by Maya Rodale
For a quarter of an hour they discussed the weather (warm and sunny, except for when it was cold and rainy), and Lady Archer apprised all of them on her plans for the wedding, completely disregarding the fact that Phinn had neither proposed to Olivia nor had she shown even an inkling of accepting.
He and Olivia exchanged alarmed glances, which led to shy smiles. She was so pretty when she smiled. Make smile + Add compliments = Win girl.
Lord Archer drank his tea, stole frequent glances at the clock, and otherwise appeared uninterested.
When he could stand it no more, Phinn interrupted Lady Archer by turning his attentions solely to Olivia. He smiled. She eyed him curiously.
“Lady Olivia, is your father a thief, perchance?” Phinn inquired. Immediately, his misstep was clear. Lord Archer coughed and sputtered, spewing his sip of tea.
“I beg your pardon!” Lady Archer gasped, clutching a handkerchief to her chest as if she’d been wounded.
“I ought to call you out for that!” Lord Archer bellowed. His face had become an alarming shade of red, not unlike wine.
Inwardly cursing Rogan, Phinn hastily carried on with the rest of the, er, compliment. Looking at Olivia, he added, “Because he must have taken the sparkle from the stars in the sky and put them in your eyes.”
Then he vowed to make Rogan pay for failing him with these stupid compliments.
“What?” Olivia was confused. But then he saw the moment it made sense to her. She gasped, “Oh!” and smiled faintly. And then she unfurrowed her brow and grinned when she glanced at her parents, who were quite possibly on the verge of apoplexy. It seemed that upsetting Lord and Lady Archer was a faster way to her heart than flattery.
“Yes, that was a compliment,” Phinn said. “You have very pretty eyes, Lady Olivia.”
“She gets that from me,” Lady Archer said, now sufficiently recovered from the shock to flutter her lashes. Phinn grinned when he caught Olivia rolling her eyes.
Lord Archer seemed to notice, too. After a disgruntled look at him, then his daughter, he said, “Lady Archer, let’s you and I step out for a moment.”
“Isn’t it improper for me to be unchaperoned?” Olivia asked. Her eyes widened when she saw his annoyed frown. He was definitely going to put this matter of his alleged murderous past to rest. Today.
“I don’t think we should leave them alone,” Lady Archer murmured.
One had to wonder why she feared leaving them alone together now when she was so eager for them to be wed. One also had to be thankful to Lord Archer for impressing that upon his wife.
“If this bloody wedding ever happens, they’ll be alone together for the rest of their lives,” he said gruffly. “Might as well get started now.”
“Well, leave the drawing room door open,” Lady Archer said. Olivia didn’t reply, for she had bitten into a pastry, which her mother then admonished her about, telling her that ladies restrained their appetites. Olivia contrarily took another large bite.
Given that Rogan’s compliment wasn’t a complete failure after all, Phinn thought he’d try another. Were they ridiculous lines that he felt foolish uttering? Absolutely. But was it worth it when Olivia smiled? Yes. A thousand times yes.
“Could I implore upon you for some directions?” he asked Olivia after her parents had left the room.
“Whatever do you mean?” she said, tilting her head as if confused.
“To your heart. Directions to your heart,” he said.
And then she laughed. He wasn’t sure if she was laughing at the joke or at him, but he didn’t care. He had made her happy if only for a second. In that second, when all seemed right in the world, he knew he couldn’t let her go. Not yet. Not without a fight.
With some reluctance, but knowing it was the right thing, Phinn brought up the inevitable subject.
“Lady Olivia, it has come to my attention that some still persist in calling me the Mad Baron.”
“Everyone,” she said, taking another bite of pastry.
“I’m sorry?”
“You said some people, but everyone does,” she replied, confirming what Rogan had said. Apparently, he ought to pay more attention to London gossip columns instead of reading scientific journals.
“I’d hoped that enough time had passed for the moniker to be forgotten,” he said. “It’s been six years.”
Olivia just shrugged. “I have been called Prissy Missy for four seasons now and London’s Least Likely to Cause a Scandal for three,” she replied. “I have no hope that these things ever fade.”
“I know. I like what those names say about you,” Phinn said.
But that seemed the wrong thing to say, for she smiled faintly. And sighed. And availed herself of another pastry.
“Given that is likely the case with my unfortunate name,” he began, “I want you to know that you need not be afraid of me. I would never harm you.”
“Is this the part where you tell me that you did not, in fact, murder your wife?” Olivia inquired.
That was the thing. He couldn’t just say that and not feel like a liar.
“Something to that effect,” he answered. Olivia’s eyes widened considerably. Wrong thing to say.
“A resounding denial might be more effective in alleviating my distress and, frankly, utter terror at being courted by an alleged murderer,” she said frankly.
“I can’t give you that,” Phinn said softly, with some anguish. “I wish I could but I cannot in good conscience.”
Olivia’s only reply was to select another pastry and take a bite. She peered at him expectantly. Ah, this was the part where he was to tell her the entire sordid story. But where to begin with the dramatic and disastrous Nadia? It wasn’t the sort of story one told over tea in the drawing room.
“I did not kill her, but her death was my fault.” The whole mess with Nadia was a knot so tangled he still couldn’t unravel it. All of the what ifs he asked never led him to an answer. The damned broadside was littered with lies and exaggerations and gross inaccuracies, but enough of the truth remained. His wife. His temper. His machines.
“Was it an accident?” she asked.
He hesitated. Neither he nor Nadia had planned her death. By all accounts it was an accident—one he held himself responsible for. But then again, Nadia had been a smart, devious woman. She didn’t do anything by accident.
Olivia finished that pastry and helped herself to still another. She stared at him, waiting for more of the story.
“It was not exactly an accident,” he admitted.
“What, pray tell, does that mean?”
“This is a difficult subject for me. I generally try to avoid it. I had hoped that it wasn’t necessary to mention it, but Lady Olivia, I would like to assuage your doubts about our upcoming match. Given your temperament, I’m sure we shall get along peacefully.”
“My temperament?” Olivia seemed alarmed, perhaps even angry, even though he’d only meant it as another compliment. But she didn’t know Nadia’s temper. Or his. “Are you saying that if I behave myself and avoid bothering you, then I needn’t fear for my life?”
He could see how she would interpret it that way, but—
“I can explain, Lady Olivia. You’re so different than my first wife. You’re London’s Least Likely to Cause a Scandal, and she was—” No words he could use to describe Nadia were polite enough to mention. Not that Olivia even gave him a chance to answer.
“And if I’m not the obliging, docile, deferential wife you’re looking for, then what?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest, doing marvelous things to her breasts. It took no small effort to wrench his gaze and imagination away and focus on the angry woman before him.
“Olivia, I just thought we might suit,” Phinn said, exasperated by the unfathomable reasoning she presented.
“Based upon my reputation, and upon gossip,” she said angrily. “You don’t know me.”
“Just like how you think we won’t suit based on my reputation and gossip,�
�� he challenged, with a lift of his brow. It brought a scowl to her face, probably because he was undeniably right. “You don’t know me either.”
“What do we do?” Olivia asked.
“We get to know each other,” Phinn said.
“And if we do not suit then?” She arched one brow in challenge. His heart started thudding hard. This was the moment he lost her. Or perhaps the moment he secured the chance to win her.
“It’d be a terrible fate for us to marry if we didn’t suit,” he answered cautiously. It was a fate he’d already suffered.
“I’m pleasantly surprised that you agree,” Olivia replied. “I cannot think of anything worse.”
“But an even worse fate would be to miss our opportunity . . .” he went on. And then, lowering his voice because he was the sort of man who didn’t just say such things, he added, “ . . . for love.”
“Love?” Her eyes flashed, surprised to hear him say that.
“Would you rather I mentioned my ten thousand a year and your dowry?” Phinn asked dryly. He didn’t do much wooing of women, but he knew to err on the side of romance and less on the side of economic and practical considerations. “Would that persuade you?”
“It would persuade my father,” she remarked tartly.
To which he replied, “I wouldn’t be married to your father, now would I?”
“You’d be married to me,” she declared. “Prissy Missy. London’s Least Likely to Cause a Scandal.”
“You say that as if those things are deterrents. But I like those things about you.”
“And if I caused a scandal?”
She lifted her brow. This was a challenge. Phinn held her gaze.
“I think you underestimate my talents for dealing with wild and unruly women,” he said, essentially daring her to acts of outrageous behavior. He had survived Nadia. Never in a million years would Olivia be able to upstage her. But she didn’t know that. What was the worst she would do, anyway?
Opposite him, Olivia sat in a perfectly pressed and modest day dress. Her back was ramrod straight, her posture perfect. She daintily sipped her tea. He couldn’t imagine her causing trouble.
“I think I might surprise you,” she said. “Perhaps even scare you off.”
The words were out of his mouth before he could consider the pros and cons and consequences: “Would you care to wager about that?”
Chapter 7
A young beauty, were she as fair as Hebe, and elegant as the Goddess of Love herself, would soon lose these charms by a course of inordinate eating, drinking, and late hours.
—THE MIRROR OF GRACES
British Museum
Three particular young ladies sought a diversion in the antiquities room of the British Museum. They lingered before the pottery, particularly the ones painted with the most intriguing scenes of naked men and women dashing about. They chatted in hush whispers, as befit both the setting and the topic of conversation.
“I am more convinced than ever that the Mad Baron did indeed murder his wife,” Olivia confided in Prudence and Emma. She’d gone over their conversation in her mind repeatedly. He did not declare his innocence—not in any way that made her feel safe enough to close her eyes in his presence, let alone marry the man.
“He was awfully determined to whisk you off alone to a secluded place at the ball the other night,” Prudence said. “Presumably for nefarious purposes.”
“That isn’t even the half of it,” Olivia added dramatically. “We had a conversation about the murder allegations.”
“You did not,” Prudence said, eyes wide.
“Honesty. Always the best course of action,” Emma replied.
“Says the woman who faked her betrothal,” Prudence remarked.
“I married him, so it doesn’t signify anyway,” Emma said with a shrug. “And anyway, it was your idea to fake the betrothal.”
“Olivia was the one who wrote the letter,” Prudence replied.
“Hello!” Olivia said, waving her hands in front of her bickering friends. “He said the death was his fault,” she whispered frantically. Both Prudence and Emma obliged her with appalled gasps and exclamations, which attracted more than a few curious stares from other museumgoers. “And he said that because of my docile and obliging temperament, he was sure we would suit because, presumably, I wouldn’t drive him into a murderous rage.”
“He has no idea what you have in store for him, does he?” Emma asked, shaking her head in pity for the poor Mad Baron.
“He might expect some trouble,” Olivia confided with a smile on her lips. She had all but promised him that she wasn’t going to behave as London’s Least Likely to Cause a Scandal. “And he all but dared me to.”
“You and the Mad Baron locked in a battle of epic proportions with your life on the line,” Prudence said. “Be still my beating heart.”
“My heart does race whenever he’s around,” Olivia confided. She felt a heightened awareness of his green eyes upon her when he was near, like a prey animal being stalked. It was torture. Just waiting. For something to happen. Something bad. Presumably.
“Are you certain you do not find him attractive?” Emma asked, tilting her head curiously. “He is handsome, Olivia. I quite like his eyes and his tussled hair. It gives him quite a rakish air.”
Olivia knew she might have, too, if everything were different. Like, say, if he hadn’t essentially confessed to murder in her drawing room over tea.
“I also have trouble breathing,” she said. Really, in the past few days, morning, noon, and night, she couldn’t quite catch her breath.
“So you’re saying he leaves you breathless?” Emma asked. “Really, Olivia—”
“Your corset could be laced to tightly. Or you could . . .” Prudence let her voice trail off and she awkwardly looked away. She and Emma exchanged a nervous glance.
“Or I could be what, Prudence?”
“You might be filling out your dresses more,” she said, wincing.
Olivia opened her mouth to protest. Then she thought better of it. She glanced down at her figure. Was it fuller? All those pastries she no longer refrained from eating, and all those extra helpings at meals—despite the disapproving comments from her mother—had to go somewhere. It seemed they went toward her breasts and generally giving her a rounder figure.
“It’s possible, given that I abandoned all efforts to restrain myself to ladylike portions. Extra cake and biscuits at tea has been one of the better parts of breaking the rules,” she agreed, smoothing out her skirts. “However, I truly believe my symptoms are because I am constantly left alone with a notoriously violent man. He’s likely to strangle me and leave me for dead in some dark corner of the ballroom. Or perhaps in my very own drawing room! I fear for my life. My heart is racing just thinking about it.”
“But why would he do that before the wedding?” Prudence asked thoughtfully as they strolled through the gallery housing the pottery and into a large, airy room lined with ancient marble statues.
“Prudence!” Emma exclaimed. “That is not helpful.”
“But it’s logical. You’re definitely safe with him at least until the vows are said,” Prudence said. “If he wanted to simply go around murdering young ladies, why go through all the bother of courtship first?”
“He just doesn’t seem that terrible,” Emma said. “I had a nice conversation with him at the ball. He answered my questions about the murder. He confirmed that he doesn’t have a dungeon. I can’t imagine that Blake would work with him if he were guilty of such a crime.”
“He is handsome,” Prudence admitted. “For a murderer.”
“He does seem a bit shy,” Emma said. “Probably because he hasn’t spent much time in the throes of the social whirl.”
“You know what they say. It’s always the quiet ones,” Olivia said gravely.
“I have heard that,” Prudence agreed solemnly.
“Oh, for Lord’s sake, Prudence! You’re distressing Olivia.” Emma’s vexed c
ries echoed around the room. A few other museum patrons turned to peer at them.
“Prue isn’t making me any more distressed than I already am. He basically confessed to the crime. And he wants me only because I am the perfect lady who won’t bother him. The kind of woman who won’t put up a fight,” Olivia said with a sigh. Then, brow furrowing, she added, “And he and his friends made such a joke about his show of strength.”
“All the better to carry you off, ravish you, and then . . .” Prudence said, letting her voice trail off. She mimed strangling herself. It was not pretty, and Olivia shuddered. Nearby, a mother urged her child to turn away.
“If he’s very strong, he must be very muscled. Like these,” Emma said, gesturing toward the array of statues before them.
Naked. Male. Statues.
Young ladies do not gaze upon naked men.
Olivia felt her cheeks redden and she fought the urge to avert her gaze. Most men she was acquainted with didn’t seem like they were hiding physiques like these under their jackets, waistcoats, shirts, and cravats. Even the men whose arms she stumbled into the other night didn’t seem to hint quite at this. The Mad Baron, on the other hand . . . from what she had felt, she thought that he might be harboring such a chiseled chest and abdomen under this clothes. Not that she would ever know.
“Do you think he is like this?” Prudence asked in a hushed whisper.
“I haven’t even considered it,” Olivia said, cheeks reddening. Young ladies do not lie. But young ladies do not possess such wanton thoughts.
“Oh, I think you must have,” Emma said, grinning at Olivia’s blushing cheeks.
“Perhaps you noticed when you fell into his arms at the ball,” Prudence said pointedly. “And now you are wondering . . .”
“You’ll know on your wedding night,” Emma said. Still with that naughty grin.
“My wedding night. I thought I’d always look forward to it,” Olivia said glumly. She might end up married to the Mad Baron and he might have muscles like this. She’d be left alone, at his mercy, and in no way a match for this sort of strength. She took a calming deep breath.
