chest. She’d never been so intimate with a man before. Not even with Brendon (Brandon?). She’d never been held before. Not like this. This just felt so right.

And she was betrothed to another.

She sobbed even harder.

“It’ll be all right,” he said.

“It won’t,” she replied. Not that he even heard her, given that her face was buried in his cravat as she wept.

“Are you lost?”

“I am,” she said, lifting her head to peer up at him. “I am lost. And confused and wretched.”

He frowned.

“Because it’s so strange to see an angel so far from heaven,” he said.

Then it was her turn to frown.

“Oh, I’m no angel,” she told him. “I have behaved wretchedly. Everything is ruined. I am ruined. My whole life is ruined.”

“Tell me about it.” Olivia felt her heart sigh—and realized she definitely had overimbibed champagne, because hearts did not sigh. But she
felt
as if hers had done so because this man wanted to know about her, her life, and her feelings. No one—not her mother, father, or the Mad Baron—had ever really asked her about those things.

“Oh, where do I begin?” she sighed.

“The beginning?” he ventured. She smiled slightly.

“My parents are forcing me to marry a man I don’t love,” she said sadly. It was a terrible fate. Almost as bad as the one she’d just averted. But when the Mad Baron started doing those things to her, she wouldn’t be allowed to say no.

“Could you love him?” the man asked.

“Never,” she said vehemently. She felt his grip tighten around her shoulders. Was he heartbroken by this tragic, star-crossed turn of events, too?

“Never?”

“Never,” she said firmly.

“Perhaps—”

“No, I despise him. We do not suit,” she said. He was terrifying and she was terrified, for one thing. And he never asked what she felt or thought, like this man did.

“What is so dreadful about him?”

“He is overbearing. Why, he just decides we’re going on a picnic. He doesn’t even ask if I wish it. He just decides and I’m supposed to be told what to do, like a child. And he says the worst lines.”

“That bastard,” the man said. She wouldn’t have used quite such strong language. But then again, deep down in her bones she was A Lady, despite all behavior to the contrary.

“And he plans to take me away to his desolate estate in rural Yorkshire where we will live in utter solitude. I’m sure I’ll go mad, especially for want of company while he is consumed with his work and I am left to embroider and manage the servants.”

“I’m sure you won’t go mad,” he said consolingly. Then, to her surprise, he asked, “Would you prefer to remain in London?”

She leaned her head against his shoulder and smiled, in spite of the tragic situation she’d related. This man asked her about her preferences. Unlike her parents or the Mad Baron, who just decided for her. Why couldn’t she have met him sooner?

“Yes. At least I shall have my friends for company,” Olivia answered. Marriage was a huge change; she wished to smooth the transition. Lowering her voice, she added, “And there will be people around, just in case . . .”

“In case what?”

“I think he might be dangerous and violent,” she said in a grave whisper. “In fact, I am sure of it.”

“That’s terrible,” he said. And then, protectively, he asked, “ Has he ever hurt you?”

“No,” she admitted. “But the gossip—”

“Has he lost his temper at you?” the man asked softly.

“No,” she said. “But the broadside—”

“Has he threatened you?”

“No, what is your point?”

“Perhaps you needn’t be afraid of him,” her mysterious midnight rescuer said. She had decided to call him Mysterious Midnight Rescuer in her head until she learned his real name. This man she could love. She knew it, deep down in her soul.

“But everyone says—” she protested.

“Everyone has said that the world is flat, when it is round.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Olivia asked.

“They have said the sun revolves around the earth, when the opposite is true,” he explained.

“Very well, I take your point,” she said. “I oughtn’t listen to gossip. I should only trust what truths I discover myself.”

“Yes,” he said gruffly. “Trust yourself and your own experiences.”

“My mother says ladies do not gossip.”

“I’m afraid your mother is wrong,” he replied, which no one ever said. Questioning her parents was Not Allowed.

“You’re right,” Olivia said, surprising herself by agreeing. “She said if I was well-behaved and a proper lady a nice man would want to marry me. And now I am betrothed to the Mad Baron. See, she is wrong.”

“I suppose you’ve tested this theory of yours,” he said, which confused her. It wasn’t a theory. It was just life as she had lived it.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Have you tried to act very unladylike? Have you set about breaking all the rules?” She had to laugh at that. If only he knew!

“Yes,” she admitted, a little smile playing on her lips. “I have tried to break as many as possible. I have cavorted with rogues, drunk to excess, and worn absurd amounts of face paint.”

“And what are the results?”

“Besides this unusually frank and intimate conversation with a stranger in a garden?” It was quite possibly the longest conversation she’d had with a man. It was certainly the most honest. Olivia sighed. “I have been drunk, made a fool of myself, and was nearly ravished by a scoundrel whose name I am not quite certain of.”

“Following all the rules of being a proper lady hasn’t made you happy. Breaking the rules, I’m assuming, hasn’t made you happy. Perhaps you ought to make your own rules, Angel.”

Olivia leaned her head against his shoulder.
Make my own rules.
Rules were always the creation of someone else: her mother, high society, the conduct books she was given each year for her birthday.

“Make my own rules,” she mused, the thought occurring to her for the very first time. What would her own rules be?

“Do only what pleases you, Angel.”

“And if I don’t know? I’ve never had a chance to know. Now I fear I never will. The Mad Baron will make me follow his rules. He wants a biddable wife.”

“Men say they want a biddable wife,” he said, “but then they realize they want a woman who fascinates them, who cares for them. They want a woman to love. So I promise, you’ll be able to make your own rules and your husband won’t try to stop you.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know,” he said, giving her shoulders another squeeze. “On behalf of decent gentlemen, give your betrothed a chance. Perhaps he isn’t awful. Then if he is very awful, run away.”

“You are rather kind,” she said, turning to face him. They both wore their masks, still. As if neither wanted to be themselves in this moment.

“We’re not all rogues,” he replied.

“If only I’d met you sooner,” Olivia said with a soft sigh.

He turned. She turned. His gaze dropped to her lips.

She thought about kissing. Despite all logic and reason, she wished to kiss this man. Even though she had just discovered how dangerous kissing gentlemen could be. But she felt drawn to this man in a way she’d never felt before, and in a way the poets spoke of. Wanting to kiss him simply felt right. And besides, she still wanted to know what the poets (and other girls) had been talking about when they were in rapture over a kiss.

It was an awkward moment—she didn’t think he meant to kiss her. But their lips collided and then there was no way she could stop.

This kiss was gentle. The pressure of his mouth against hers was so light, she found herself leaning closer to him in want of more. This kiss was slow. His lips lightly brushed against hers, so lightly she shouldn’t have felt it but she did, all over, as if her every nerve was attuned to the slightest touch.

And then the kiss deepened. He teased the seam of her lips. She opened for him, ready to follow his lead. Ready to experience the pleasure of this kiss. Already she knew this one would be different.
This
was the first kiss she’d dreamt of and was meant to have. And she trusted him, whoever he was.

Because she was now making her own rules, she did what she wanted to do, which was to thread her fingers through his hair. It was soft, like silk, through her fingers. As if it were the permission he needed, her Mysterious Midnight Rescuer deepened the kiss. Their tongues touched and teased as they tasted each other. She was starting to know this man in a way she didn’t know any other.

Gently, he clasped her face with his hands. Had it been Brendon (Brandon?), she might have felt trapped. With this man she felt cherished and wanted. Most men hadn’t even wanted to talk to her, but this one—he didn’t want to let go.
This
is what she wanted.
This
was why she risked reputation and virtue. And now that she found it, how could she ever let go?

Olivia broke away from the kiss to ask this perfect stranger—this perfect match—an utterly mad question. Caressing his cheek with her palm, her gaze dropped to his mouth, then lifted to his eyes.

Her heart was pounding. But she had to ask: “Will you marry me?”

In the darkness, she saw his darkened eyes and the slight, wistful smile as he said, “Not tonight.”