“If it isn’t the happy couple,” he said with a laugh.
“Go away, Rogan,” Phinn said, sounding exasperated. Olivia found herself intrigued. This jovial wastrel didn’t seem like the company a brooding, murderous recluse would keep.
“You’re not going to introduce me to your lady?” Rogan asked, nudging Phinn in the ribs.
“Lady Olivia, may I present my friend, Lord Rogan. Ignore everything he says.”
Lord Rogan just grinned wickedly and said, “Phinn has been speaking highly of you.”
“Except that. Don’t ignore that,” Phinn countered.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Olivia said as this Lord Rogan bowed and kissed her hand and then winked at her. Finally, gentlemen were starting to notice her! Unfortunately, it was the friend of the man courting her.
“We were just returning Lady Olivia to her friends,” Phinn said, starting to walk away and leading Olivia with him. “She is eager to find them.”
“I’ll join you. I’d love to make their acquaintance,” Rogan said, falling into step beside them. “Especially before the wedding breakfast.”
They strolled through the ballroom, weaving through the crowd, on their way to where Olivia had spotted Prudence and Emma in their usual spot. Just a few more steps to safety and freedom when—
She slipped on something. Her daintily slippered feet flew from underneath her. Olivia’s arms flailed wildly in a desperate attempt to right herself. She was aware of looking foolish and she was aware of falling backward . . . falling . . . falling . . .
And then she was caught. Strong arms closed around her, hands splaying across her belly where no man had ever touched her. She’d fallen against a strong, firm chest behind her. This chest and these arms were more muscled and more assured in their hold than Beaumont’s. A giggle escaped Olivia’s lips as she realized how marvelously odd it was that she, Prissy Missy, should know the embrace of two different men in one night.
When she’d embarked upon her quest to cavort with men of dubious reputation, she had no intention of winding up here, swept off her feet and into the arms of the Mad Baron. Strangely, it wasn’t horrible. Not horrible at all.
“Feats of strength, man, what did I tell you!” Rogan said gleefully as onlookers peered curiously at them.
“Feats of strength?” Olivia echoed. Then she put the pieces together. “Are you saying that I am extraordinarily heavy?” she asked. She struggled awkwardly to untangle herself and stand on her own two feet. If they had shared a moment, it was certainly over. “I am not a feat of strength!” she protested.
“No! I told you to ignore everything Rogan said.” Phinn punctuated this with a hard glare at his friend, who attempted to appear chagrined.
“Phinn tells me you’re beautiful,” Rogan said. For a fleeting second she softened.
He thought her beautiful!
But why couldn’t anyone else have noticed that, ever?
“Except for that,” Phinn grumbled. “Don’t ignore that.”
Olivia looked from one to gentleman to the other. They were mad, both of them.
Then Phinn bent over to pick up the sheet of paper she had slipped on. Waxed parquet, satin slippers, and sheets of paper were a dangerous combination. Why was there a piece of paper on the ballroom floor? Had someone been exchanging love notes, planning a secret assignation? Then she remembered Dudley and his smirk as he handed her—
“
The Mad Baron: The Gruesome Story of an Innocent Maiden’s Tragic Love and Untimely Death. A True Story
,” Rogan read aloud, peering over Phinn’s shoulder.
Phinn straightened to his full height. Shoulders broad. Jaw clenched. Olivia’s heart started to pound. The fury in his gaze made her want to flee in the opposite direction. And yet, oddly, she also wanted to tear the sheet of paper from his hands and rip it to pieces. As if that might console him.
He took a deep breath. She could hear it because a hush had fallen over the ballroom. Very well, she
definitely
wanted to flee. Somehow he seemed taller and harder and meaner. There was a distance in his eyes that terrified her more than anything—as if, in this strange, bewitched state, he would be deaf to voices or pleas.
Abruptly Phinn turned on his heel and stalked out of the ballroom. No one stopped him.
Later that night
Brooke’s Gentlemen’s Club
“Y
ou know, Rogan, I think she actually believes this rubbish,” Phinn said, holding aloft the copy of
The Mad Baron.
It was the worst sort of penny dreadful gothic horror mongering rubbish. Given that the whole sordid mess occurred six years ago, Phinn assumed that by now the broadside would be used for wrapping fish and lining trunks. Who the devil had seen fit to keep such drivel?
“Everybody does, my friend,” Rogan said, happily settled into a chair with a full glass of brandy in one hand and a lit cigar in the other.
“Well that explains why Olivia is in a constant state of anxiety around me,” Phinn said dryly.
“Either that, or such an innocent maiden cannot help but tremble before such an example of masculinity as yourself,” Rogan scoffed.
“Much as I’d like to believe that, this damned broadside and those stupid rumors are a more likely explanation,” Phinn replied. He pressed his whiskey glass against the scar.
“Well, a name like the Mad Baron is hard to live down.”
Phinn glanced warily at his friend. “When were you going to tell me all of this?”
“I thought you knew,” Rogan said, drawing on the cigar. “You know, since everybody does.”
Phinn elected to ignore that questionable logic. “This broadside explains a lot. Like why she tried to avoid me all evening, especially when I sought a moment alone with her. As
someone
had advised.”
“I suppose women wouldn’t want to be alone with a known murder,” Rogan mused. Phinn bit back a growl of frustration. But had Rogan ever been known for his rational faculties? No. “Not even at a ball when hundreds of people are close enough to hear her scream.”
“ ‘Alleged’ murderer,” Phinn corrected. They’d never charged or tried him. The magistrate had ruled it wasn’t his fault, though Phinn knew he was guilty and that there was a black mark on his soul that nothing would ever erase. “And for God’s sake, you’re not helping.”
“All right, all right,” Rogan said, waving his cigar dismissively and scattering ash everywhere. “What you need now is to reassure her that you’re not inclined to violence against women, despite numerous publications to the contrary.”
“Numerous? Are there more?”
“You’re legendary, Phinn,” Rogan said, raising a glass in toast. Phinn just downed his drink and focused on the burn of the whiskey and not the numerous publications detailing his alleged murderous exploits circulating the country.
“Should I just tell her that I didn’t do it? ‘Olivia it has come to my attention that you think I’m a murderer. I’d like to assure you that is not the case. Marry me.’ ”
“You may want to soften her up a bit first,” Rogan said. “She’ll probably be too terrified to listen. Pay her some pretty compliments.”
“You make it sound so simple. Compliment the lady, assure her of my innocence, live happily ever after.” Yet everything thus far with Olivia had been anything but easy.
“Fortunately for you,” Rogan began, “it’s even easier than that, for I have compiled a collection of tried and true compliments. Ladies fall for them all the time. Lady Olivia will be throwing herself at you.”
He glanced dubiously at Rogan. Only hours ago he had idiotically referred to Olivia as a feat of strength. But while Phinn had been unlocking the mysteries of various scientific phenomena and using the knowledge to build new machines, Rogan had been chasing after women. Granted, given the type of women he chased, his success was questionable. But Phinn had no plans of his own to woo this intriguing if maddening beauty.
How bad could a few compliments be?
The following day
Drawing room, Archer House
Even though the construction of the Difference Engine was behind schedule, Phinn returned to the Archer household, armed with compliments and determined to woo and wed Lady Olivia.
This would be his last effort, and if she adamantly refused him—well, then he would have to find a woman who would make a sweet and kind wife.
Of course, every time he considered abandoning his courtship, he couldn’t quite shake the image of Olivia as he’d first seen her: so lovely, beautiful, and above the fray. There was also the matter of how she felt in his arms. He’d been up a while considering the sensation of her against his chest and under his palms and just how much more pleasurable it would be to touch her bare skin.
If she truly didn’t want him—fine. But a woman had never intrigued him the way Olivia did, so he wasn’t about to slink off to Yorkshire just yet.
That she didn’t appear with her face caked under layers of paint, he considered a successful start to tea. That they were stuck in her drawing room with her parents serving as chaperones, he considered a detriment to his efforts.
For a quarter of an hour they discussed the weather (warm and sunny, except for when it was cold and rainy), and Lady Archer apprised all of them on her plans for the wedding, completely disregarding the fact that Phinn had neither proposed to Olivia nor had she shown even an inkling of accepting.
He and Olivia exchanged alarmed glances, which led to shy smiles. She was so pretty when she smiled.
Make smile + Add compliments = Win girl.
Lord Archer drank his tea, stole frequent glances at the clock, and otherwise appeared uninterested.
When he could stand it no more, Phinn interrupted Lady Archer by turning his attentions solely to Olivia. He smiled. She eyed him curiously.
“Lady Olivia, is your father a thief, perchance?” Phinn inquired. Immediately, his misstep was clear. Lord Archer coughed and sputtered, spewing his sip of tea.
“I beg your pardon!” Lady Archer gasped, clutching a handkerchief to her chest as if she’d been wounded.
“I ought to call you out for that!” Lord Archer bellowed. His face had become an alarming shade of red, not unlike wine.
Inwardly cursing Rogan, Phinn hastily carried on with the rest of the, er, compliment. Looking at Olivia, he added, “Because he must have taken the sparkle from the stars in the sky and put them in your eyes.”
Then he vowed to make Rogan pay for failing him with these stupid compliments.
“What?” Olivia was confused. But then he saw the moment it made sense to her. She gasped, “Oh!” and smiled faintly. And then she unfurrowed her brow and grinned when she glanced at her parents, who were quite possibly on the verge of apoplexy. It seemed that upsetting Lord and Lady Archer was a faster way to her heart than flattery.
“Yes, that was a compliment,” Phinn said. “You have very pretty eyes, Lady Olivia.”
“She gets that from me,” Lady Archer said, now sufficiently recovered from the shock to flutter her lashes. Phinn grinned when he caught Olivia rolling her eyes.
Lord Archer seemed to notice, too. After a disgruntled look at him, then his daughter, he said, “Lady Archer, let’s you and I step out for a moment.”
“Isn’t it improper for me to be unchaperoned?” Olivia asked. Her eyes widened when she saw his annoyed frown. He was definitely going to put this matter of his alleged murderous past to rest. Today.
“I don’t think we should leave them alone,” Lady Archer murmured.
One had to wonder why she feared leaving them alone together now when she was so eager for them to be wed. One also had to be thankful to Lord Archer for impressing that upon his wife.
“If this bloody wedding ever happens, they’ll be alone together for the rest of their lives,” he said gruffly. “Might as well get started now.”
“Well, leave the drawing room door open,” Lady Archer said. Olivia didn’t reply, for she had bitten into a pastry, which her mother then admonished her about, telling her that ladies restrained their appetites. Olivia contrarily took another large bite.
Given that Rogan’s compliment wasn’t a complete failure after all, Phinn thought he’d try another. Were they ridiculous lines that he felt foolish uttering? Absolutely. But was it worth it when Olivia smiled? Yes. A thousand times yes.
“Could I implore upon you for some directions?” he asked Olivia after her parents had left the room.
“Whatever do you mean?” she said, tilting her head as if confused.
“To your heart. Directions to your heart,” he said.
And then she laughed. He wasn’t sure if she was laughing at the joke or at him, but he didn’t care. He had made her happy if only for a second. In that second, when all seemed right in the world, he knew he couldn’t let her go. Not yet. Not without a fight.
With some reluctance, but knowing it was the right thing, Phinn brought up the inevitable subject.
“Lady Olivia, it has come to my attention that some still persist in calling me the Mad Baron.”
“Everyone,” she said, taking another bite of pastry.
“I’m sorry?”
“You said some people, but everyone does,” she replied, confirming what Rogan had said. Apparently, he ought to pay more attention to London gossip columns instead of reading scientific journals.
“I’d hoped that enough time had passed for the moniker to be forgotten,” he said. “It’s been six years.”
Olivia just shrugged. “I have been called Prissy Missy for four seasons now and London’s Least Likely to Cause a Scandal for three,” she replied. “I have no hope that these things ever fade.”
“I know. I like what those names say about you,” Phinn said.
But that seemed the wrong thing to say, for she smiled faintly. And sighed. And availed herself of another pastry.
“Given that is likely the case with my unfortunate name,” he began, “I want you to know that you need not be afraid of me. I would never harm you.”
“Is this the part where you tell me that you did not, in fact, murder your wife?” Olivia inquired.
That was the thing. He couldn’t just
say
that and not feel like a liar.
“Something to that effect,” he answered. Olivia’s eyes widened considerably.
Wrong
thing to say.
“A resounding denial might be more effective in alleviating my distress and, frankly, utter terror at being courted by an alleged murderer,” she said frankly.
“I can’t give you that,” Phinn said softly, with some anguish. “I wish I could but I cannot in good conscience.”
Olivia’s only reply was to select another pastry and take a bite. She peered at him expectantly. Ah, this was the part where he was to tell her the entire sordid story. But where to begin with the dramatic and disastrous Nadia? It wasn’t the sort of story one told over tea in the drawing room.
“I did not kill her, but her death was my fault.” The whole mess with Nadia was a knot so tangled he still couldn’t unravel it. All of the what ifs he asked never led him to an answer. The damned broadside was littered with lies and exaggerations and gross inaccuracies, but enough of the truth remained. His wife. His temper. His machines.
“Was it an accident?” she asked.
He hesitated. Neither he nor Nadia had
planned
her death. By all accounts it was an accident—one he held himself responsible for. But then again, Nadia had been a smart, devious woman. She didn’t do anything by accident.
Olivia finished that pastry and helped herself to still another. She stared at him, waiting for more of the story.
“It was not exactly an accident,” he admitted.
“What, pray tell, does that mean?”
“This is a difficult subject for me. I generally try to avoid it. I had hoped that it wasn’t necessary to mention it, but Lady Olivia, I would like to assuage your doubts about our upcoming match. Given your temperament, I’m sure we shall get along peacefully.”
“My temperament?” Olivia seemed alarmed, perhaps even angry, even though he’d only meant it as another compliment. But she didn’t know Nadia’s temper. Or his. “Are you saying that if I behave myself and avoid
bothering
you, then I needn’t fear for my life?”
He could see how she would interpret it that way, but—
“I can explain, Lady Olivia. You’re so different than my first wife. You’re London’s Least Likely to Cause a Scandal, and she was—” No words he could use to describe Nadia were polite enough to mention. Not that Olivia even gave him a chance to answer.
“And if I’m not the obliging, docile, deferential wife you’re looking for, then what?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest, doing marvelous things to her breasts. It took no small effort to wrench his gaze and imagination away and focus on the angry woman before him.
“Olivia, I just thought we might suit,” Phinn said, exasperated by the unfathomable reasoning she presented.
“Based upon my reputation, and upon gossip,” she said angrily. “You don’t know me.”
“Just like how you think we won’t suit based on my reputation and gossip,” he challenged, with a lift of his brow. It brought a scowl to her face, probably because he was undeniably right. “You don’t know me either.”
“What do we do?” Olivia asked.
“We get to know each other,” Phinn said.
“And if we do not suit then?” She arched one brow in challenge. His heart started thudding hard. This was the moment he lost her. Or perhaps the moment he secured the chance to win her.
“It’d be a terrible fate for us to marry if we didn’t suit,” he answered cautiously. It was a fate he’d already suffered.
“I’m pleasantly surprised that you agree,” Olivia replied. “I cannot think of anything worse.”
“But an even worse fate would be to miss our opportunity . . .” he went on. And then, lowering his voice because he was the sort of man who didn’t just
say
such things, he added, “ . . . for love.”
“Love?” Her eyes flashed, surprised to hear him say that.
“Would you rather I mentioned my ten thousand a year and your dowry?” Phinn asked dryly. He didn’t do much wooing of women, but he knew to err on the side of romance and less on the side of economic and practical considerations. “Would that persuade you?”
“It would persuade my father,” she remarked tartly.
To which he replied, “I wouldn’t be married to your father, now would I?”
“You’d be married to me,” she declared. “Prissy Missy. London’s Least Likely to Cause a Scandal.”