Wallflower Gone Wild (13 page)

Chapter 10

To wear or not to wear the bonnet. That is the question.

—
T
HE DELIBERATIONS OF
L
ADY
O
LIVIA

I
n anticipation of an outing with Phinn, Olivia had spent the better part of an hour fussing over her bonnet. According to her well-worn (but not beloved) volume of
The Mirror of Graces
:

No lady should make one in any riding, airing, or walking party, without putting on her head something capable of affording both shelter and warmth.

The bonnet in question was indeed capable of affording both shelter and warmth. It was decked in a bright canary-colored ribbon and festooned with an assortment of yellow and white silk flowers. For an added bit of flair there were large white feathers jutting out along with bits of lace. The thing was monstrous.

Usually she avoided wearing it because of said monstrous decorations. Today she reconsidered because of the exceptionally large brim that would prevent any attempts at kissing, should the Mad Baron be so inclined.

She did not want to kiss him.

Olivia touched her fingertips to her lips, which had, tragically, never been kissed.

Or did she want to kiss him? If she just weren’t so scared, perhaps.

Involuntarily, she considered his firm, sensual mouth. And the way he’d gaze at her so intently and how his gaze had a way of making her feel things. Warmth. Wanting . . . or was it terror?

The bonnet. She must focus on the bonnet. Perhaps she wouldn’t wear it at all, which would be scandalous, as would the ensuing freckles and sunburn. It might be nice, for once, to venture out of doors without an object capable of providing shelter and warmth upon her head.

There was also the matter of the satin ribbons—they trailed right now to her waist, they were so long and wide. Why, if he were so inclined, the Mad Baron could certainly strangle her with these ribbons. Why, he could even hang her from a tree!

Olivia gasped and paled at the gruesome thoughts. Her heart started to pound and her palms became damp. Would he ravish her first and then murder her? Or would he fly into a fit of rage, insensible to decency and reason, and pull the ribbons so tight she couldn’t breathe? She’d forevermore be known as the girl who met her untimely demise by bonnet ribbon.

Then again, should she have to flee on foot through the treacherous wilderness of Hyde Park on a summer’s day, she’d be able to wave the bright yellow ribbons to attract attention as she shouted for help. In fact, now that she considered it, this headpiece could quite possibly double as a weapon.

A servant discreetly entered the room, and Olivia nearly gave a shout, having been caught off guard while thinking terrifying thoughts.

“Lady Olivia, Lord Radcliffe insists you come down now.”

“Thank you, Nancy.”

He
insists
, does he? Olivia scowled. She was supposed to do his bidding, was she? Hadn’t she shown him that she wasn’t the docile creature everyone believed her to be?

Speaking of weaponry, should she fill her reticule with rocks? But there was no time for her to venture out into the garden. All she had were embroidery scissors. Olivia stuffed those into her reticule. At the last moment she applied a bit of lip paint.

And then she donned the bonnet and ventured forth to meet her fate.

A
s per the suggestion of the Duke of Ashbrooke, Phinn planned every last detail of a romantic picnic. In the park, he scouted the location of the ancient gazebo. It was indeed in a far corner, and he had the devil of a time finding it. But it was private, beautiful and perfect.

He consulted with Rogan’s chef on the menu and personally determined which footman would accompany them. He wore one of his new jackets, which the tailor had only just finished. He procured a carriage with matching horses.

Now all he needed was his betrothed.

“I’m sure Olivia will just be a moment, Lord Radcliffe,” the terrifying Lady Archer said, again. They were sitting in the drawing room, discussing the weather, and had been doing so for the past quarter of an hour.

He was not sure of it. In fact, he was sure that Olivia would take every excuse to delay. If she were suddenly stricken with a serious, rare, and highly contagious illness, he would not be in the least surprised.

Phinn leaned back against the settee, allowing himself to comfortably settle in. Oddly, her every challenge only made him more intrigued and more determined to win her. In other circumstances—namely, without Lady Archer present—he might have indulged in fantasizing about when she finally surrendered and the pleasure they’d find together.

But first this damned picnic. Fortunately, he had Ashbrooke’s advice to follow. The man was a legend. How could he go wrong?

He would just be decisive and certain. He’d be commanding. Lord of the Castle. He’d make sure everything was perfect. Olivia wouldn’t have to do to anything but be wooed.

If the stubborn chit ever deigned to make an appearance.

Phinn addressed one of the servants, “Tell Lady Olivia it is time to depart. Please.”

“Yes, of course,” the maid said meekly before vanishing.

A moment later Olivia appeared, dressed in a perfectly respectable day dress of blue and white stripes. He thought fondly of the wildly inappropriate dress she’d worn at the ball the other night. She also wore a massive bonnet that dispelled all thoughts of kissing her, as did the lip paint that made an unfortunate reappearance. Good God, were they back to that again?

But still . . . he did want to kiss her. Rub that stuff right off her lips with the pad of his thumb and then claim her mouth for the kind of kiss that left one completely senseless.

Lady Archer bustled about, fussing with the enormous bonnet strings as if Olivia were still just a girl, managing to annoy both her daughter and himself. Did she not know that Olivia was very much a woman?

“Make sure you have your gloves, Olivia. And perhaps a parasol, you do not want to freckle for the wedding.”

Olivia pulled a face revealing how she felt about that, but still accepted the parasol her mother handed her and clutched it to her chest.

“Let’s be off,” he said.

“I’ll get my bonnet,” Lady Archer said brightly. His heart sank. Lady Olivia looked at him with a tortured expression.

Be decisive and commanding.

Do not involve Lady Archer.

“Actually, Lady Archer, Lady Olivia and I would like some time alone to get to know each other. Perhaps we could all picnic another time, but today it will be just Lady Olivia and myself.”

“But it’s improper, ” Lady Archer said. “The gossips are already saying the worst things.” Phinn was quite certain he might have hurt her feelings. But really. A man couldn’t woo a girl with parents hovering about. And they’d already meddled enough as it was.

“Perhaps a maid might accompany us. But I would like to get to know Lady Olivia. Alone.”

He heard a gasp from under the bonnet. He was aware that she turned to glance up at him. Was she still afraid of him murdering her? Or was she shocked to hear him stand his ground with her mother?

“Good day, Lady Archer,” Phinn said, nodding to her. “We shall return later this afternoon.”

P
hinn extended his hand to help Olivia climb into the high perch phaeton. There was no way that she would ever manage to board on her own. For a second she thought of running. Not that there was anywhere she could go, and not that she’d get very far with skirts tangling around her ankles and this behemoth of a bonnet obscuring her vision.

Reluctantly, she reached out and placed her gloved hand in his. His grasp was firm—but not the viselike death grip she had feared. For a moment he was just a handsome gentleman helping a lady into his carriage. It should have been a lovely moment.

Why could it not just be a lovely moment?

Then she remembered that she’d worn her most atrocious bonnet and applied lip paint again. Funny, that all she did was plot ways to repel him so completely that he’d break the marriage contract, and yet she only felt foolish doing it. What if being wicked didn’t suit her? What if she was Prissy Missy and she was rebelling against an inevitable fate?

She sighed, her dreams of a lovely courtship and whirlwind romance drifting away . . .

Phinn drove the carriage, and it wasn’t long before they reached the perimeter of the park. Her heart began to pound. He guided the equipage along Rotten Row and Olivia shrank down in her seat, mortified that the ton should see her in this ridiculous bonnet and with lip paint very liberally applied.

Just when she thought there couldn’t be anything worse than being seen in such a ridiculous state with the Mad Baron for company, the carriage took a turn down a remote road she didn’t recognize.

“Where are we going?” Her voice wavered as she inquired.

“I have planned a picnic for us in the park,” Phinn answered, keeping his eyes focused on the road.

“It’s a good thing I have brought the parasol,” Olivia replied. “I redden terribly in the sun.”

It could also double as a weapon just in case . . .

If only she’d had a parasol with a secret knife blade that emerged with a click of a discreet button, instead of this one that was so refined, delicate, and purely ornamental. It wouldn’t protect against the rain, let alone the violent advances of a murderous madman.

“You needn’t worry. I have determined a shady, secluded spot for us,” Phinn said, giving her a glance and smile. Was that a cryptic smile? A kind one, or a malicious one?

“I would feel more comfortable if we were in a more popular location,” she said. He wouldn’t dare harm her in public.

Perhaps he wouldn’t at all, her conscience argued. At the ball the other night, she had made a complete spectacle of them both. He had every reason to be furious with her, for she’d embarrassed them with her inappropriate attire, drunken antics, and practically throwing herself at Lord Harvey (the memory of which still made her wince). When Phinn had reached out to touch a strand of her hair, she’d flinched, expecting to be hit.

But it’d only been a tender touch, in which he brushed aside a wayward strand. It was the intimate gesture of lovers. Olivia glanced at him and dared to imagine, for the very first time, if Phinn and she made love. Sitting beside him in the close quarters of the phaeton, his muscled thigh was pressed against hers and she could feel his strong arm. Arms that might hold her—or harm her? She glanced up to his mouth—a full, sensuous mouth—and closed her eyes, imagining his lips pressing against hers.

The carriage hit a rut in the road and she was jolted from her thoughts. Her appalling, wanton,
unladylike
thoughts, which left her feeling quite the same as she’d felt when her dress was torn and Phinn, on his knees before her, had given her That Look. Which is to say, a strange heat now stole through her limbs. She caught herself inhaling sharply, once again aware that her dress was far too tight. She wished she could remove it, along with the bonnet, for the ribbons were chafing around her throat. If they married her dress would come off. Along with that jacket of his and everything else. She’d be alone, defenseless, and completely at his mercy.

“You will like it, I am sure of it,” Phinn said.

“I beg your pardon?” Olivia asked, alarmed that he had somehow read her mind.

“The picnic. I’m sure you will like it,” Phinn said. Then, turning to peer curiously at her, he asked, “Why, what else were you thinking of?”

“It doesn’t signify,” Olivia said, shrinking back against the seat. She wondered if he noticed that she was blushing, and if so, could she pass it off as too much sun? Not with this horrid bonnet and the stupid lip paint. She sighed. Just sighed.

“You needn’t worry about whatever is troubling you,” Phinn said. “I have taken care of everything. You needn’t concern yourself with thinking at all.”

She supposed that was meant to be reassuring. It was accompanied by a kind smile. But it only just reminded her that he wanted a biddable wife. A boring, docile creature who wouldn’t need to use her brain for anything other than to follow his commands. It went without saying that while she didn’t quite know what she wanted, she knew she didn’t want that. She wasn’t a child, or a little soldier or a servant. She was a woman who wanted love.

Then the carriage went off the road entirely. She didn’t want this either, she thought, gripping the rail tightly in one hand and desperately clutching the parasol in the other. The horses trotted along, pulling the phaeton over the grass, then back onto another utterly desolate path.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Ashbrooke told me of the ruins of an ancient gazebo,” Phinn said. “I thought we might go there.”

Olivia knew of it. The duke had built it—illegally and at great expense—as a testament to his love for Emma. Olivia was happy for her friend. Truly. If anyone deserved such love and happiness, it was Emma.

But what about her? Didn’t she deserve true love, too?

Phinn swore under his breath.

“Are you sure you know the way?” Olivia inquired, even though young ladies never second-guessed a gentlemen. “Because you seem lost.”

Phinn turned to face her. He fixed those green eyes of his on her face. Lifted one brow. Issued his challenge. “Do
you
know the way?”

She felt quite taken aback.

“No,” she admitted in a whisper. At this point she didn’t even know the way back to Rotten Row.

“Ah, there it is,” Phinn said with a sigh of relief.

There it was indeed. The strange edifice was constructed of stone, which had been made to look old. Thick branches of wisteria wound around the pillars. A dome roof provided shelter from the sun. She would need neither parasol nor bonnet.

A footman had come in advance to set up a table and chairs. After helping her alight from the carriage, Phinn carried the picnic basket that had been secured to the back of the carriage.

“Is that heavy? It seems heavy,” Olivia said. The hamper was enormous. He must have packed a feast, which was just as well since she was a bit hungry. And as part of her quest to break all the rules of ladylike behavior, she had quite enjoyed indulging at mealtimes. Especially when it was likely her last supper.