by Maya Rodale
Olivia couldn’t help herself. She reached out and cupped his cheek in her palm. She felt the firm line of his jaw and his slanting cheekbones. She had touched her Mysterious Midnight Rescuer like this. And like that night, her gaze dropped to his mouth. Only his mouth. Firm and sensual. Today she thought of kissing Phinn.
But then her thoughts took a strange turn. He just seemed so familiar in this moment. The feel of him under her palm. His mouth. It was a man’s mouth. They were all the same, weren’t they? She’d never given the matter much thought. No, she fixated on the hazy memory of her Mysterious Midnight Rescuer’s mouth just after he had kissed her and before he kissed her again. It had been dark. She had been intoxicated.
She dropped her hand and looked away. It was all so familiar, that was all. Perhaps all men felt the same.
She didn’t dare consider that Phinn and Mysterious Midnight Rescuer were one and the same. How absurd! She would have recognized him. A little laugh escaped her.
“What’s so funny?” Phinn asked.
“Oh, nothing,” she said dismissively. “Just a silly female thought.”
“Hair ribbons?” Phinn guessed.
“No,” Olivia said, smiling.
“Embroidery?”
“Definitely not,” she replied.
“What to wear to Lady Penelope’s Ball?”
“No. And how did you even know of that?”
“Miss Payton told me,” he said, which she found strange.
“When have you spoken about that to Prudence?” she asked.
“Here or there,” he said, seemingly uncomfortable. But she supposed they could have spoken at any one of the ton events they’d all attended. “What were you thinking of?”
“Kissing,” she said softly. Because young ladies do not think of kissing. They especially do not compare the mouths and kisses of two different gentlemen, especially when one was not her husband.
“Kissing is not a silly female thought,” Phinn said in a low voice.
“No?”
“You should do it more often,” he said, his voice grave. “Even better than thinking about it . . .”
“Actually kissing?” Her voice was breathless. Her gaze dropped to his mouth. They hadn’t kissed. Not yet.
“Exactly,” he murmured, before lowering his mouth to hers for a light caress of his lips against hers. She felt a spark. This. Then he pulled back. A young lady would blush modestly and leave it at that. But Olivia was making her own rules now, and she wanted to know this man she had married. Having had a taste of a damn fine kiss, she wanted to know if she’d ever have a kiss like that again. She wanted to know now.
She lightly traced her finger along his jacket before holding on to a handful and pulling him closer. He didn’t resist. Their mouths met again. Tentatively, she parted her lips, not caring if he found her wanton or forward. She wanted to kiss him deeply. This—the delicate caress of lips, a nibble here, tracing the seam of her lips there—was driving her mad in a wonderful way. This tease of a kiss made that initial spark turn into a smolder. Who knows what fire might have started had the carriage not rolled to a stop before Emma’s residence at that moment?
Olivia looked at Phinn, dazed. He looked at her with darkened eyes.
Words weren’t necessary. This was not over.
Chapter 18
Certain books are not suitable for ladies, for they might offend a woman’s delicate sensibilities.
—COMMONLY HELD BELIEF, TO THE VEXATION OF CURIOUS MAIDENS EVERYWHERE
Olivia considered having her caller informed that she was not at home. When alerted to the fact that it was her mother awaiting, she sighed and reluctantly closed one of the naughty books that Rogan had left—and that she may have kicked under the bed when Phinn was collecting them—that she’d been perusing, and absentmindedly set it aside. Then she ordered a tea tray to be set up and braced herself for the onslaught.
Her mother came bustling in, a small squall of ruffles and flounces, a large bonnet and a reticule that was undoubtedly stuffed with embroidered handkerchiefs and a bottle of Smythson’s Smelling Salts. Only then did Olivia realize how calm her home with Phinn was and how much she liked it. There was never any bustling or fussing. With the exception of his outburst with Rogan, there hadn’t been any raised voices either.
“Darling! I came to see how you were faring in your marriage,” her mother gushed, embracing her as if she had never forced her daughter to marry a man all of London knew as the Mad Baron.
“It’s only been a few days, Mother,” Olivia remarked. Was it too soon to declare the marriage a disaster? Or had those little kisses and delicate caresses indicated a flicker of hope?
“And already it’s a scandal,” Lady Archer said, and Olivia thought, Young ladies should not feel a frisson of excitement at the thought of being a scandal. But this one did. “Living in a hotel! Who would do such a thing?”
“I rather like it, actually,” Olivia said truthfully. “There are no servants to manage, or menus to coordinate. I don’t have to bother with the linens or ensuring that chandeliers are dusted.”
These things were just magically done by a fleet of maids under the direction of the hotel manager. Just now, for example. One of the maids discreetly brought a tea tray, set it on the table, and left quietly.
She just happened to have placed the tray next to That Book. Olivia quickly looked away.
“But that is what you were raised to do!” her mother exclaimed. Olivia took a seat as well and poured the tea. The behavior of a proper hostess was ingrained in her. Even if the most improper reading material was just there, beside the tea tray. Fortunately, her mother was too involved in what she was saying to take any notice. “He is depriving you of your natural position in life and the purpose to which I have raised you.”
“Well I find living in this hotel vastly preferable to rusticating in a remote and haunted country estate, fearing for my life.”
Olivia wondered if she would have said the same had she come before the bruise below her eye had faded or if she’d seen the strange bruises on Phinn’s knuckles, which had faded into an awful yellow color but were now barely visible. It struck her as tremendously unfair that her mother should stroll in with complaints about how she was handling the marriage she had been forced into.
Olivia sipped her tea. How long before her mother noticed the book, 50 Ways to Sin? Should she remove it and preserve their modesty, or should she brazenly leave it out to perhaps give her mother a shock?
She considered it while her mother was busy with a critical review of her attire. “I see you have been to the modiste,” she said. The disapproval of her choices was duly noted and dismissed. I’m making my own rules.
Olivia clung to that now, and the gravity of her Mysterious Midnight Rescuer’s voice as he said it. But she felt herself wither, just a bit, under her mother’s gaze. Was that disappointment? Her mother had never really been disappointed in her before.
“Yes, Emma, Prudence, and I paid a visit to Madame Auteuil’s,” she said. She and her mother had always frequented a less fashionable modiste. “I thought I would update my wardrobe now that I am married.”
“Well I hope you bought some new gloves. Rumors are flying that you and your husband had left your gloves in the duke’s box at the opera. One of each! How on earth did that come about?”
“I’m sure I don’t recall,” Olivia murmured. Truthfully, she did not recall that part of the evening. But the sacrifice of a lone glove was completely worth the pleasure she had experienced.
“While your father has arranged for you to have a generous allowance—in case your husband spends all his money on that contraption he’s building—you wouldn’t want to spend it all on replacing gloves you’ve idly left all around town. After all, a lady must always maintain her modesty.”
Olivia sipped her tea and thought about the glimpse of her legs she’d inadvertently given Phinn after their little tussle in the carriage. Had she been glad Emma talked her into the si
lk stockings! Lud, what would her mother say if she knew what she had bought?
“That is very kind of father,” she said. Now if only her parents would have consulted or informed her of such kindness. She felt a flare of anger at being left out, again, of crucial matters about her own life.
She was a lady. Not a child.
“I suppose it’s too soon to talk about grandchildren,” her mother said, and Olivia nearly spit out her tea.
Phinn had been hoping to find Olivia alone. It went without saying that he was less than thrilled to find her with her mother. Worse, Lady Archer seemed to be in the midst of a lecture. He listened for a moment; it was something about her duty as a wife, suffering for a noble cause, and serving her husband and the legacy of the estate above all else.
Worst of all, he saw immediately that with her mother lecturing her, Olivia was not quite Olivia. Her spine was ramrod straight. The teacup was frozen in her hands. A polite half smile was frozen on her lips. And her eyes . . .
Her eyes kept darting anxiously to something on the table.
The tea tray? That didn’t make sense. He took a step closer and saw the book. The incredibly illicit, possibly illegal book.
It was his panicked coughing that caught their attention.
“Lord Radcliffe!” Lady Archer exclaimed. She stood to greet him. Olivia took advantage to push the book off the table . . . where it fell open to a page featuring a woman pleasuring a very aroused man with her mouth and hands.
He forced himself to look away.
“Good day, Lady Archer. Olivia. I didn’t realize we had a caller.”
Lady Archer turned back to face her daughter. And that book. Open. He watched as Olivia discreetly tried to push it under the table with her slipper. He could see her sigh of relief when it slid out of sight.
“Mother has come to see how we are faring,” Olivia replied. Dutiful, proper, and distant Olivia. She was not the vibrant girl he’d come to know—the one who painted her face to excess or danced wildly at balls or grabbed a fistful of his coat and pulled him in for a kiss. He was witnessing the Olivia he had thought he wanted at the beginning.
“I don’t know what you mean by keeping my Olivia in a hotel,” Lady Archer said. “It’s a scandal. Everyone’s talking about it. And it’s a waste of her talents. I raised her to manage a household and to be the perfect wife. This arrangement does not do her justice.”
“I had thought these temporary arrangements might suit until we found a residence in London that we found agreeable,” Phinn said calmly. “But let’s ask the lady herself. Olivia, what are your feelings on the matter?”
The smile she gave him . . . God, the smile she gave him was something else. It was genuine and happy. Like he had saved her just before she drowned.
“I rather like it here,” Olivia replied. But he didn’t miss the nervous glance she gave her mother, as if seeking approval or fearing her response.
“Olivia,” Lady Archer said in a my-patience-is-tried voice. “It’s not a matter of what one likes, but what is proper.”
“But is that more or less proper than disagreeing with my husband’s wishes?”
Lady Archer narrowed her eyes and sipped her tea. It was a valid point and she knew it. Which was all well and good, but the words “my husband” on her lips gave him a deep feeling of pride. Say it again.
“People are talking,” Lady Archer said.
Olivia opened her mouth and thought better of what she was about to say. He desperately wanted to know. Instead, she turned to him.
“Phinn, would you care for some tea?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Their eyes met. Their gazes locked as she poured the tea. A little smile quirked at her lips. Was she also remembering the first time they’d met? She’d worn that awful paint and had taken every instance to flaunt the rules. He understood now. He didn’t flatter himself that she was rebelling only against her parents—and not him. But they had all conspired to have her do their bidding, hadn’t they?
This time, when she overpoured the tea, it was because they’d been making eyes at each other.
“Olivia!” her mother cried. “You’re not attending!”
“Oh!” Olivia gasped. Startled, she dropped the teacup, which tumbled onto the table and onward to the floor.
Lady Archer bent to retrieve it. She was closest. But something else caught her eye.
“What is this?” she inquired, reaching for the book that Olivia had half shoved under the table. This time when Olivia’s gaze met Phinn’s, she was panicked.
All he could think about was Olivia, alone with the book, perusing those pictures . . . Did she find them horrifying? Or arousing?
“I must have an answer,” Lady Archer demanded. “What is this rubbish?”
“It is something a friend left behind,” Phinn answered.
“Your friend?” she asked, appalled. “Is that supposed to reassure me?”
“Yes, but I can see how it does not,” Phinn admitted, stifling laughter. “At all.”
“I cannot believe you have polluted Olivia’s tender sensibilities with this . . .” Words failed Lady Archer.
“A young lady ought to be obliging to her husband,” Olivia said demurely, which sent both him and her mother into a coughing fit. Lady Archer dug around in her reticule before removing a bottle of smelling salts. She held them to her nose and inhaled deeply. Phinn had half a mind to do so as well.
Olivia was . . . sometimes the perfect lady. Sometimes the perfect minx, and occasionally the devil herself. He wanted her all of the times. Always.
“Olivia,” her mother began patiently whilst holding the book between her thumb and forefinger. “Ladies do not do this.”
Phinn tilted his head to see precisely what ladies did not do. It seemed they did not lift their skirts whilst bending over a settee while a gentleman takes her from behind while pleasuring her with his hands. God, he hoped Olivia was not a lady.
Phinn decided this scene had gone far enough. The less he considered that picture in front of his mother-in-law, the better. The sooner he attempted it with Olivia, the better. “I am terribly sorry to have upset you, Lady Archer.”
“I am extremely overset,” she said. “I have raised Olivia to be better than this tawdry den of sin to which you have absconded with her.”
“Mivart’s Hotel is a perfectly respectable establishment—” Phinn said, stopping when he saw that Lady Archer had something to stay and nothing would prevent her from delivering it.
“And you Olivia,” she continued, fixing a strong Look on her daughter. “You have always been the perfect child. I don’t know what has gotten into you of late, and it distresses me tremendously. I never thought I’d be disappointed in you. You may find all of this humorous and good fun, but I am mortified every time I show my face in society and have to answer the questions about your marriage—one which took you forever to make and has become the subject of scandal. You have a duty, and that is to be a good wife and provide heirs. That is all. I hope that you remember yourself, remember the woman I raised you to be. Good day.”
Olivia sat very still as she considered what was more humiliating: the dressing down from her mother or the fact that it was delivered in front of Phinn.
One moment she’d been enjoying asserting her newfound independence. The dresses, the lost gloves . . . really, that was the least of the trouble she had engaged in lately, which made it all the more frustrating that she should be chastised for it.
And the worst of it was—
She didn’t want to be the Perfect Lady anymore. But she didn’t want her mother’s disapproval either—that was a terrible feeling. And she didn’t quite know which rules to follow and which to break. She felt torn between pleasing her mother, pleasing her husband, and perhaps pleasing herself.
“You’re not a disappointment,” Phinn said softly. He understood. She didn’t have to explain. Because of that, when he wrapped his arm around her, she leaned against him
. Like her Mysterious Midnight Rescuer. Because it was comforting and familiar, she didn’t move away. “You’re not a disappointment to me. And I don’t think you’ve done anything to disappoint her.”
“But I have,” Olivia confessed. “And I have done it purposely.”
“Why?”
She was mad because she’d been forced into this marriage. Now that she was starting to find some measure of hope in it, her mother came along and informed her that she was doing it wrong. She wasn’t measuring up to the exacting standards she’d been raised to, what with her wayward gloves and scandalous accommodations. She’d always been perfect. She’d never been a disappointment.
She’d only been trying to find happiness, and now . . .
“I was mad. You see, I always thought that if I was perfectly well-behaved I would be rewarded with . . . I don’t know . . . true love and romance and happiness.” His grip tightened. “And then I am constantly treated like a child. Always being told what to wear, whom to converse with, what to say, how to act, how to be. Decisions are made without consulting me.”
“That’s very disagreeable to you,” he said. She felt so comforted and safe in his embrace—like her Mysterious Midnight Rescuer. And like that night she just couldn’t hold back. It felt good to voice what was weighing on her mind rather than say “I’m fine” while seething inwardly. Like a lady would do.
“I find it tremendously vexing,” she said, her voice rising. “I fear I might explode with the vexation of it. I cannot win. I cannot please everyone and still please myself. If I can, I do not know how.”
What Phinn said next surprised her.
“Would you like to hit something?” he asked. “I find that soothes my temper.”
Olivia gazed down at the discoloration that still remained on his bruised knuckles and then up at him, not a little bit alarmed. Honestly, just when she started to think that Phinn might share some very crucial traits with her Mysterious Midnight Rescuer—like the ability to console her and to understand her—he went and said things like that.
“Some unsolicited advice: you mustn’t say such things when you are known as the Mad Baron,” she ventured.