Wallflower Gone Wild (26 page)

The damned book lay open on her lap. He glanced
down at all the words just there, black on white, oblivious to the hurt they’d
caused.

Fearing his strange,
jealous brother, George rushed out headlong into the dark and stormy night
with DANGER in the air. Only such TERROR would drive a man to venture forth
in a driving downpour. He happened to encounter Huntford in town.

“George went to his house,” Phinn said, pointing to
the lies printed on the page. “George didn’t want to believe me, but he knew I
wouldn’t lie to him. It wasn’t an accidental meeting at all.”

Olivia picked up the book and read aloud.

“ ‘After hurling base accusations, Huntford had no
choice but to defend his honor. These two sporting men rained down violent blows
upon each other, each one fighting for honor and dignity. But soon each man was
only fighting for his life. For love.’ ”

“The long and short of it is that Huntford killed
my brother,” Phinn said. “He had no choice but to flee the country.”

“So when it says that you took advantage of
Nadine’s utterly distraught, exceptionally emotional state of tragic grief and
unrelenting bereavement to force her into marriage, I suppose it didn’t happen
quite like that,” Olivia said. “One lover was dead and the other might as well
have been. She would have been ruined. Marriage was her only salvation.”

“Nadia begged me to marry her,” Phinn said,
recalling how in turns she begged and cajoled. There had been tears. Heaving
bosoms. A damsel in distress on her knees before him, promising
anything
if he would just save her. He was tempted;
Nadia was beautiful. She had a knack for bending a man to her will. But he
didn’t love her. “She said it was possible that she could be expecting,” he
said.

“Was there a baby?” Olivia asked, eyes widening.
“
Is
there a baby?”

“No,” Phinn said. He was never sure if he was
saddened by the fact or glad because of the freedom it afforded him. Often he
wondered how things would have fared if they had just waited to see if she were
expecting. Or had she lied to him all along, eager to claim the title of
baroness and the protection that would come with it? It seemed imperative that
he marry her before the scandal broke.

“Why did you marry her?” Olivia asked. “Honor?”

“She would have been ruined otherwise. And I
couldn’t let my brother’s child—should there be one—be raised in some outcast
squalor,” Phinn said. “And she was beautiful and had a way of manipulating a man
with a terrifying combination of tears and seductive smiles.”

“None of which were taught at Lady Penelope’s
Finishing School for Young Ladies,” Olivia remarked wryly.

“Thank God for that,” Phinn said. The last thing he
wanted was another conniving and tempestuous wife.

Olivia rolled on her side to face him. He noticed
her long blond hair falling in waves around her face and splayed across the
pillow. He wanted to sink his fingers into it, pull her close and kiss her
senseless. He never wanted to talk about his past again.

“Did you love her?” Olivia asked softly.

“I cared for her,” Phinn said. And he did in time
have an affection for Nadia. They were a bad match. He didn’t give her the
attention she craved, which drove her to act more outrageously, which drove him
further away. But she was still his wife. He couldn’t
not
care for her. “But I didn’t love her.”

“How did she die, Phinn?” Olivia’s voice was soft.
She slipped her hand into his. “I assume you didn’t strangle her in a fit of
rage. Or, to quote the book . . .” She glanced down at the page. “
‘Enclose your massive fists around the pale, slender column of her innocent neck
whilst she pleaded for you to spare her life.’ ”

“We settled into a routine in which we largely
avoided each other save for fights at dinner and . . .” Here Phinn
paused, remembering how their passionate outbursts became something else
entirely in the bedroom. He remembered, too, how wretched and dishonorable he’d
felt after each time. While Olivia was present, he didn’t want to think of the
way they made up after fights, let alone mention it to her, his lovely new
bride. “And then we made up afterward,” he said finally. “But she wanted more
and more of my attention. She resorted to all sorts of dramatics and hysterics
to get it. This only angered me, and with my temper, I thought it best if I just
stayed away in my workshop and focused on my work.”

“Which only angered her more,” Olivia finished with
a slight smile. “I can understand.”

“I shut her out,” Phinn said, pushing his fingers
through his hair. “She hated it.”

“Any woman would,” Olivia said. She tugged his
hand. He turned to face her.

This time, when their eyes met, hers weren’t filled
with fear. Phinn was aware of the soft rise and fall of her chest. Her lips
. . . just there. But there would be no stopping this kiss once he
started. He wanted to finish this story, leave it in the past and fully
surrender to his future with Olivia, no longer haunted by secrets.

Reluctantly he kept talking.

“One night she went out to my workshop, in a fit of
rage, of course. She never took an interest in my work. She felt competitive, I
suppose. That night, she set fire to the workshop. I think she was trying to get
my attention,” Phinn said. And that was why he blamed himself. If he’d been
better, tried harder, then she wouldn’t have resorted to such foolish and
drastic measures. That’s why Olivia could never have scared him off with her
antics. He was too determined to be devoted.

“A fire is one way to get your attention,” Olivia
remarked.

“She just couldn’t get out in time . . .”
Phinn said, his voice rough. In his mind, he was back there . . . the
scent of smoking disturbing him as he sat down to dinner. He could still feel
the way his heart lodged in his throat when he looked out the window and saw the
flames—and then glanced at her empty space set at the far end of the dinner
table.

He ran to save her. But he’d been too late.

“Something I was working on had fallen. She’d been
trapped. And I hadn’t gotten to her in time. So you see, I didn’t really kill
her. Not with my bare hands. But her death was my fault all the same.”

Phinn held his breath, waiting for Olivia to order
him to leave. After confessing his entire, sordid family saga to her, he
wouldn’t blame her if she wanted nothing more to do with him.

But then she surprised him. Always, always, she
surprised him.

“I’m so sorry, Phinn,” she whispered. And then she
somehow soothed the deep-seated fear he couldn’t put into words but that weighed
on him heavily. “And I’m so sorry for breaking the Difference Engine. I wasn’t
trying to break it or make you angry. I thought you might be there, which is why
I went. Once I saw the engine, I couldn’t look away.”

There had been too many similarities between the
day Olivia was injured and that awful night years ago. But this time she had
been going to him, not running from him. This time, he’d saved her.

“But you really oughtn’t lock yourself away with
the engine,” she said. “At least not while I am bedridden and desperate for
amusement.”

Phinn felt his breath catch.

“Amusement?”

“Just something to take my mind off the pain,”
Olivia said softly.

“Do you want laudanum?”

“No, just you,” she said with the sweetest
smile.

With his touch, Phinn distracted Olivia from the
pain. He took it away, until there was nothing but pleasure.

Chapter 24

After a season of scandals and one of the rockier courtships this ton has ever observed, Lord and Lady Radcliffe seem to be quite in love. Is it too soon to celebrate their happily ever after?

—
T
HE
L
ONDON
W
EEKLY

A few weeks later

T
hey had settled into a comfortable routine. She and Phinn made love in the mornings and took breakfast together before he went off to work on the engine, and she spent the day hobbling around with Emma. They drank tea, read periodicals, shopped for the perfect dress to wear to Lady Penelope’s Ball and wrote letters to Prudence, all of which troublingly remained unanswered. Then she and Phinn might attend a ball, or the opera, or just stay in. Once darkness fell, they made love and fell asleep beside each other.

Olivia started to know him in a way she’d never imagined. She learned his body so well that she could paint it from memory—though she occasionally still made him pose for her just because she liked to gaze wantonly at him. She could tell when he was distracted by thoughts of the engine by the far off look in his eye, which was different than how his eyes darkened and his body tensed when something sparked his temper.

She’d become adept at diffusing his anger before it turned into a fiery explosion of devastating and violent rage. But his temper had not sparked much. Things were good.

They were happy.

She was in love.

She had a can’t stop thinking about him, lost in his kiss, counting the minutes until they met again, kind of love. Despite everyone’s expectations including her own, she’d found herself happily married in time for Lady Penelope’s anniversary ball.

She even had the perfect dress.

There was just one problem.

P
hinn arrived home later than expected. The construction of the engine had hit some snags. Some of the pieces were damaged during the collapse and had to be rebuilt, which slowed their progress considerably. The Great Exhibition was just days away. He and Ashbrooke had planned to debut the engine there, and hopefully catch the attention of a factory owner interested in producing more engines or a printer interested in partnering to publish a new set of ready reckoners.

If nothing came of this event, then all their work was for naught. Their machine was too good, too powerful, too revolutionary to gather dust in a warehouse.

When he walked into their hotel suite, he was plagued with worry, starving, and exhausted, and knew he would probably have to return to work later this evening.

He managed a faint smile for Olivia.

“You’re home!” she said, hobbling from the settee and into his arms. He pressed a quick kiss upon her lips. Her ankle had healed marvelously; the doctor attributed it to all the time she had spent in bed, which prompted them to share a wicked smile thinking of the not-resting they did there.

“Have you rung for dinner?”

“How was your day?” she inquired, taking his coat.

“Fine. Long. Tired.” Phinn strolled over to the sideboard and poured a whiskey. It was one of those days, and he faced another one tomorrow and the day after that. He probably wouldn’t sleep for the rest of the week. “Dinner, Olivia? Did you ring for it?”

“I’ll do that now,” she murmured. He caught the annoyed glance she gave him. Phinn just sipped his whiskey and vowed to make it up to her later. She returned a moment later.

“Do you notice anything different?” she asked, gazing up at him eagerly.

Phinn studied her and tried, honestly, to discern what it was. He saw her blond hair and the color reminded him of the engine pieces to be remade. Her blue eyes reminded him of the ink with which he drew the plans—and the frantic calculations he’d spent the day poring over. These were not the right things to say. Any fool knew that.

“Tell me,” he said, managing a slight smile, though hers became a frown. Damn.

“My dress. It’s new. I ordered it for Lady Penelope’s Ball.” Olivia gave a little twirl so he could admire the dress.

“It’s lovely,” he said, appreciating the way the blue fabric flattered the flare of her hips and the swell of her breasts. Perhaps he wasn’t so tired after all . . . He could lose himself in her curves, soft skin, and the mindless rhythm of making love. He set down the glass and went to embrace his wife.

Olivia flitted away from him.

“You mustn’t wrinkle it!” she said, playfully swatting his hands away. But then she smiled coyly and said, “Though the ball isn’t until Friday. I suppose it could be pressed.”

“Friday?”

“Yes,” Olivia replied. “I told you about this weeks ago.”

Vaguely, he recalled something to that effect.

“This Friday?” Phinn asked, just to be sure.

“The very one.”

Damn. He pushed his fingers through his hair. Sipped his whiskey. Then he broke the bad news.

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it, Angel,” he said regretfully. Of course, he wanted to be by her side constantly. But he
had
to have the engine completed in time. There would only be one opening day of the Great Exhibition and only one chance to make a stunning, spectacular first impression. Everything he had ever worked for was aimed at debuting the Difference Engine before the world.

“But I cannot miss it,” she protested.

Phinn wracked his brain for a solution. “Can you go on your own?”

“That would be a fate worse than death,” she declared dramatically. He fought to keep his brows from shooting up skeptically.

“Now you’re exaggerating,” he replied.

That was clearly the wrong thing to say, judging by the vivid flash of her eyes and ferocious expression.

“Why can you not attend?” she asked, and his heart began to thud unevenly.

“The Great Exhibition opens the next morning. I will be too busy finishing the assembly of the engine.”

Olivia folded her arms across her chest and narrowed her eyes.

“I see,” she said icily.

“Olivia—”

“Can’t someone else do it?”

“I’m afraid not. It’s too important. It must be done right,” Phinn explained. Not only did the machine have to be built, it had to work. Otherwise it was just some rich men’s folly, a collection of metal parts with no purpose.

“But this night means so much to me,” she pleaded. Her blue eyes gazed up at him, and for a second he wavered.

“It’s just a party for your finishing school,” he said. He’d graduated from
Oxford,
and they didn’t have anniversary balls that he felt compelled to attend. “We attend balls with the same people nearly every night of the week.”

“Ashbrooke will be there,” she challenged.

“Yes, but he doesn’t understand the construction like I do,” Phinn said.

“Are you truly picking a machine over your wife?” she asked incredulously. Somehow, this had become a choice between one or the other. Really, though, it was just prioritization. And he was
tired.
And
hungry.

“It’s not like that Olivia. It’s my life’s work.”

“Well finding a husband has been my life’s work—because that’s all I’m allowed—and I’d like to celebrate that I succeeded.”

Wearily, Phinn sighed and said, “If it means so much to you, I can try to be there. But I cannot promise.”

Olivia’s reply was the slamming of her bedchamber door, leaving Phinn utterly bewildered. It was just another ball, was it not?

“I
t’s not just another ball,” Ashbrooke explained a few days later. Phinn had spent nearly every waking moment at work on the engine; when he was in their suite, Olivia sulked and avoided him. He had obviously done something WRONG. Fortunately, Ashbrooke was on hand to translate.

“But it’s the same people we see at every other ball, most of whom we don’t even speak to. I can barely tolerate them on the best of nights. Usually, I count the minutes until Olivia and I can return home. I won’t have the patience for a ton party when there is work to be done on the engine the night before the Great Exhibition.”

“If I understand Emma correctly,” Ashbrooke began, “this event is the equivalent of St. Peter at the gates. Apparently, no one in the one hundred year history of their finishing school has ever been unwed by their fourth season.”

“Was Olivia on her fourth season?” Why didn’t he know that? He should know that.

Ashbrooke nodded. “They resorted to desperate measures to wed. Well, Emma did.”

“Then I suppose, despite her protestations, Olivia truly won’t care if I don’t go,” Phinn said, “considering how much she tried to not marry me.”

“That’s what you deduce from four days of utter silence from your wife, save for the slamming of doors?” Ashbrooke asked incredulously. “You may understand physics, but you are clueless when it comes to women.”

“I never said otherwise,” Phinn muttered.

“I’m given to understand that it is a peculiar form of torture to attend this event while unwed, which Emma and Olivia can attest to, given that they’ve suffered through it three times.”

“It’s just a party,” Phinn protested. “All they did was marry. It’s not like, say, they built an engine that might transform every industry in England.”

“First of all, while I might agree, I advise you to
never
utter that sentiment before one of our wives. At least not until after the engine is done. Can’t have you murdered by a mob of angry ladies before it’s finished. Secondly, who knows what they could accomplish if they were taught something practical during school? Thirdly, it matters to them—therefore it matters to us. If that is not a scientific law, it ought to be.”

“But the engine—” Phinn wearily glanced around at the pieces strewn about the room and the half-built machine. Days. They had mere days to complete it.

“Will be done,” Ashbrooke declared.

“How do you know?”

“I have confidence in you, Radcliffe,” the duke said, clapping him on the back. “And a little jewelry wouldn’t be remiss either.”