Wallflower Gone Wild (15 page)

He could, perhaps, assuage her worries by telling her the truth about Nadia, the accident, the end. He was about to do just that.

And then everything went to hell.

Phinn’s attentions were wrenched away from Olivia only by the sound of intruders. He saw Rogan driving an open carriage, full of lords and ladies engaged in tests to see how far they could lean out of the vehicle without toppling to the ground. He suspected they were not factoring calculations of weight, gravity, and other such physical matters, as he would have, but leaving everything to chance.

“Hello there, young lovers!” Rogan called out, interrupting everything. Just this once, Phinn did consider murder.

Rogan tossed the reins to his companion, jumped down from the carriage and strolled up the steps of the gazebo. As if he had been invited. Which he most definitely had not been.

“Olivia, you remember, Lord Rogan, a man I used to call a friend,” Phinn said sharply.

“Partner in crime is a more apt description for the likes of a rogue like me,” Rogan said, which was exactly the wrong thing to say. Olivia’s eyes widened as she looked from one man to another. Then she took the bottle of wine to her lips and took a long sip. Rogan eyed her curiously, and when he spoke next his tone was more subdued. “Just thought I’d see how your romantic picnic was faring.”

“We’re fine. Be gone with you.”

Olivia set down the empty bottle of wine on the table with a thud that rattled the cutlery and china. Phinn glanced warily at the carriage of people avidly watching Prissy Missy drinking wine straight from the bottle.

“Does anyone need any more wine? I can fetch more from the carriage,” Rogan answered. Phinn did not want to know why he was driving around at midday with bottles of wine tucked away.

“Actually, I should like to go back to the carriage,” Olivia said, standing and holding onto her chair. “I’m feeling a bit out of sorts. My eyelids feel heavy. And my brain feels . . . fuzzy.”

“Drinking wine on a sunny afternoon would make anyone feel drowsy and unwell,” Phinn said as she wavered on her feet. He jumped up and linked their arms together, intent on escorting her back to the carriage or perhaps on a short stroll away from these intruders.

She gazed up at him, her blue eyes full of questions. Once he got rid of Rogan, he would provide the answers she sought.

Olivia found herself leaning against Phinn. She was oh-so-drowsy and a bit unsteady on her feet, and he was a strong, solid, towering wall of support that she could lean on. Drinking the last of that wine had been a terrible idea; she hadn’t wanted more but felt it was necessary to prove her point.

What was her point? All she knew was that it was happening again: desire warring with fear. His gaze was so warm and affectionate now, but she’d seen the cold distance in his eyes when he’d become angry.

For a moment it was easy to forget about the picnic crashers and just focus on Phinn’s lips. He dipped his head. Would he kiss her? Olivia’s heart started to pound. People were watching! And if they weren’t?

“Put something in her drink, did you?” Rogan asked with a grin. “Clever.”

Olivia looked from one man to the other.

“Did you poison me?” Olivia gasped. She did feel awfully drowsy and weak. “Oh goodness, I’m dying,” she muttered.

“Olivia, you’re fine. I would never do something like that,” Phinn said insistently. “I would never hurt you. Rogan doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“But I feel so ill,” she mumbled. She yawned and rested her head on his shoulder, inadvertently swatting him in the face with her atrocious bonnet. She was too tired to care.

“It’s just the effects of the wine,” Phinn explained.

“How much did you give her?” Rogan asked. He shifted his concerned gaze from Olivia to one much more critical at Phinn. “She looks like she must be suffering from alcohol poisoning.”

“Wrong choice of words, Rogan,” Phinn said sharply.

Olivia felt him tense. His grasp on her arm tightened. Peering up at him, she saw his jaw clenched shut. His breaths were short and shallow. Rogan was making him angry. If Rogan had any sense, he would stop. But she was too tired to say that. Besides, what if Rogan was right?

Rogan peered curiously at her. She looked blankly at him.

“And what are you still doing here?” Phinn managed to ground out the question through a fiercely clenched jaw.

“She does look ill, Phinn. Definitely alcohol poisoning.”

“Poisoned? Have I been poisoned?” Olivia gasped. She struggled to keep her eyes open. What was she to do? Rogan wasn’t any help; she’d have to save herself. She tried to disentangle herself from Phinn so she might fetch her embroidery scissors.

Phinn held her steady.

“You have not been poisoned,” he said firmly. And then he turned on Rogan.

“And you—what the hell do you think you’re doing here?”

“Only trying to help,” Rogan said, carefully stepping backward. Phinn’s grasp on her tightened. This is what she was afraid of.

“You know my temper Rogan. You have precisely ten seconds to make yourself—and your friends—scarce. Otherwise . . .”

“I’ll just be off, then,” Rogan said, attempting to sound jovial. Then he scrambled off to his carriage as Olivia felt faint.

Between her tightly laced corset, confining gown, wine, and the afternoon sun, she was simply overcome. Vaguely, she was aware of her knees giving way.

Phinn caught her.

She was aware of him lifting her up, holding her like a precious damsel in distress as he carried her to his carriage. Her head rested against his chest. The steady beat of his heart lulled her. She stirred a bit when she realized he was carrying her off and everyone was watching . . .

“Feats of strength!” Rogan called out after him. Had she more strength, she would have bashed Rogan with her parasol. And then she fell asleep.

“Never refer to a woman as a feat of strength, you fool,” Phinn said through gritted teeth.

He glanced down at Olivia’s peacefully slumbering face. The tightness in his chest eased. He drew a deep breath. His pulse started to subside. She soothed him. And thus, slightly soothed, Phinn could see that Rogan meant to help but only had a knack for making things worse.

For example: the carriage load of loud, gossipy companions now bore witness to the sight of the Mad Baron carrying an unconscious woman from a secluded location to his awaiting carriage.

He expected rumors of her death at his hand within the hour, which would inevitably be confirmed by everyone who saw him attempt to drive the carriage back to the Archers’ house with one hand, whilst using the other to keep Olivia upright. Her body was limp. Her eyes were closed. He knew how this looked. And he cursed his luck—or did he?

Chapter 11

Lord Radcliffe, better known amongst the ton as the Mad Baron, did nothing to dispel rumors that he murdered his late wife when he was seen carrying the unconscious form of Lady Olivia Archer from a secluded gazebo in Hyde Park, where they had been enjoying a picnic. The word poison was overheard. It is now impossible that Lady Archer not marry him, given that she has been so thoroughly compromised. Whoever thought she’d be London’s Least Likely to survive the wedding night?

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

T
HE
L
ONDON
W
EEKLY

“T
his is not good,” Prudence said, setting down the newspaper after reading the latest installment of
“
Fashionable Intelligence” that had the ton talking of nothing else. Prudence and Olivia had rendezvoused at Emma’s as soon as they’d read the papers.

Olivia groaned and buried her face in her hands. No one had to tell her how
“
not good” it was.

“In fact, I would even go so far as to say this is bad,” Emma said grimly. Olivia flung herself back on the settee.

“Also not good,” she said,
“
my mother fainted when Phinn brought me home, limp and nearly lifeless in his arms after our disastrous picnic. Even worse: my father has had a word with him. Given that I doubt they fought a duel, I am sure the archbishop has been called upon.”

Not good. Bad. Terrible.

“Olivia, what exactly happened?” Emma asked.

“Besides the part where I was poisoned?” Olivia replied.

“With what?” Prudence asked, greatly intrigued.

“Wine,” Olivia said. “Perhaps something else.”

“You were just drunk,” Prudence scoffed. “Why were you drunk at a picnic? It’s one thing to be intoxicated at Almack’s when one has spiked the lemonade. But in the afternoon?”

“I was a nervous wreck, fearing that he was going to ravish and murder me in the woods,” Olivia confessed. “The wine seemed to soothe me.”

“You’d think you’d want to keep your wits about you in that instance,” Prudence remarked.

“Thank you, Prudence, for telling me that
now.
”

“Obviously he did no such thing,” Emma pointed out. “Neither poisoning, ravishment, nor murder.”

“No. We merely conversed,” Olivia replied. “At his request, I listed all the ways in which we would not suit.”

“And did he agree with your assessment and offer to break the match?” Emma asked.

“No,” Olivia said glumly. “He pointed out that because of our little wager, it was
his
fault I had been provoked into tarnishing my reputation, thus, he was honor bound to stand by me.”

“Very noble of him,” Emma said. “If dreadfully inconvenient for you.”

“I didn’t see that coming,” Prudence said softly. “Who knew the Mad Baron was a man of honor? Makes one wonder what else we might have underestimated about him.”

“It’s worse,” Olivia muttered. She told them everything—from her agonies over whether to wear the bonnet, to the minute Lord Rogan showed up to spoil everything. If it weren’t for him, and his gossiping friends, she and Phinn might have had a chance of returning to her home undetected. Everyone saw. Everyone talked.

No one would have her now. Perhaps some tradesman’s son or solicitor would, but then she’d be cut off from society just as much as if she’d been whisked away to a dungeon in Yorkshire.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to marry him,” she said with such a forlorn sigh she made herself even sadder. “In spite of all our efforts.”

She’d never know the first blush of true love, the delicious anticipation of waiting for a suitor to call, or the sweet pleasure of waltzing with an adoring beau who didn’t terrify her. It was too late for her to know herself now—she’d wasted so much time being the perfect lady when she could have been the perfectly lovely Olivia. As the Mad Baroness, alone in Yorkshire with her household to manage and while doing embroidery, she’d never know, never share a meeting of hearts and minds with a man who made her heart beat faster with love, not fear.

“You really do not wish to marry him, do you?” Emma asked softly, her expression full of concern.

Olivia shook her head no. The vision of her life as his bride saddened her. The man himself scared her. Why, everything seemed to go horribly wrong when they were together. Oh, there were moments when she was intrigued about his work or his past, even tempted by a kiss or his touch. But were mere moments enough to base a lifetime on?

“Even if it means you would be unwed for Lady Penelope’s Ball?” Prudence asked.

“I’d rather attend Lady Penelope’s Ball as a ruined spinster,” Olivia declared, sounding more convinced than she felt.

Her future happiness was at stake, and she couldn’t see a way for her and Phinn to be happy together. They’d make each other miserable and what happened with his first wife would happen to her. The madness. The desperation. The end.

“Then you have very little time to cause a scandal so great that you never recover from it,” Prudence said.

“And one night to meet another man, fall in love, and elope to Gretna Green,” Emma added.

“Given that I haven’t managed to do that in four seasons, for it to happen in one night would be a miracle,” Olivia pointed out. “Much as I want the plan to work.”

“You’ll have to take a risk, won’t you?” Emma asked, tilting her head with the slight dare. “Especially if he’s so horrid.”

“I thought you and Blake liked him,” Olivia replied.

“I do like him,” Emma said. “But I love you and I would hate to see you miserable.”

“Also, we don’t fancy having to go all the way out to Yorkshire to visit you,” Prudence added. “We’d much prefer you here in London.”

Olivia also preferred herself in London.

“Even if I don’t meet a man to run off with, I want just one night where I can be free,” Olivia said. “I don’t want to be Prissy Missy, London’s Least Likely, or the future Mad Baroness. For one night, I just want to be
me.
”

The tightness in her chest eased at the prospect of doing something drastic and daring just for herself.

“So we have one night in which to thoroughly and completely ruin Prissy Missy,” Emma said. “There is only one problem with that plan. Possibly several.”

“Will I never find happiness?” Olivia lamented. “What are the problems? Can I not just wear a scandalous gown and contrive to find myself in a compromising position with a known rogue?”

“Of course. But what happens next? You’ll be ruined. You basically are ruined after that incident in the park. Marrying anyone else will be . . . unlikely.”

For a moment Olivia wavered.
Should she just marry him and hope for the best?
He couldn’t possibly murder two wives. What were the odds?

“You’ll live with me,” Prudence said, squeezing Olivia’s hand. “We can live our spinsterhood in a nice cottage by the sea.”

“And your aunt?” Emma asked skeptically. Prudence’s aunt was Something Else.

“It’s either my crazy aunt or the Mad Baron,” Prudence said. “Take your pick.”

“My father has probably procured a special license already,” Olivia said flatly, as the truth was harder and harder to avoid. There’d never been a chance at something else, from the moment Phinn sought permission from her father to court her. Now that she’d been seen unconscious and possibly dead in Phinn’s arms, there really was no hope for any alternative.

Lovely as living by the sea in a neat little cottage with Prudence would be, Olivia couldn’t hinder her friend’s chances at true love. Prue deserved more than being saddled with her downfallen friend who, as a ruined spinster, wouldn’t be received by anyone.

The Mad Baron was her most likely and possibly only option for matrimony. Unless by some magical twist of fate she met someone else, fell in love, and ran off with him in one night. The odds of that happening were very low indeed.

She felt a sob stick in her throat. Which meant . . .

“I have only one more night of freedom,” she said. “One night to dare to try to be anyone else. One night where I might waltz with rogues or steal kisses or flirt outrageously.”

“I have an idea,” Emma said, grinning. “It’s either perfect or disastrous.”

“Or perfectly disastrous,” Prudence mused.

“There is a masquerade ball tomorrow night,” Emma said, which was news to the others.

“I did not receive an invitation to that,” Olivia said, dejected. “I am already being cut for my association with the Mad Baron.”

“Neither did I,” Prudence muttered. “And I have no such excuse.”

“That’s because it’s being held by the demimonde,” Emma explained with a mischievous smile. “Blake was invited through his scientific friends. I have heard that such soirees are always much more
lively
than ton events.”

“Do you think the Mad Baron will be there?” Olivia worried. “It wouldn’t do if he were there on my night of freedom, and possible elopement.”

“It’s possible, I suppose,” Emma replied. “But being so dark and brooding, he doesn’t seem like the sort to attend such raucous parties. At least, I am led to believe they are raucous.”

“Just to be safe,” Prudence said, “we can ensure you are unrecognizable in your dress and mask. That way you will be free to dally with all sorts of disreputable gentlemen. No one will ever know you were there until you return from Gretna with a ring on your finger and a man on your arm.”

“What will I tell my mother?” Olivia asked. For a second she imagined informing her that she would be attending a demimonde ball without a chaperone. Her mother would shriek, swoon, and take to her bedchamber with a stockpile of smelling salts—leaving her free to go.

“Tell your mother you are coming to stay with me,” Emma said. “And then we shall dress in costume and attend the masquerade. You will have one night in which you can be anyone you want, Olivia.”

“One night of freedom,” Olivia said with a sigh. “My first and last night of freedom.”

Lord Rogan’s Residence

“I’m sorry,” Rogan said, possibly for the thousandth time.

Phinn ignored him. If the Difference Engine hadn’t fallen so far behind schedule because of the distractions and delays of his courtship, it would be finished by now. Then he could use it to add up Rogan’s every apology. The decent thing to do would be accept at least one of them.

But the Difference Engine hadn’t yet been built. It seemed he would be marrying Olivia under the worst circumstances. He’d had a word with her father about that. They had no choice in the matter now, after her shocking behavior at the ball, their disastrous picnic, and the subsequent scandal.

He’d come to London with two intentions: take a wife, build the engine. He hadn’t quite failed, but he also couldn’t shake the feeling that he should have stayed in Yorkshire.

“I am deeply, deeply sorry,” Rogan carried on.

Phinn glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. The man did seem to genuinely regret the damage he’d done by inviting a dozen gossips to witness yet another romantic failure. Then he had to go and mention
poisoning.
Rogan not only terrified Olivia after he had managed to assuage her fears, but he got tongues wagging.
The Mad Baron offs another bride.

Poisoning was such a miss-ish way to kill people, too, Phinn thought meanly. Insult to injury. Not that he injured anyone, ever. That was the most ridiculous thing of all—he had a temper, but he’d never raised a hand to anyone.

“I had only the best intentions.”

Rogan was, inexplicably, still talking. Phinn was just trying to cool his boiling blood and calm his pounding heart. He’d lost his temper earlier and hadn’t quite gotten it back.

Miss-ish or not, if he had some poison right now . . .

Instead he focused on breathing in and out. And staying seated in this chair. He glanced down at his hands—the knuckles had gone white, he was gripping the arms so tightly. It was either that or pummel his friend within an inch of his life.

Not exactly what his reputation needed right now.

Not for the first time did Phinn curse the Radcliffe temper.

“It was Ralph’s idea to pop ’round and see how you two were doing,” Rogan explained. Phinn had no idea who Ralph was, and thought it was probably for the best that he never knew. Because of his temper.

He had lost it the night Nadia died. She had been harping on him, nagging incessantly. He’d been distracted, for his work wasn’t going well. Making matters worse, he’d been slightly drunk and in need of a good meal. And she kept on and on at him about leaving her alone at supper, embarrassing her in front of the servants, boring her . . .

He’d just snapped. It was the Radcliffe temper. He hadn’t laid a finger on her. But he had roared. Sent her running.

The thing was, Nadia had a temper, too. And she went running to his workshop, intent on revenge. Or attention. He wasn’t sure.

He hadn’t mentioned any of this to Olivia. He might have if Some People hadn’t interrupted him. He might have shown her his past and shown her his remorse. Instead, he revealed how quickly he could turn from gentleman to beast.

“I didn’t think Ralph would want to crash your picnic,” Rogan added.

Phinn finally fixed a steely gaze upon his friend, who shrank back.

“And how did he know that I was taking Olivia on a picnic?”

“I might have let it slip,” Rogan said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “But you didn’t say it was a secret.”

“I like to keep my personal affairs private,” Phinn said. “Always. As a rule.”

A rule that no one followed. Witness:
The Mad Baron: The Gruesome Story of an Innocent Maiden’s Tragic Love and Untimely Death. A True Story.
Witness: the gossip columns since he’d arrived in town.

“Look, I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think it is,” Rogan said in a conciliatory tone.

“Really? Are you certain of that?” Phinn challenged. He picked up on the newspapers that lay strewn about his feet. “The ‘Man About Town’ writes, ‘The Mad Baron couldn’t wait for the wedding night. His new bride has suffered the same fate as his first—without even a trip down the aisle first.’ ”