Wallflower Gone Wild

by Maya Rodale

  “No, just you,” she said with the sweetest smile.

  With his touch, Phinn distracted Olivia from the pain. He took it away, until there was nothing but pleasure.

  Chapter 24

  After a season of scandals and one of the rockier courtships this ton has ever observed, Lord and Lady Radcliffe seem to be quite in love. Is it too soon to celebrate their happily ever after?

  —THE LONDON WEEKLY

  A few weeks later

  They had settled into a comfortable routine. She and Phinn made love in the mornings and took breakfast together before he went off to work on the engine, and she spent the day hobbling around with Emma. They drank tea, read periodicals, shopped for the perfect dress to wear to Lady Penelope’s Ball and wrote letters to Prudence, all of which troublingly remained unanswered. Then she and Phinn might attend a ball, or the opera, or just stay in. Once darkness fell, they made love and fell asleep beside each other.

  Olivia started to know him in a way she’d never imagined. She learned his body so well that she could paint it from memory—though she occasionally still made him pose for her just because she liked to gaze wantonly at him. She could tell when he was distracted by thoughts of the engine by the far off look in his eye, which was different than how his eyes darkened and his body tensed when something sparked his temper.

  She’d become adept at diffusing his anger before it turned into a fiery explosion of devastating and violent rage. But his temper had not sparked much. Things were good.

  They were happy.

  She was in love.

  She had a can’t stop thinking about him, lost in his kiss, counting the minutes until they met again, kind of love. Despite everyone’s expectations including her own, she’d found herself happily married in time for Lady Penelope’s anniversary ball.

  She even had the perfect dress.

  There was just one problem.

  Phinn arrived home later than expected. The construction of the engine had hit some snags. Some of the pieces were damaged during the collapse and had to be rebuilt, which slowed their progress considerably. The Great Exhibition was just days away. He and Ashbrooke had planned to debut the engine there, and hopefully catch the attention of a factory owner interested in producing more engines or a printer interested in partnering to publish a new set of ready reckoners.

  If nothing came of this event, then all their work was for naught. Their machine was too good, too powerful, too revolutionary to gather dust in a warehouse.

  When he walked into their hotel suite, he was plagued with worry, starving, and exhausted, and knew he would probably have to return to work later this evening.

  He managed a faint smile for Olivia.

  “You’re home!” she said, hobbling from the settee and into his arms. He pressed a quick kiss upon her lips. Her ankle had healed marvelously; the doctor attributed it to all the time she had spent in bed, which prompted them to share a wicked smile thinking of the not-resting they did there.

  “Have you rung for dinner?”

  “How was your day?” she inquired, taking his coat.

  “Fine. Long. Tired.” Phinn strolled over to the sideboard and poured a whiskey. It was one of those days, and he faced another one tomorrow and the day after that. He probably wouldn’t sleep for the rest of the week. “Dinner, Olivia? Did you ring for it?”

  “I’ll do that now,” she murmured. He caught the annoyed glance she gave him. Phinn just sipped his whiskey and vowed to make it up to her later. She returned a moment later.

  “Do you notice anything different?” she asked, gazing up at him eagerly.

  Phinn studied her and tried, honestly, to discern what it was. He saw her blond hair and the color reminded him of the engine pieces to be remade. Her blue eyes reminded him of the ink with which he drew the plans—and the frantic calculations he’d spent the day poring over. These were not the right things to say. Any fool knew that.

  “Tell me,” he said, managing a slight smile, though hers became a frown. Damn.

  “My dress. It’s new. I ordered it for Lady Penelope’s Ball.” Olivia gave a little twirl so he could admire the dress.

  “It’s lovely,” he said, appreciating the way the blue fabric flattered the flare of her hips and the swell of her breasts. Perhaps he wasn’t so tired after all . . . He could lose himself in her curves, soft skin, and the mindless rhythm of making love. He set down the glass and went to embrace his wife.

  Olivia flitted away from him.

  “You mustn’t wrinkle it!” she said, playfully swatting his hands away. But then she smiled coyly and said, “Though the ball isn’t until Friday. I suppose it could be pressed.”

  “Friday?”

  “Yes,” Olivia replied. “I told you about this weeks ago.”

  Vaguely, he recalled something to that effect.

  “This Friday?” Phinn asked, just to be sure.

  “The very one.”

  Damn. He pushed his fingers through his hair. Sipped his whiskey. Then he broke the bad news.

  “I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it, Angel,” he said regretfully. Of course, he wanted to be by her side constantly. But he had to have the engine completed in time. There would only be one opening day of the Great Exhibition and only one chance to make a stunning, spectacular first impression. Everything he had ever worked for was aimed at debuting the Difference Engine before the world.

  “But I cannot miss it,” she protested.

  Phinn wracked his brain for a solution. “Can you go on your own?”

  “That would be a fate worse than death,” she declared dramatically. He fought to keep his brows from shooting up skeptically.

  “Now you’re exaggerating,” he replied.

  That was clearly the wrong thing to say, judging by the vivid flash of her eyes and ferocious expression.

  “Why can you not attend?” she asked, and his heart began to thud unevenly.

  “The Great Exhibition opens the next morning. I will be too busy finishing the assembly of the engine.”

  Olivia folded her arms across her chest and narrowed her eyes.

  “I see,” she said icily.

  “Olivia—”

  “Can’t someone else do it?”

  “I’m afraid not. It’s too important. It must be done right,” Phinn explained. Not only did the machine have to be built, it had to work. Otherwise it was just some rich men’s folly, a collection of metal parts with no purpose.

  “But this night means so much to me,” she pleaded. Her blue eyes gazed up at him, and for a second he wavered.

  “It’s just a party for your finishing school,” he said. He’d graduated from Oxford, and they didn’t have anniversary balls that he felt compelled to attend. “We attend balls with the same people nearly every night of the week.”

  “Ashbrooke will be there,” she challenged.

  “Yes, but he doesn’t understand the construction like I do,” Phinn said.

  “Are you truly picking a machine over your wife?” she asked incredulously. Somehow, this had become a choice between one or the other. Really, though, it was just prioritization. And he was tired. And hungry.

  “It’s not like that Olivia. It’s my life’s work.”

  “Well finding a husband has been my life’s work—because that’s all I’m allowed—and I’d like to celebrate that I succeeded.”

  Wearily, Phinn sighed and said, “If it means so much to you, I can try to be there. But I cannot promise.”

  Olivia’s reply was the slamming of her bedchamber door, leaving Phinn utterly bewildered. It was just another ball, was it not?

  “It’s not just another ball,” Ashbrooke explained a few days later. Phinn had spent nearly every waking moment at work on the engine; when he was in their suite, Olivia sulked and avoided him. He had obviously done something WRONG. Fortunately, Ashbrooke was on hand to translate.

  “But it’s the same people we see at every other ball, most of whom we don’t even s
peak to. I can barely tolerate them on the best of nights. Usually, I count the minutes until Olivia and I can return home. I won’t have the patience for a ton party when there is work to be done on the engine the night before the Great Exhibition.”

  “If I understand Emma correctly,” Ashbrooke began, “this event is the equivalent of St. Peter at the gates. Apparently, no one in the one hundred year history of their finishing school has ever been unwed by their fourth season.”

  “Was Olivia on her fourth season?” Why didn’t he know that? He should know that.

  Ashbrooke nodded. “They resorted to desperate measures to wed. Well, Emma did.”

  “Then I suppose, despite her protestations, Olivia truly won’t care if I don’t go,” Phinn said, “considering how much she tried to not marry me.”

  “That’s what you deduce from four days of utter silence from your wife, save for the slamming of doors?” Ashbrooke asked incredulously. “You may understand physics, but you are clueless when it comes to women.”

  “I never said otherwise,” Phinn muttered.

  “I’m given to understand that it is a peculiar form of torture to attend this event while unwed, which Emma and Olivia can attest to, given that they’ve suffered through it three times.”

  “It’s just a party,” Phinn protested. “All they did was marry. It’s not like, say, they built an engine that might transform every industry in England.”

  “First of all, while I might agree, I advise you to never utter that sentiment before one of our wives. At least not until after the engine is done. Can’t have you murdered by a mob of angry ladies before it’s finished. Secondly, who knows what they could accomplish if they were taught something practical during school? Thirdly, it matters to them—therefore it matters to us. If that is not a scientific law, it ought to be.”

  “But the engine—” Phinn wearily glanced around at the pieces strewn about the room and the half-built machine. Days. They had mere days to complete it.

  “Will be done,” Ashbrooke declared.

  “How do you know?”

  “I have confidence in you, Radcliffe,” the duke said, clapping him on the back. “And a little jewelry wouldn’t be remiss either.”

  Chapter 25

  Just one more day before the Great Exhibition opens! The king will personally review the exhibits before an eager public is admitted.

  —THE LONDON WEEKLY

  The night before Lady Penelope’s Ball

  Olivia nervously knocked on the door of a town house on Curzon Street.

  Young ladies do not pay calls upon gentlemen.

  She smoothed out her skirts and adjusted the angle of her bonnet. She made her own rules now. Besides, Phinn would understand why she had to seek the assistance of another man. At night.

  The butler answered the door and appeared surprised to find a proper lady on the front step.

  “I’d like to have a word with Lord Rogan please.”

  She handed the butler her card: Lady Radcliffe. Her name was printed in black ink on heavy vellum.

  Rogan saw her immediately, of course. He ushered her into the library and offered her brandy, which she declined. Not having much time to spare, Olivia launched into her scheme.

  “I’m not sure how Phinn will feel about this,” Rogan said nervously when she was finished.

  “While I grant that he will put up a fuss initially, he’ll eventually see that us joining together is for the best,” Olivia said confidently.

  “I do owe him . . .” Rogan murmured.

  When Olivia and Rogan arrived at the Devonshire Street warehouse, they were not alone. Emma and Ashbrooke had come, too, along with an assortment of footmen and maids from the Ashbrooke residence. Some brought sustenance, wine and candles. Others had come merely to help build possibly the greatest machine the world had seen.

  “Phinn?” Olivia called out into the darkness. She saw him bent over a desk, mulling over plans lit by a few paltry candles. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw pieces of the machine stacked on tables and the floor.

  “Olivia? What are you doing here?” He stood and stepped toward her, pushing his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry that I am not at home, and if this is about the ball tomorrow night—”

  “Shhh. I am here to help,” Olivia said.

  “I as well,” Rogan said, stepping forward. The maids and footmen proceeded to light candles, which illuminated the room—and all the others who had come.

  “Are you all here to help?” Phinn asked, incredulous.

  “We await your orders,” Ashbrooke said, rolling up his sleeves.

  “The pieces have all been constructed. All that remains is assembly,” Phinn said.

  “Let’s lets begin,” Olivia said. “Tell us what to do.”

  Phinn had always worked alone. His family had seen to it—giving him workspace far from the house that was quiet, out of the way, and too much of a bother to walk to. Work was something he did that kept him apart from those he loved and . . . life, really.

  So it was a strange, warm, not altogether unpleasant feeling to see the enthusiastic faces of his friends, and his wife, ready to help. This was a gift. This was a generous gesture. This was help he desperately needed. So he grinned and started giving orders.

  They worked through the night. The women organized and polished all of the pieces. The men put them into place, connecting them with each other, until the machine rose up before their very eyes.

  The sun rose, too, and still the ragtag crew continued to build, because this machine was more important than anything, even much needed sleep. As the hours passed and the Difference Engine grew, Phinn realized he would have never managed this on his own. Perhaps there was more to life than work—as Nadia had so often told him. There were friends who helped a man in their hour of need, and generous and devoted wives who broke the rules concerning what women did or did not do, all in order to get the job done.

  It was late afternoon on Friday, hours before Lady Penelope’s Ball, when the Difference Engine was finally completed.

  “Now let’s see if it works,” Ashbrooke declared, rubbing his palms together enthusiastically.

  “It has to work,” Phinn said.

  “If it doesn’t, I have some ideas . . .” Rogan offered. Phinn paled. Rogan grinned.

  “Someone else present the equation and pull the lever,” Olivia said with a shudder.

  She had overcome her fear of this great machine in order to help him. The realization brought a lump to Phinn’s throat.

  “Phinn, you do the honors.”

  He was one lucky bastard.

  The machine worked.

  They all cheered because, by God, it worked! Ashbrooke even had tears in his eyes. Phinn clasped Olivia’s hand, needing to hold onto someone to remind him that this triumph was real. And it was all possible, he knew, thanks to his lovely and determined wife.

  There was just enough time for everyone to return home, nap, and dress. A few hours later they all reconvened at Lady Penelope’s Ball. Phinn had accomplished everything he had come to London to accomplish: find a wife and build the Difference Engine. There was only one thing he had left to do . . .

  He pulled Olivia into an embrace in a darkened corner of the ballroom—because he could, and because his lovely wife wouldn’t mind at all.

  “I love you, Olivia, with your own rules,” Phinn murmured. He had felt the words for so long, and it felt right to say them.

  Olivia gave him that smile he always longed for, wrapped her arms around him and said, “I love you too.”

  At Lady Penelope’s one hundredth anniversary ball, one of London’s Least Likely broke the rules, scandalously and passionately kissing London’s most notorious man in a secluded corner of the ballroom. It was perfect.

  Except for one thing: Where was Prudence?

  Epilogue

  Seven years later

  The estate in Yorkshire was not the desolate, remote, and terrifying place tha
t Olivia had feared. Radcliffe Manor was a lovely and rambling old stone house surrounded by beautiful gardens, vast lawns, and a forest. There was plenty of space for their four children to run, play, and have adventures.

  There was no dungeon. She had checked.

  That did not stop her from casually mentioning the possibility of a dungeon whenever one of her children misbehaved.

  She and Phinn spent half of the year in London and the other half in Yorkshire. Life in the country was not the vast and lonely expanse of solitude she had feared. Guests came to stay frequently, the neighbors weren’t that far and they came often for visits. Between her visiting friends, four rambunctious children, and husband, Olivia was so busy she had hardly any time for embroidery at all.

  She did, however, find time to paint, although no one was ever permitted to see the portraits of Phinn she had composed.

  Phinn had taken over the East Wing of the house as a workspace. His sons and daughters would tear though in the midst of games, disturbing his focus, but he didn’t mind. Just as often, he put them to work polishing lenses or sorting through tools.

  However, when his wife interrupted his work, he closed the door to his study. And locked it.

  “What is keeping you busy now?” Olivia would ask, wandering through his workspace, looking like a vision, with her fair hair and luscious figure.

  Sometimes Phinn told her about his latest project. More often than not he just smiled, pulled her into his arms and murmured, “You, dear wife.”

  Author’s Note

  The Difference Engine is widely considered to be the world’s first computer. The inventor was the Englishman Charles Babbage, who had the idea in 1821 while reviewing a set of mathematical tables riddled with errors. “I wish to God these calculations had been executed by steam,” he is said to have exclaimed. This brilliant mathematician, inventor, philosopher, and charming man about town spent thousands of pounds of his own money as well as government funds to design and build a machine to reliably perform mathematical calculations.