by Maya Rodale
“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.”
Olivia 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 would
n’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.
“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.
Chapter 6
Later that night
Brooke’s Gentlemen’s Club
“You 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.