London had been sweltering under an unforgivable heatwave since the middle of May. In elegantly appointed ballrooms across the capital, women stood perspiring delicately, whilst cooling themselves with folding fans, which had undergone a sudden resurgence in popularity. The menfolk fared less well, as fans were a female contraption, and red faced males were seen everywhere, sweating profusely and cursing the close humidity of the city. The Season was ratcheting up to be a disaster, young debutants swooned, suffocating on the overwhelming stench of body odour that tainted each event, and older matrons, flushed and uncomfortable, declared their intent to return to the countryside as soon as was socially permissible.
Parliament adjourned the day after Ascot, and the ton breathed a sigh of relief: they could return home to swelter in private. As the servants began to pack up the town houses of their aristocratic owners, to everyone's surprise Lady Jersey declared she would be hosting one final ball before town emptied completely. This announcement was met outwardly with feigned enthusiasm; whilst most of the ton wished to leave the Capital post haste, Lady Jersey was not someone that one could simply just snub. And so, on the first night of June, hundreds of London's most fashionable families reluctantly descended on St. James' Square for one last hurrah.
Among their numbers was Miss Olive Greene, who at three and twenty was making a rather late debut into society. Everyone was in agreement that the flame-haired young woman was a beauty, and that it was a pity that she hadn't come out much sooner. An even greater pity, it was agreed, was that Olive had no dowry to speak of, though given her father's distasteful behaviour at the gaming tables, this was no shock.
Olive herself cared little for what people had to say about her, kind or otherwise. Having spent the duration of her younger years dreaming of how magnificent a season in London would be, she found the reality rather disappointing. This was, perhaps, because she had changed so much from the naive, vain and lazy girl she had been, to a young woman who, after her mother's death, had transformed into a mature, practical and hardworking lady.
Her transformation was mostly on account of her father's gambling, which had spiralled out of control since Lady Greene's death. Olive had become the skivvy, cook and footman when the servants had been let go because they could no longer pay them, as well as an amateur accountant and keen negotiator with the many bailiffs who called to Rose Cottage, the family seat in Frome.
The February just gone however, her father had won a large sum, in his club in Bristol, and had immediately written to his sister, outlining his plans for Olive to finally have a season. He would not listen to Olive's reasoning that the money would be better spent on the house, or saved for a rainy day, and instead she found herself shipped off to London, with a trunk full of new dresses that would be worthless in a few months time.
Her Aunt had launched two daughters successfully, who were now happily married to the younger son of an Earl and an untitled but wealthy industrialist respectively, found Olive far less biddable than her teenage daughters had been.
"Don't glare so much Olive," Aunt Thea had admonished, after a disastrous night at Almack's Assembly Rooms. "The way you look at men makes them think that they are challenging you to a dawn duel, not asking you to dance."
Olive tried, and failed, to feel some sort of contrition at her Aunt's words, but she was too worldly now to find excitement in a bloated, whiskey-nosed, son of the ton asking her to mark her dance card with his name. The young bloods held little allure, for in each of them she could see the same self destructive, indulgent streaks that tainted her own father's soul. Alcohol and gambling were the stalwart occupations of men with too much money and time on their hands, and their profligate ways disgusted her. They in turn, recognised that she was not like the other white-dressed, debutants, who smiled submissively at them and dared not speak above a whisper. There was a restless energy about Olive that made the men uncomfortable. They wanted passive, compliant wives, not a woman with spirit; spirit was what one looked for in a horse.
"Lady Cowper remarked that you looked pained at her musicale," Aunt Thea chided after another disastrous outing, "She said you wore the look of a man being sent to the stockades."
That's because I don't belong here, Olive thought glumly. She no longer fit into the world of high society, a world that she had been schooled for since birth. The strict rules of decorum were suffocating her, and she did not know how to subdue her stubbornness and behave like a proper lady. She did not know how to be meek, innocent or naive, and she viewed the other women looking for husbands as being like beautiful birds, seeking to flit from one gold cage to another. Did they not understand that they were putting their lives at the mercy of young, reckless men, who did not know the value of anything?
And so, on that humid evening in June, Olive found herself playing the wallflower in a quiet alcove in Lady Jersey's ballroom. Not out of shyness, but rather, because, she wanted to commit to memory the glamour and the glitz of her surroundings. For she knew, with her father's worsening luck and her own stubborn refusal to entertain any young men, that this would be the last London ball she would attend. Tonight's extravaganza would instead serve as fodder for future daydreams, which would gloss over the fact that the men were not princes but toads on their way to a bad case of gout. For Olive, practical though she was, loved to daydream, a habit inflamed by the Gothic novels she devoured. At night she imagined finding love with a pirate, or a soldier - men who knew how to be men - who challenged her, and treated her as an equal. It was all rather scandalous, and she shared these thoughts with no one but her pillow.
As Olive gazed dreamily at the couples dancing the last dance of the night--a waltz-- she sensed she was being watched, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and she shivered at the queer sensation. She turned slightly, to find a tall, brooding gentleman staring at her, with a dark, unreadable expression. He was large, much larger, than most; his hair dark and his skin tan, where other men were pasty pale. He was leaning casually against a marble column, seemingly uncaring that his avid, singular attention to her was quite scandalous, should it be noted by anyone wishing to be scandalized. Olive's green eyes met his blue,with what was meant to be an admonishing glare, but the intimidating boor seemed to take it as a sign to approach her.
"What's a pretty little thing like you, doing hiding away in a corner?" the stranger growled softly,like a bear, as he reached her side.
Olive shivered at his words, though the night was humid, and the ballroom unbearably hot from the crush of bodies that filled it. This was not the opening gambit of a proper gentleman.
"Avoiding wholly unsuitable men, such as yourself," she replied with a bravado she did not quite feel, for the dark stranger was most unnerving.
Two thick black eyebrows raised in appreciation of her candour; she would not play fashionably demure and frail simply because she was intimidated.
"My, my," the stranger laughed, though the mellow sound of mirth did not meet his eyes. "You have quite a tongue on you. Why have we not met before now, I wonder?"
"This is my first season out, sir." Olive replied shortly, before turning away from him to watch the dancers. Not that she was interested in them any more, it was just that his penetrating gaze felt almost like he was undressing her. Heat quenched her cheeks, and she knew that the porcelain skin of her neck and décolletage had turned an awful shade of tomato. Such was the trial of having auburn hair; ones' feelings were on display for the world to witness.
"Aren't you a bit long in the tooth to be a debutant?" the stranger snorted, most rudely.
"And aren't you too far past thirty to be behaving like a school boy?" she countered, gathering her skirts, and making to leave.
A strong, tanned hand reached out and encircled her wrist, preventing her from moving.
"Allow me to apologize," the man's face wore a closed, guarded look, though his eyes were searching hers, as though he were trying to read her very thoughts. "I am Everleigh."
Everleigh; The Duke of Ruin. The man who was rumoured to have murdered his wife, and killed her lover in a duel. Liv must have visibly blanched, for the Duke quirked an amused eyebrow.
"Do I frighten you?" he asked, the corners of his sensuous mouth lifting up into a cruel leer. He seemed to find her fear terribly amusing.
"Not one jot," Olive shrugged; she had faced down bailiffs, and ruffians on her father's behalf- a rake of a Duke could not scare her. "I doubt that even you would be so bold as to murder me in a ball room, your Grace."
Olive relished the look of surprise on the Duke's handsome face as he digested her audacious remark, she supposed that no-one ever outwardly acknowledged the rumours which swirled around him. But then, what did she care if she upset the pompous prig? She would not have another season, the threat of being refused an Almack's voucher held little weight. Though she doubted that the Duke of Everleigh would find a warm welcome there either; his presence amongst the ton was only barely tolerated. His money and power outweighed his many misdeeds, but only just.
"Touché," Everleigh's lips quirked again. "I can see I underestimated you Miss –"
"Greene," Olive reluctantly supplied, for she had not wished to share her name with him. "Olive Greene."
"What an unfortunate name," Everleigh laughed properly this time, and he was even more handsome because of it. His colouring was dark, but his eyes were blue, and when he laughed they were as warm and bright as sunlight sparkling on the sea. The Duke's hand still circled Olive's wrist, and she tugged it lightly, wishing to free herself. He was dangerous, she knew it inherently. He was the embodiment of all her fantasies: dark, handsome, deadly. Olive was struck by the sudden realisation that one's fantasies were safer when they confined themselves to one's head and did not appear miraculously embodied in a ballroom. Nothing had ever scared her as much as the Duke of Everleigh, and it was not the man himself that petrified her, but her reaction. She wanted to flee, but worse, she wanted him to chase her. Her heart beat rapidly in her chest, and she had to steel herself before she spoke again.
"I am well aware of how silly my name is, your Grace," she responded through gritted teeth. "And, unlike you, I am also well aware of what constitutes a scandalous amount of time for a man and woman to spend conversing alone in an alcove. We have exceeded it ten-fold. Good night, your Grace."
At last, Olive had managed to yank her wrist free from his strong grip, and she made to push past him, to find her Aunt.
"Don't go, just yet," the Duke blocked her path with his body,an act which was akin to rolling a boulder in her way, he was that large and immovable. "I wish to apologise for upsetting you."
"I don't wish to hear your apology," Olive whispered, slightly breathless from a heady mixture of fear and desire. "An apology requires actual remorse, and I doubt you are capable of that."
"You seem to have the measure of me already."
Instead of being insulted, Everleigh looked rather pleased. He watched her as a cat might watch a mouse, amused by her antics, but she knew she was only safe so long as he found her entertaining.
"That's nothing to be proud of, your Grace," Olive whispered, her face now flushed with anger. "I should hate for anyone to think that of me."
"Then that's where you and I differ, Miss Greene," the Duke inclined his head. "I care little for other people's opinions."
He stepped out of her way, and waved his arm, indicating that he would allow her to pass. Olive lifted her skirts, but when she made to walk past him, he again blocked her way.
"I have enjoyed our chat immensely, Miss Greene," he whispered in a way that was almost a threat, "And rest assured, we shall meet again."
With a smirk, he was gone, leaving Olive standing stupefied by the marble column. She did not know what it was about her that had attracted the Duke's attention, but she wished dearly that she hadn't.
A season to find a husband, and the only man I attract has a penchant for murder, she thought wryly to herself. She had her father's luck.