Wallflower Gone Wild

by Maya Rodale

  “That came out wrong,” he said hastily. “I just meant that sometimes it feels good to release the pressure rather than try to hold it in.”

  “I don’t think I want to hit anything,” she said, considering the matter. “That seems painful and I shan’t want bruised hands like yours. But I think I would like to break something.”

  She needed a release. The pressure of being the Perfect Lady and the Perfect Daughter and the Perfect Wife and trying to be herself was just too much.

  And Phinn . . . he just grinned and gestured to the drawing room at large. “Take your pick, Angel. Break whatever you want.”

  “You cannot be serious,” Olivia said. “Whoever heard of deliberately breaking things?”

  “I am perfectly serious,” Phinn said gravely.

  “What of the expense?”

  “I can afford it,” he told her. Olivia considered this. She probably wouldn’t cause very much damage. Just a broken teacup or two. But then she thought of another problem.

  “Will the manager or owner of the hotel be angry?”

  “If so, they’ll answer to me,” Phinn vowed. For the first time, Olivia realized there might be benefits to having the Mad Baron in her corner. “Go on, Olivia.”

  Phinn handed her a china saucer. When he urged her in a low voice and smiled at her like that, she shouldn’t quite remember why she ought to resist the urge to do what she wanted.

  She took the dish and held it aloft.

  “Are you saying that if I break this china saucer I will feel better?” She didn’t quite believe him.

  “Yes.” He said this resolutely, as if he had experience breaking teacup saucers. Did she want to know about that? Perhaps later.

  “You are encouraging me to be wicked,” she said. She remembered admonishments as a young girl, when she’d still been clumsy. Be careful. That’s the good china! Olivia, take care! She remembered the terror of breaking something. And now Phinn was encouraging her to do just that. “I’m quite certain that ladies do not willfully break the china.”

  Phinn just smiled and said, “Do as you wish.”

  “Close your eyes, then,” she said. She herself shut her eyes tight before throwing the saucer down on the parquet floor. She winced as it shattered, and opened her eyes to see fragments of china scattered across the floor.

  “That does feel good,” she said, wonder in her voice. The sound was extraordinary.

  Even better: she’d done something she always feared, only to look up and see Phinn smiling at her as he said, “I told you so.”

  Phinn gestured to the tea tray, where an assortment of china awaited her. He hoped she wouldn’t ask how he knew that smashing things to bits, particularly china tea sets, had a wonderful mollifying effect on a woman’s temper. Nadia had made him aware of that.

  Nadia. Would he ever be free of her?

  “Might I?” Olivia asked politely, after selecting the large plate that had, at one point, held an assortment of pastries.

  “You may,” he said. Nadia had never asked. She would just glance wildly about the room and grab the nearest thing at hand before launching it in the direction of his head. She had remarkably good aim. He had the scars to prove it.

  “Even though my mother will be very disappointed in me?” Olivia asked, her voice wavering. That was why even though this scene had echoes of his past he didn’t want to relive, ever, he said, “Even then.”

  The only thing that mattered was Olivia’s happiness. He thought he might have understood her vexation. His father had wanted him to be like his elder, perfect brother George—who preferred sport instead of science, or a raucous night at the inn with ale and loose women to a quiet night with amiable company, intelligent conversation, and good wine. Nadia wanted him to be like George, too. But the only thing he’d had in common with his father and brother was the Radcliffe temper. It did them in every time.

  Nadia wasn’t the only one who’d expressed her frustration upon the china.

  “What of this?” Olivia asked, selecting an empty teacup.

  “Please, proceed,” he said. She lifted it high above her head before sending it hurtling to the floor. He winced as it shattered—she did not. Olivia stood there, cheeks flushed, bosoms heaving, and hair advancing toward a state of disarray. She looked lovely.

  “This is very wrong,” she said with an apologetic expression that he supposed was what made it bearable.

  “Completely wicked,” he agreed.

  “Just unconscionable,” she added, now moving on to a porcelain shepherdess on the mantel.

  “Appalling,” he murmured, eyes fixed on Olivia. She was entrancing.

  But whereas Nadia worked herself into such a temper that she exhausted herself in a flurry of tears and hurtful words, Olivia seemed to be having fun. Phinn released a deep breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

  “I would be ruined if anyone knew about this,” Olivia informed him seriously. But there was a mischievous gleam in her eye. “No one would receive me.”

  “To hell with them,” he declared.

  She laughed and said, “Exactly.”

  Then she smashed the shepherdess. He’d never been very fond of knickknacks, though now he saw their purpose.

  “Breaking the rules wasn’t enough,” Olivia remarked lightly. “I have now resorted to breaking tea sets and porcelain figurines.”

  Her mood was improving. Happily, she strolled around the room, looking for things to break. There was a smile on her lips and a gleam in her eye. This was a version of Olivia he never imagined, but one he could quite possibly fall in love with. He would have to buy more tea sets in the event she ever again found herself vexed.

  “Make your own rules, Angel,” he murmured.

  Olivia looked up at him suddenly. In an instant something changed. What, he didn’t know. But had he been measuring the temperature and pressure in the room, he was sure there would have been a sudden drop.

  “What did you say?” she asked slowly, softly.

  His heart started to pound. What had he said? Shit.

  “Make your own rules, Angel.” He said the damning words softly. This wasn’t how he wanted her to find out. He never wanted her to know.

  Olivia started advancing toward him, carefully finding her way through all the remnants of china tea sets and porcelain figurines.

  “How did you hurt your hands, Phinn?” This time when she asked, it was clear she already knew the answer.

  He couldn’t tell her. The last thing he wanted was secrets between them—he just wanted to love her. But because he wanted her to love him, he couldn’t tell her.

  “I can’t tell you,” he said. She was coming closer now. Her eyes were dark. He could see that she was thinking and putting two and two together and figuring out what he didn’t want her to know. The minute she knew was the minute he lost her.

  She reached out for his hands, smoothing over what remained of the bruises and cuts. It’d hurt like the devil—that bastard had a thick skull. But the pain was nothing compared to what she would have suffered if Miss Payton, ever attentive to her friend’s well-being, hadn’t alerted him to Olivia venturing out into the gardens with that stranger.

  The pain of his hands would pale in comparison to losing her.

  How did this happen? A moment ago they had been happy.

  Olivia reached out slowly toward his face. He flinched. Father. Nadia. Phinn held his breath. He realized she wasn’t about to strike him when her hand softened, holding him gently. She was gazing at his mouth.

  Any second now Olivia was going to figure out that he had deceived her. That he was prone to acts of violence. That they didn’t call him the Mad Baron for nothing.

  Phinn couldn’t move. He wanted to enjoy these last few seconds with her touch before she figured it all out and everything was over. He felt his chest tighten as she stood so close to him that their bodies were nearly touching.

  He was achingly aware of wanting to touch her and achingly awa
re he might not. Ever. He should have known from the start that she was too good for the likes of him. He should stop her, really.

  But he didn’t. Because Olivia stood on her toes and pressed her mouth to his.

  The minute he kissed her, really kissed her, she would know. So Phinn kept his lips firmly closed as she pressed her mouth to his. She was not dissuaded. Like a tempting minx, she licked the seam of his lips, urging him to open to her. It took everything—everything—in him to resist. Though he wanted to embrace her, he kept his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Though he wanted to give in . . .

  He hardened as he felt Olivia’s breasts brush against his chest. She had wrapped her arms around him, intent on wrenching this kiss—this confession—from his lips. He didn’t want her to know how he’d followed her that night, or how he’d lied to her, or kept secrets from her.

  “It’s you,” Olivia whispered. He felt her soft breath, and then her intake of breath. “You’re the one who saved me at the Cyprian ball.”

  It was inevitable was it not? What goes up must come down. Phinn told her yes as he enfolded her in his embrace. He told her yes with his kiss. She wore him down—it didn’t take much—and he kissed her back. For a moment they kissed deeply, tasting each other. Then it turned frantic, passionate. She sighed. He couldn’t breathe.

  For a moment he had a glimpse of what they might have. Then she broke the kiss.

  “When were you going to tell me?” she asked, looking him in the eye. Phinn gazed deeply into her lovely blue eyes and bit back the word never.

  He turned away from her then, lost in the recollection of that night.

  Phinn remembered the searing pain in his fists, which paled in comparison to the relentless pangs of his heart. Olivia had been in grave danger. If it hadn’t been for Miss Payton keeping such a close watch upon her friend and alerting him . . .

  He remembered exhaling. She was safe. They were alone.

  And she had no idea who he was. He knew, because she didn’t run or gaze at him fearfully. She sat down beside him and cried against his chest. When she began to confide in him, his temper didn’t flare but his heart kind of broke. But his scientific training didn’t fail him: he pushed aside his emotions and listened. Observed. Tried to learn.

  When she was no longer afraid of him, she could open up.

  When he was no longer busy trying to make her trust him, he could listen.

  The kiss, then, was inevitable.

  Tenderly, he had kissed her. He was ready for her to push him away. Sweetly, she followed his lead. He tasted the champagne she’d drunk earlier in the evening, and he remembered those first tastes of freedom and what a pleasure it had been. She sighed softly. It nearly undid him.

  Phinn dared to hold her face in his hands, as if he couldn’t let her go. But he needed to feel the softness of her skin and hair. He needed her innocence after his violence. Then he lost himself . . . this was all he ever wanted. Her sweet kiss, her tender touch . . .

  Suddenly, she had stopped the kiss. Clasping his face in her hands, she gazed into his eyes and asked him to marry her. He’d fought a wry grin and told her, “Not tonight.” But in the morning he would make her his wife. She just didn’t know it.

  “Phinn,” Olivia’s insistent voice pierced through. “When were you going to tell me?”

  He gazed down at her, taking in everything: her blue eyes filled with questions he didn’t want to answer; strands of her blond hair tumbling down. He couldn’t lie to her now. So he told her the truth: “I wasn’t going to tell you.”

  Chapter 19

  All of London eagerly awaits the commencement of the Great Exhibition, which will showcase the greatest talent and innovation of England. Many are working ’round the clock to ensure their inventions are ready.

  —THE LONDON WEEKLY

  Olivia watched Phinn go. He apologized and muttered something about needing to clear his head. Ever attentive, he said he would send a servant to clean up the mess she had made. She’d felt glorious during that marvelous outburst he had encouraged. Now she felt ridiculous as a maid swept the floors around her.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” Olivia said. “Please let me help.”

  “No ma’am, I couldn’t possibly,” the girl said. After all, young ladies had young ladies for these sorts of things.

  There were things Olivia knew, like how to serve tea, how to pair off dinner guests by the appropriate rank, how to sew on a button. She had never learned what to do when one learned one’s husband was keeping secrets. Massive secrets. She had accidentally fallen in love with him, thinking him someone else!

  She collapsed on the settee and dragged up the memories of what she had said that night.

  I could never love him. She cringed. What an awful thing to say.

  My parents are forcing me to marry a man I don’t love. Her stomach began to ache. It was true, but she saw now that everything had been much more complicated than that.

  I despise him. How must he have felt when she told him that? Her heart started to throb, as if it pained it to beat in such a cruel girl. Breaking the strict and stupid rules of society was one thing, being mean was another. She knew, too, how it felt to be the recipient of sharp words, thanks to Lady Katherine and everyone who called her Prissy Missy or London’s Least Likely.

  He is overbearing. She had told him that; perhaps it explained why he became so solicitous of her opinion? Staying in London, the hotel, asking her for her opinion today. She had made her wishes known, but she must have hurt him in the process.

  And he says the worst lines. She had been stinging from the awkwardness of trying one of those lines and have it fall flat with Brendon (Brandon?).

  Oh God. Phinn had seen her with him. Phinn had saved her from him. But he knew that she had been touched, tainted, almost utterly ruined, and married her anyway. Why, he could have left her and no one would have blamed him.

  Utterly ashamed of herself, Olivia hugged a pillow to her chest, as if that might comfort her. But it didn’t compare to her Mysterious Midnight Rescuer’s arms—or Phinn’s, rather. It had felt so good to speak her mind. But it felt so wretched now to know whom she had confided in. While she felt foolish for having been deceived, could she honestly blame him? Had the positions been reversed, she might have kept silent, too.

  As the afternoon light started to fade, Olivia ran through the scene over and over in her mind, to the best of her memory, feeling terrible each and every time. Embarrassment. Regret. Shame.

  Quite a far cry from the bittersweet exhilaration she had felt after that first magical kiss. She’d fallen in love.

  She asked him to marry her.

  He’d said, Not tonight.

  But the next day . . . She didn’t deserve to feel this burbling excitement and anticipation. Phinn was not what he seemed. He was a man she’d fallen in love with.

  And then he left, with no explanation as to his whereabouts.

  What was the proper etiquette for such a situation? Was she to wait patiently at home, twiddling her thumbs, while he cooled his head? Did she dare go wander the streets of London alone in search of him? Did he belong to a club? Shouldn’t she know if her husband belonged to a club?

  Shouldn’t she also know if he was in the habit of kissing girls like that? She should. She really, really should.

  With that in mind, Olivia determined her course of action. She had thought she knew where he might be. And though traveling alone and dropping in uninvited was Not Done, she resolved to do it anyway.

  Make your own rules, Angel.

  The maid had finished sweeping up the remnants of a very fine tea set and adorable figurines.

  “Is there anything else I can fetch for you, miss?”

  “A carriage please,” Olivia replied.

  Devonshire Street

  Olivia ordered a carriage to bring her to the warehouse where the engine was being constructed. She guessed it was most likely where he had gone.

  As the carriage
rolled through the streets, she wondered why she hadn’t gone to see his workplace before. There was so much about him she didn’t know. What was the source of the scar that slashed across his cheek? What had happened with his late wife? Why had he deceived her at the Cyprian ball?

  Young ladies didn’t pry into the sensitive matters of others. But Olivia was making her own rules now and she wanted to know, intimately and completely, the man she had married.

  Upon arrival before a nondescript building, she gave her driver orders to wait. Then she strolled up to the door.

  “I’m Lady Radcliffe,” she told the workmen who were making their way out as she arrived. It was the first time she’d introduced herself as such. They shrugged, allowed her entry, and went home for the day.

  Instead of a posh and exclusive haven with servants and ever-flowing spirits, her husband spent his hours in a large, sparsely furnished room. There were a few tall windows and large tables with sheets of paper spread out upon them. Looking closer, she discerned they must be plans and drawings for the engine. They were meticulously detailed and diagrammed, and while fascinating, could not compare to the machine itself.

  The engine was not what she’d imagined. Very well, she hadn’t given it much thought at all. But now that she set eyes on it, looking away was impossible.

  It dominated the room. It stood at least eight feet tall and appeared to be almost as wide and three feet deep. It was a maze of shiny gold pipes attached to grooved cylinders engraved with numbers.

  She circled the engine, riveted by its magnificence.

  How did it work? How did all these metal pieces perform mathematical calculations? She couldn’t fathom it. Yet not only did Phinn and Ashbrooke understand, they had invented it and built it. Olivia found herself in awe.

  She wanted to understand how it worked and see it in action. How did one give it an equation to calculate?

  She circled the machine once more. Outside, daylight was fading and dusk settling in, the street sounds dwindling. Then she saw the lever. Of course! She’d just need to pull it and the machine would whirl to life and tell her everything she ever wanted to know about 16 times 327, or 11,000 divided by 34.