Wallflower Gone Wild (7 page)

“I am terribly sorry,” Olivia said, finding her feet and bearings to stand on her own.

“Are you all right?” he asked, still lightly gripping her arms as if she might topple over again. He peered closely at her with his dark eyes. What wickedness he must have seen! Her gaze dropped to his mouth—how many women had he kissed?

“Yes. Thank you. Terribly sorry,” Olivia mumbled again. Lord, if her mother saw her talking to him, she would be locked away for weeks. In fact, if anyone saw this, it would certainly make the gossip columns.

When the Mad Baron learned of the reckless, dangerous company she kept, he’d never want to marry her.

It had to be noted that Lord Beaumont hadn’t immediately turned his back to her.

“It’s very crowded in here this evening,” he said. “Lady Jenning certainly has outdone herself.”

“Or overdone. It’s dangerously crowded in here,” Olivia remarked.

“Indeed, and perilous to young maidens throughout the ballroom,” Beaumont murmured. Olivia eyed him warily: was he flirting or bamming her?

“The dangers have added a certain thrill to the evening,” Olivia replied.

“Indeed.” His gaze lowered to her breasts. She felt a blush creep across her cheeks. She’d always wanted a man to look at her lustily, had she not?

“Do you need a spot of air? Miss?”

Young ladies do not go onto the terrace unaccompanied by rakes.

Especially Beaumont!

Except that she was
trying
to break the rules. And lud, he was handsome. And if he had kissed so many woman, what was one more? Why not her?

Besides, Prudence would certainly follow at a discreet distance, wouldn’t she? Never mind that Prue seemed to have vanished.

“That would be lovely, thank you,” she replied.

And then, unbelievably, Lord Beaumont escorted her out to the terrace. Olivia felt her heart start to beat quickly, giddily. Was it always this easy to gain the attentions of a rake? If only she’d known! If only Prudence had pushed her—literally pushed her—into some man’s arms years ago. She could be celebrating her wedding anniversary, not her looming death on her wedding night.

Perhaps this is when her romance would finally begin! Perhaps a footman might stroll past with champagne and Beaumont would pluck two glasses, handing one to her. They would talk of the stars and the ball and whatever else one talked about while falling in love. Surely, they would discover that they liked all the same things and were truly kindred spirits in spite of his blackened reputation. He’d whisper how beautiful she was. Then, in the moonlight, he’d kiss her.

That was how it was supposed to go.

What actually happened: Lord Beaumont saw a friend of his. His arm loosened as he drifted away from Olivia and toward his old comrade. They quite forgot she was there, as he disentangled himself entirely and strolled away. Olivia looked around for Prudence, who was still nowhere to be seen. Olivia was left all alone on the terrace. And that’s when the Mad Baron found her.

T
he Radcliffe temper had been the bane of generations of Radcliffe men. They were an easygoing lot, able to allow almost any slight or frustration to roll like water off a duck’s back. But then—and one never knew when—something was just too much and they’d erupt in a violent explosion of fury. Phinn often attempted to calculate just how much pressure, how much force, how much frustration he could take before it was best for everyone that he make himself scarce. It was one formula he’d yet to perfect.

The constant setbacks of the evening—Olivia with that man, her mother, Rogan—were not enough to incite his temper on their own. But as the evening progressed, his resistance was fraying.

Then he saw her in the arms of yet another man.

Then he saw that man look lasciviously at Olivia’s breasts.

She wasn’t his, but he felt possessive of her—as if she were already his wife.

It was a good thing he’d seen Olivia’s friend push her. While that did absolve Olivia, it begged the question of why her friend would do such a thing. Phinn didn’t think he liked the obvious answer.

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered when he finally found Olivia alone on the terrace. She looked beautiful. Her skin was luminous in the moonlight, and her eyes were wide and dark. She appeared a little lost. He wanted nothing more than to embrace her, hold her close, and whisper something devastatingly romantic.

But years of
not
wooing every female that crossed his path suddenly caught up with him.

Instead he said, “Lady Olivia. Good evening.”

She turned slowly to face him. First she looked toward the right, then toward the left, and then behind her. After ascertaining that there was no one else with whom she might converse, she reluctantly focused on him.

“Good evening, Lord Radcliffe,” she said indifferently. It ought to have been off-putting. Oddly, he felt more determined than ever to win her.

“Please, call me Phinn.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly—” she protested. He stepped closer to her, needing to be near, needing to bridge this distance between them.

“Phinneas is a ridiculous name,” he said. Really, it was, and there was no pretending otherwise. “And Radcliffe is far too formal.”

“Right,” she said awkwardly.

She didn’t want to speak with him, let alone marry him. That much was plain. But was it because of his reputation or because of himself? Phinn suspected it was because of his reputation—after all, before she knew who he was she had nearly kissed him. He wanted to go back to that night.

There was no turning back in this courtship—the rumors were already running wild, and it would reflect badly upon them both if things went awry. Phinn didn’t give a damn for himself, but he did care for her sake.

That was the thing: he cared. All he had wanted was a nice, calm wife who would offer companionship and perhaps love.

He thought that woman had been Olivia.

What if she wasn’t? The woman before him—who’d been two steps ahead of him all night—was not the docile, eager-to-please woman he’d expected. Yet she still perplexed and intrigued him. He couldn’t say for certain that she wasn’t the one for him.

“I’d been hoping to find you alone this evening,” he said quietly.

“Oh?” Her eyes widened.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?” he asked, wondering why she’d seem surprised by this. She didn’t really think he’d do an injury to her on the terrace at a ball with onlookers, did she?

“Well you haven’t seemed very interested in me thus far,” she said, finding her voice.

“We only just met,” he replied. Literally, they had only just been introduced yesterday and their initial encounter had been far too brief.

“Exactly,” Olivia said flatly.

Phinn quirked his head, stared at her curiously and tried to make sense of what she’d just said. Women. WOMEN. They defied all logic and reason. He pushed his hands through his hair and remembered why he’d waited so long to marry again and why Lord Archer’s suggestion that they just marry and be done with it made so much sense.

But then he remembered his first glimpse of Olivia, standing on a balcony above the ballroom looking so beautiful and so above the fray. He hadn’t forgotten how she felt in his arms either.

“Perhaps we can start anew. Getting to know each other. We’re alone and it’s quiet enough out here for a conversation . . .” He said this because Rogan, who apparently understood women, suggested he do so.

Olivia just shuddered.

“But you must be cold,” he said, even though it was a warm evening. “Would you care to take a turn around the ballroom with me?”

“I should find my friends,” Olivia said.

Her friends, he thought, who had pushed her into the arms of unsuspecting gentlemen and who interrogated him about murder and dungeons in the midst of the ballroom. He would have to win over her friends if he wished to win Olivia’s hand in marriage.

“Allow me to escort you,” he said firmly.

She
thought
about refusing—he could see it in her eyes—but smiled slightly and murmured, “Of course.”

O
livia reluctantly accepted the Mad Baron’s offer for a turn about the ballroom, if only because it seemed preferable to the less sparsely populated terrace and practically desolate garden.

They linked arms, and she rested her fingertips lightly on his forearm. It was firm. Muscled. She could feel it through the gloves and his jacket. She thought he just mucked around with sciencey things. But now she found herself curious . . .

Also curious: everyone else in the ballroom.

They were staring again. Everyone. All the lords and ladies invited to the ball were taking a long look at the shocking sight of London’s Least Likely to Cause a Scandal arm in arm with a man so scandalous he hadn’t been in town for the past six years.

She glanced up at him.
Phinn
. He didn’t seem bothered in the slightest by all the stares. How could he
do
that? Was he so unfeeling that he cared not what the ton thought of him? Or like her, had he perfected the demeanor of one who wasn’t bothered in the slightest? What if they were alike in some way?

He glanced down at her. Caught her eye. She looked away with an embarrassed blush.

“I’ve heard you have many hobbies,” he said. “Tell me about them?”

Olivia felt a flush of anger.
I’ve heard about your hobbies.
Did they tell him of her reputation for speaking endlessly about the dullest subjects imaginable? Was he bamming her? But another sidelong glance at the Mad Baron told her he was completely earnest.

She spied an opportunity to utilize a tried and true method for repelling men.

“Oh, I enjoy the usual activities for ladies,” Olivia said. In other words, he could find another woman with the same hobbies. “I embroider, play the pianoforte, and paint watercolors.”

She peered up at him, expecting to see his eyes glaze over and the vague expression of polite disinterest. But no.

“What do you paint?” he asked.

“Still lifes, mainly. An endless combination of flowers, fruits, and decorative home items,” she said, sounding bored. Indeed, she had long ago tired of her inanimate watercolor subjects. “However, I would like to paint portraits of the male nude.”

Beside her, the Mad Baron started coughing, and Olivia didn’t even try to restrain her smile. Lud, it felt good to finally say that aloud!

“I’m sorry, my lord. Have I shocked you?” she asked ever-so-sweetly.

“I thought you would say landscapes,” he said in a strained voice.

“I suppose you’re going to tell me the landscapes in Yorkshire are beautiful and perfect for painting.”

“Yes,” he said simply. “I have no skill at painting, but I appreciate the talent in others.”

“Well, I’m sure if you practiced every Monday and Thursday for two hours since the age of six, you’d excel at it as well,” Olivia replied dryly.

“Perhaps that’s why I’m good at mechanical drawings,” Phinn said, not bothered by her dry retort. “I’ve been working on them since I was young and it still occupies much of my time.”

Olivia was reminded of a line from the broadside. The Mad Baron would, apparently, spend days and weeks in a barn on his property, constructing strange machines and instruments of torture.

“What things do you build?” she ventured, curious as to how he would explain building dangerous and deviant machines.

“Currently, I’m assisting the Duke of Ashbrooke in constructing the Difference Engine he designed. Should we be successful, this machine will be revolutionary.”

“That must keep you very busy.” Honestly, she couldn’t believe that Emma and her husband had a hand in bringing this dangerous man to town. Perhaps he would be too busy to court her and she might somehow find another man to elope with.

“Yes. But you have your own interests to keep you occupied,” he said, and Olivia smiled faintly as hopes for companionship and company from a man she loved drifted further and further away. Everything about this possible looming marriage was the opposite of everything she’d ever dreamt of.

Phinn came to a stop before a slight alcove made from two pillars, a settee in its dim recesses. It was the sort of dark, secluded, intimate and romantic spot that would be ideal for a lovers’ interlude. Or something more nefarious.

Her heartbeat quickened.

Olivia couldn’t help it: she gazed up into his green eyes even though she knew the intensity of his gaze made her
feel
things that were very inconvenient. It was just that for so long, no one ever looked at her anymore. And then, out of nowhere, he’d appeared, apparently captivated by her from across the ballroom.
Why
did the one handsome stranger to notice her have to be none other than the Mad Baron?

Her gaze inevitably drifted to that menacing scar. What happened? She wanted to ask, but she didn’t really want to know. It was too bad he was so dangerous. He wouldn’t murder her in the ballroom, would he? No, there were too many witnesses.

“Lady Olivia, I don’t mean to frighten you. I just want to know you. When we first met, I felt myself drawn to you,” he said in a low voice that sent shivers up and down her spine.

“I as well,” she confessed. “Yet . . .”

He took a step closer and she was all too aware of how large he was. She blushed, remembering the firmness of his chest when she’d fallen into him and his kiss upon her hand. What if tonight he dared more? Her heart pounded at the prospect—but was that desire or fear?

If it weren’t for his dangerous past . . .

“I really should get back to my friends,” Olivia said a touch breathlessly. Besides, the less the ton talked about her and the Mad Baron, the better her chances of escaping this courtship before it was too late.

“Of course,” Phinn said obligingly. Ever the gentleman. Wasn’t that at odds with his murdering past? She became aware that he was aware of her efforts to lose him. And yet, would he still endeavor to court her or would he step aside?

They had taken but a few steps when another gentleman stepped into their path. He was almost as tall as Phinn, but not as fit. He had unruly blond hair and a grin upon seeing them.