Wallflower Gone Wild

by Maya Rodale

  But really. Now was not the moment to have such thoughts.

  He wasn’t sure who had caused a bigger scene tonight. Olivia, propelled by Rogan’s idiotic notion to spike the lemonade, or him, on his knees before a woman in a torn dress.

  And then their gazes had locked. Her eyes on his proved a powerful aphrodisiac. He hated that she feared him. He hated that their courtship had been one disaster after another. But he didn’t feel any of that hate as strongly as he felt a raw desire to touch her and possess and love her.

  For the moment—in this absurd, oddly wonderful moment—he thought she might have felt the same way.

  But then a woman’s distressed cries pierced through. “Olivia! Dear Lord above, Olivia what has happened to you?”

  It was Lady Archer, in all her bustling, fussing glory.

  For a perfect, fleeting second Phinn swore he and Olivia shared the same thought: Run! It was there, in her eyes. But then whatever it was that Rogan snuck into the lemonade stole over her and she wobbled again.

  “Oh my lord,” Lady Archer gasped.

  “Lady Archer, good evening,” Phinn said.

  “Good evening. Olivia, we must get you home immediately before anyone sees.”

  Phinn exchanged an uneasy glance with Olivia. The truth was that everyone was already witness to London’s Least Likely to Cause a Scandal doing precisely that, from tearing off bits of her dress to asking a gentleman to dance.

  “I’ll help you,” he offered. Because, while he was not deeply acquainted with drunk women, he suspected that one might require assistance making it from the terrace to the carriage to her house. If nothing else, he wanted everyone to see that the Mad Baron was standing by his future bride, her scandalous actions that evening notwithstanding. It was the least he could do, given that he’d driven her to such outrageous behavior.

  She might not give a damn about her reputation tonight. But she probably would in the morning.

  Chapter 9

  London’s Least Likely to Cause a Scandal has surprised us all. Was her shocking behavior merely the spiked lemonade at Almack’s, or is Prissy Missy up to no good? This author confesses to a fascination with the wallflower gone wild. What will she do next?

  —“FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE” BY A LADY OF DISTINCTION

  THE LONDON WEEKLY

  Phinn felt a pang of sympathy for the lecture Olivia must have endured the following morning—and the pounding headache she must have suffered, too. He remembered the time when he and his brother George had gotten revolting drunk on their father’s stash of French brandy. There was the lecture—and then the belt. But they had endured it together, as brothers.

  That was long ago. Before Nadia ripped them apart.

  He had come to the workshop on Devonshire Street where everything was governed by logic, where he knew and understood everything and he wasn’t the Mad Baron but the expert machinist. But he had trouble focusing on his plans for the Difference Engine; his thoughts kept straying to Olivia. Perhaps he should let her go. While he knew her behavior last night had been worsened by the punch and prompted by his stupid wager, he also knew that she wanted out.

  Like Nadia.

  But such thoughts were banished once Ashbrooke tossed the mornings’ papers on his desk. Cringing, Phinn read one of the gossip columns.

  For the first time in the history of London, Almack’s was the place to be. Some rogue spiked the lemonade, resulting in all sorts of amusing and shocking behavior—none more so than that of Lady Olivia Archer. Prissy Missy took the ton by surprise when she shredded her gown, leaving many to question her wits. But none were more surprised than Lord Harvey, who accepted the young lady’s invitation to waltz.

  The gentlemen of White’s are considering a revision to their famed betting book. Will Lady Olivia retain her title of London’s Least Likely to Cause a Scandal or will she be renamed London’s Lowest Tolerance for Spiked Lemonade or London’s Most Entertaining when Under the Effects of Spirits?

  The patronesses of Almack’s have announced that all beverages will be served by footmen to prevent a reoccurrence of “the deplorable activities of the previous evening.” We the editors beg them to reconsider, especially if they want to draw a crowd of young eligible men who would consider attending of their own volition . . .

  Phinn might not have been as finely versed in the laws of society as in the laws of physics, but even he knew it did not bode well for one’s marital prospects to have their wits questioned in a gossip column. It was his fault. He ought to apologize.

  As with Nadia, he had the power to avert greater scandal. He could make everything right with a proposal of marriage.

  There was just one problem: Olivia was certain to refuse his offer, especially if it were motivated by his intentions to save her from herself. Until he figured out how to apologize and propose in a remotely romantic way, he dared not risk her wrath.

  He tried to focus on his work and finally lost himself in drafting a design for a crucial piece of the engine when the duke approached.

  “How are things coming along?”

  “Excellent. I am working on a way to ensure that all the screws are cut identically,” he answered. It was the little things like a lack of standard screws that slowed down construction.

  “Better and better. Now we have just a few thousand more pieces to design and construct.”

  That was the problem with building an intricate machine that would stand eight feet high, seven feet long, and three feet deep. It would require as many as twenty-five thousand separate parts, many of them identical. The engine would be larger and more intricate than any machine that had been made previously.

  “Good thing you secured as much funding as you did,” Phinn quipped.

  “You wouldn’t believe what I had to do to get it,” Ashbrooke said, sighing dramatically. Phinn had heard the story and found it quite remarkable. Worthy of a book.*

  “All for a good cause, though,” Phinn replied.

  “Profoundly changing everything from accounting to navigation,” Ashbrooke went on. “Just by being accurate. It’s so tragic how many lives have been lost because of miscalculations and errors in the ready reckoners.”

  Phinn looked away from the duke, not wanting him to see how the words affected him. He could feel his jaw clenching and the familiar tightening in his chest when he thought of Nadia and how she’d died. His machines, his mistakes, had killed her. He was guilty, because he was cold and calculating like a machine—until his temper got the better of him.

  He and Nadia were doomed from the beginning. From the minute he slipped the ring on her finger he’d known as much, with the same deep certainty that he knew how to calculate the force of gravity. He just hadn’t foreseen how tragically it would end.

  I’m sorry, Nadia. He thought the words often.

  “The Difference Engine is just the beginning,” Ashbrooke went on. “By eliminating the risk of human error, we can always be sure that our calculations are correct. And once we finish this, and the debut at the Great Exhibition is a smashing success, I have an idea for an analytical engine that will perform ever more complex calculations.”

  “One thing at a time, Duke,” Phinn said with a smile before picking up his pencil and turning back to work. He’d drawn just one carefully executed line when Ashbrooke interrupted again.

  “So how do things fare with your courtship of Lady Olivia?”

  “Horribly,” Phinn answered grimly. There had been moments here and there—but at this rate it’d take seven years before they could spend one civil day with each other. And yes, he might have performed those calculations. “I must thank you for waltzing with her and saving her from even more trouble.”

  Phinn didn’t waltz because he spent too many hours working on his scientific endeavors, instead of learning the steps to various dances. His brother George had been the one who knew all the steps and all the ways to charm a woman.

  Besides, there was nothing like a public display
of approval from the Duke of Ashbrooke, the ton’s darling, to ameliorate any damage done by Olivia’s drunken antics.

  “It was my pleasure,” the duke replied. “Besides, Emma would have my head if I didn’t. At any rate, Lady Olivia is a lovely girl.”

  “Is she?” Phinn had to ask. “When I first saw her I thought her lovely, pretty, kind, restrained, and sweet. And now . . .”

  The duke grinned and said, “When she’s not deliberately trying to cause a scandal to scare you off, yes, she is all of those things.”

  “I might have encouraged her to do that,” Phinn muttered.

  “Why would you do such a thing that would deliberately thwart your own aims?”

  “She’s determined to prove we won’t suit. I’m determined to prove that we will.”

  “That’s absurd. Of course you’ll make a splendid match. She’ll give you an excellent reason not to work so much, and you’ll treat her to all the romantic moments women love. At any rate, you’ll have to suit. Given what the gossips are saying in the papers.”

  “I know,” Phinn said, deeply regretting how he’d challenged her. Never once did he think it would have the opposite effect: that they’d be duty bound to wed.

  “And yet, you are here. Drafting designs for the perfect screw,” Ashbrooke remarked.

  “I’m not yet certain how to proceed with Lady Olivia,” Phinn said.

  “There’s more to those wallflowers than meets the eye,” Ashbrooke remarked. “One minute you think that because they’re London’s Least Likely they’ll be so glad for the attentions. And the next you’ve gone mad with love and trying to win them.”

  “I’ll say,” Phinn murmured. The aloof beauty he’d first set eyes on was turning out to be a wickedly enchanting, maddening creature. She was exactly what he didn’t want in a wife, and yet he still wanted her.

  Which was a damn good thing, since it looked more and more like they needed each other.

  “So what are you going to do?” Ashbrooke asked, ambling over to a sideboard where he kept a store of brandy and glasses for precisely those conversations that made a man crave a drink.

  “Marry her. Somehow, someway. She’ll see it’s the right thing for us to do now. And then we’ll make the best of it.”

  “Yes, but how are you going to woo her so that she’ll say yes?”

  Phinn shrugged. “Rogan’s been giving me advice. Pay her compliments, make her jealous, that sort of thing.”

  “And is it working?” Ashbrooke asked, handing Phinn a glass of brandy.

  Phinn took a sip and thought back to the ball. He’d actually enjoyed speaking to Lady Ross, Lady Elliot, and others. He just hadn’t felt the same pull—like gravity—that he felt with Olivia.

  Even more, he’d enjoyed the feeling of Olivia’s eyes on him. Every time he glanced around seeking her out, she was watching him, which was a marked contrast from their first ball, when she went to great lengths to avoid him. She was still making a spectacle of herself trying to repel him, but it was progress.

  But the rest of Rogan’s advice had not worked. In fact, it was a failure.

  “Let’s just say that I’m open to other suggestions.” Phinn shrugged and sipped his drink.

  “You’ve come to the right place, Radcliffe,” the duke said, smiling broadly. “In addition to being a gifted mathematician and inventor, I’m also a renowned rake. At least I was before I married.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “The thing with women is they like to be swept off their feet,” Ashbrooke said matter-of-factly.

  “Feats of strength,” Phinn said, nodding. “That’s what Rogan advised.”

  The duke looked appalled. “Never refer to lifting a woman as a feat of strength.”

  “Right,” Phinn said. He took a long swallow of his brandy. What other stupid advice had Rogan given him that he had unwittingly followed? Not for the first time did he regret all the hours he’d devoted to science. He ought to have been devoting himself to studying the seduction of women.

  “Never. Ever,” the duke added.

  “Never,” Phinn repeated.

  “They like a man who is confident, self-assured,” Ashbrooke declared. “Dominant, if you will. A man who decisively determines a course of action and always ensures a woman is cared for so that she has nothing to do but fall in love with you.”

  “Is this what you did?”

  Judging by his expression, Ashbrooke seemed to be thinking back fondly over his courtship with his wallflower. Phinn sipped his drink and didn’t dare consider he might one day do the same.

  “Emma was determined to resist my charming efforts to seduce her. But I knew she was the one, and eventually she realized that I was the one for her.”

  “That’s all well and good, Ashbrooke, but I’m looking for specifics.”

  “First of all, you have to get her away from the prying eyes of society and her overbearing mother. These wallflowers are painfully aware of what the ton thinks of them. It makes them far too self-conscious, which will never do when you’re trying to be romantic.”

  “London’s Least Likely,” Phinn remarked. So they internalized that. Had he thought of himself as the Mad Baron and acted accordingly? Was it self-fulfilling prophecy? What if Olivia was railing against everyone’s perceptions of her, and not against him?

  “Exactly,” Ashbrooke agreed. He took a sip of his drink and then said, “Here is what you should do: plan a romantic outing. And plan every last detail—the luncheon, wine, etcetera—so that she doesn’t have to think about anything other than falling in love with you. You do not want her thinking about how you forgot wineglasses or napkins.”

  “I see,” Phinn murmured. If he could sweep her off her feet with romance, she might forget her fear, and not be so determined to prove she wasn’t Prissy Missy.

  “When they start thinking, they employ a logic that is so complex and convoluted that no man will ever be able to follow each twist and turn to the surprising conclusion. Trying to sort it out is like getting trapped in quicksand.”

  The duke finished his speech by draining his brandy and setting the glass down on the table. Phinn pushed the drawings to the side.

  “Perhaps I could take Olivia on a picnic,” he suggested.

  “An excellent idea,” Ashbrooke agreed enthusiastically. “I know the perfect spot. In the far corner of Hyde Park there are the ruins of an ancient gazebo. Take her there.”

  “This could work,” Phinn said. “We’ve had some moments that lead me to believe there is hope yet. Perhaps if we just have one nice afternoon we’ll have a chance at happiness.”

  Given his reputation, and hers, they might be each other’s only shot at happiness.

  “One more tip,” Ashbrooke said, lowering his voice. “If you must have a chaperone, insist upon a maid and bribe her to look the other way. You must ensure that Lady Archer does not accompany you. For reasons I trust I need not speak aloud.”

  Chapter 10

  To wear or not to wear the bonnet. That is the question.

  —THE DELIBERATIONS OF LADY OLIVIA

  In anticipation of an outing with Phinn, Olivia had spent the better part of an hour fussing over her bonnet. According to her well-worn (but not beloved) volume of The Mirror of Graces:

  No lady should make one in any riding, airing, or walking party, without putting on her head something capable of affording both shelter and warmth.

  The bonnet in question was indeed capable of affording both shelter and warmth. It was decked in a bright canary-colored ribbon and festooned with an assortment of yellow and white silk flowers. For an added bit of flair there were large white feathers jutting out along with bits of lace. The thing was monstrous.

  Usually she avoided wearing it because of said monstrous decorations. Today she reconsidered because of the exceptionally large brim that would prevent any attempts at kissing, should the Mad Baron be so inclined.

  She did not want to kiss him.

  Olivia
touched her fingertips to her lips, which had, tragically, never been kissed.

  Or did she want to kiss him? If she just weren’t so scared, perhaps.

  Involuntarily, she considered his firm, sensual mouth. And the way he’d gaze at her so intently and how his gaze had a way of making her feel things. Warmth. Wanting . . . or was it terror?

  The bonnet. She must focus on the bonnet. Perhaps she wouldn’t wear it at all, which would be scandalous, as would the ensuing freckles and sunburn. It might be nice, for once, to venture out of doors without an object capable of providing shelter and warmth upon her head.

  There was also the matter of the satin ribbons—they trailed right now to her waist, they were so long and wide. Why, if he were so inclined, the Mad Baron could certainly strangle her with these ribbons. Why, he could even hang her from a tree!

  Olivia gasped and paled at the gruesome thoughts. Her heart started to pound and her palms became damp. Would he ravish her first and then murder her? Or would he fly into a fit of rage, insensible to decency and reason, and pull the ribbons so tight she couldn’t breathe? She’d forevermore be known as the girl who met her untimely demise by bonnet ribbon.

  Then again, should she have to flee on foot through the treacherous wilderness of Hyde Park on a summer’s day, she’d be able to wave the bright yellow ribbons to attract attention as she shouted for help. In fact, now that she considered it, this headpiece could quite possibly double as a weapon.

  A servant discreetly entered the room, and Olivia nearly gave a shout, having been caught off guard while thinking terrifying thoughts.

  “Lady Olivia, Lord Radcliffe insists you come down now.”

  “Thank you, Nancy.”

  He insists, does he? Olivia scowled. She was supposed to do his bidding, was she? Hadn’t she shown him that she wasn’t the docile creature everyone believed her to be?