Wallflower Gone Wild by Maya Rodale Page B

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