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she bit her tongue.
    “No more polite conversations on the weather!” Emma said. “I think we should all join Olivia on her quest.”
    “You ought to stroll into White’s,” Prudence started. “And then sit down, put your feet on the table—and do let your ankles show—and then order a brandy.”
    Olivia wrinkled her nose. “Do I have to drink it?”
    “Yes,” Prudence said. “In one swallow and then slam the glass down on the tabletop for emphasis.”
    “Then I shall demand they bring me the betting book and I shall cross out our names as London’s Least Likely,” Olivia said, grinning. Her stomach turned somersaults at the thought. She would never, of course. But what if she dared?
    “You must have an unchaperoned encounter with a gentleman, preferably a scandalous one,” Emma added.
    “But then you must be seen by a gossiping busybody,” Prudence said. “Otherwise it doesn’t count.”
    “After all, if you are alone with a rogue and no one saw it, did it really happen?” Emma punctuated this philosophical question with a lift of her brow.
    “A deep, philosophical question from a duchess,” Prudence remarked.
    “In general, you must spend as much time as possible in the company of rogues and women with scandalous reputations,” Prudence added matter-of-factly. As if gentlemen hadn’t been known to launch themselves into hedges to avoid Olivia. That would have to change immediately.
    “Perhaps you’ll even fall in love with one,” Emma said.
    “And he’ll whisk you off to Gretna Green before the Mad Baron knows what hit him,” Prudence concluded.
    “You know all the rules, Olivia,” Emma said. “You just have to break them, one by one, as you encounter them.”

Chapter 3
    A violently rouged woman is one of the most disgusting objects to the eye.
    — T HE M IRROR OF G RACES, A R EGENCY CONDUCT BOOK GIVEN TO O LIVIA ON THE OCCASION OF HER TWELFTH BIRTHDAY
    Archer House
    The following day
    O livia sat before the mirror whilst her maid, Mary, forced her pale blond hair to curl. Lord Radcliffe was coming to tea and Lady Archer had given strict orders that Olivia was to appear at her very best, which meant she’d endure the hot iron and have her hair tangled up in an arrangement with strings of pearls and hair ribbons. She’d don one of her prim white day dresses and conduct herself with the utmost delicacy and care to avoid dirtying the gown. Young ladies must always be impeccably turned out and above reproach.
    There was no other option.
    Or was there?
    Break the rules, one by one, as you encounter them.
    Having spent her whole life dutifully obeying every order, it was a strange and curious thought to consider deliberately doing the opposite. Oh, she had entertained thoughts of, say, putting Lady Katherine in her place with a cutting remark, or playing bawdy songs on the pianoforte at a musicale, or forsaking conduct books in favor of the romantic novels Emma was always reading (and Olivia discretely borrowed because ladies did not read such rubbish ) . She’d like to lift her skirts and run through Hyde Park instead of strolling. Wear lip paint and diaphanous gowns. Flirt with a rake and perhaps be the subject of a rumor.
    Olivia always thought one day . . . one day she’d get to do all of these things when she left her parents’ house and married the sort of dashing man who unlocked this side of her and encouraged high-spirited behavior.
    She had nurtured her vision of this perfect happily-ever-after. Her husband would be handsome, charming, and always know what to say. He’d look at her with a gaze that sparkled lovingly and would always try to steal a kiss. They’d live in a large house with a pack of noisy children and she would never yell at them if they got jam on their skirts or broke a vase. In beautiful dresses and on the arm of this perfect husband, everyone would forget they’d ever called her Prissy Missy and that Mr. Middleton had jumped into a hedge to avoid