by Maya Rodale
“What question?”
Emma excused the seamstresses, and the three women found themselves ensconced in the small changing room. Prudence pulled the velvet drapes firmly shut.
“Have you—” Emma began.
“Become acquainted with your husband in the biblical sense?” Prudence finished.
“Made love to him?” Emma asked.
“Done the Act?” Prudence added.
“Had marital relations?” Emma inquired, with a lift of her brow.
“No, all right!” Olivia cried. She had not done the Biblical Act of Making Love or a variation. She’d spent her wedding night alone—not that she was quite ready to do otherwise. But given what she’d heard, it only drove home how, in her attempt to find love, she might have driven away her only chance for it. “He fought with Rogan, who apparently had been giving Phinn bad advice for wooing me. And then Phinn went for a walk. He’s been getting up at first light and going off to build the Defense Engine—”
“Difference Engine,” Emma corrected.
“It makes no difference to me,” Olivia said dismissively. “The point is that he prefers machines to me.”
“Is this the part where we point out she hasn’t even been married a week?” Prudence asked.
Emma shook her head no and, a mischievous grin on her lips, asked, “Or is this the part where we tell her to seduce him?”
“After trying to run him out of town?” Prudence asked skeptically. Then, with a sigh, she added, “What will we do?”
We. That made Olivia smile. Phinn had ensured they could stay in London for a while. She was tremendously appreciative. How had he known, if he weren’t sensitive to her? How much had she overlooked in her determination to cause a scandal?
“Well, what are we going to do?” Olivia asked. She wanted the same thing she’d always wanted: a chance at love. It seemed Phinn was her only chance now. Given what she had recently learned, perhaps he might not be as awful as she’d feared.
After all, it wasn’t like she could find her Mysterious Midnight Rescuer man and convince him to live a life of sin with her. Marital vows were not rules she considered breaking.
Emma was the one to answer. “We are not going to allow opportunities for romance to pass us by when they are presented.”
By we, she clearly meant Olivia.
Chapter 16
A touch, a pressure of the hands, are the only external signs a woman can give of entertaining a particular regard for certain individuals.
—THE MIRROR OF GRACES
Phinn couldn’t avoid his wife forever. Actually, he could if he tried hard enough. Why, he could leave her at Mivart’s Hotel and ensure the bills were paid, while he returned to Yorkshire. It was possible. Absurd, cowardly, and ridiculous—yes. But it was possible.
However, he didn’t want to leave Olivia. He just didn’t know how to face her after their disastrous wedding night.
He’d lost his temper in front of her and had to leave because he couldn’t stand to see the fear inevitably in her eyes. She had seen his bruised and swollen hands. She knew how dangerous he could be. What a bloody fool.
Every night when he returned—late—he considered knocking on her door. The bruises on his fists, which had only begun to fade, stopped him. He couldn’t touch such lovely innocence with such violence on his hands. Every morning he considered lingering to see her. Instead he left at first light, fearing all the questions she wanted to ask him.
He lost himself in work instead, vaguely aware that this was just like his first marriage. But he’d married the opposite of Nadia—hadn’t he? Even though Olivia caused scandals and had outbursts, there was a still a loveliness about her that he craved and that Nadia had never possessed. It didn’t take a genius to determine that he was the common denominator in his disastrous marriages.
So when Ashbrooke asked, “How fares married life?” Phinn grumbled something noncommittal and instead broached the subject of the machine parts that still needed to be constructed. The duke fell for the distraction, debating different parts and strategies with Phinn for at least half an hour.
“So it’s decided, than,” Phinn concluded.
The duke nodded. “Also, the duchess and I would be obliged if you and your bride would join us at the opera this evening.”
Ashbrooke said this in the sort of commanding ducal manner that left no room for disagreement. When Phinn broached the subject with Olivia later that day, he took care to avoid precisely that tone.
“Ashbrooke has invited us to attend the opera with him and Lady Emma this evening,” he told her. “Would you like to go?”
“Did he, now?” Olivia replied, her lips quirking into a smile. Made his heartbeat quicken, that.
“Aye,” he said, holding his breath as he asked, “would you like to go?”
“Yes. Very much,” she said softly, surprising him. She couldn’t possibly have forgiven him for the series of disasters that occurred on their wedding night. What had happened that she should soften toward him?
At the opera
Somewhere between the dimming of the lights and the raising of the curtains, everything changed. It started with a simple brush of Phinn’s hand against hers. Olivia’s instinct was to jerk her hand away, but she overrode it and willed her hand back to linger near his.
Seize opportunities for romance.
And this, an affectionate caress in the dark, seemed to be a vastly preferable way of saying she was sorry and wished to try anew. She couldn’t fathom saying the words to him, but she could manage this gentle affection.
They were just touching hands. In the opera house. They had gloves on. It was nothing. But it didn’t feel like nothing.
There was the pleasure of it, to be sure. But it was tempered by the bittersweet knowledge that she had made it impossible to happen sooner. Her heart was still a tangled mess of rebellious longing for that man in the garden and slow dawning interest in her husband, who was turning out to be not the man she had originally thought.
His efforts to woo her had been misguided but genuine. With a flare of shame, she acknowledged that she hadn’t made it easy for him. And yet . . . he was still here. Tenderly and tentatively caressing her hand. She wasn’t sure which took her breath away—his dedication or his touch.
His hand brushed against hers again, a caress that she suspected was deliberate. So light, so fleeting, so delicate. Olivia slowly exhaled. It was nothing to be a ninny about. Hands. Just hands.
And it was then just fingers possibly interlocking then hesitantly letting go. The impermanence of the gesture was maddening, but not as much as the strange pleasure afforded from his touch and from the anticipation.
Will he hold her hand? Or will he not?
What did she want, anyway?
Olivia discovered that he would not hold her hand. Instead, she sat breathless as Phinn traced delicate circles around her palm. Softly, so softly, did he trace along her fingertips, venturing higher to her wrist, higher still to the madly sensitive skin of her inner elbow.
This . . . whatever this was . . . went on and on and on. Olivia’s breath became short and shallow and she wondered whether exquisite or agony were a better term for what he was doing to her and how it made her feel.
It was nothing, nothing, nothing. They were in public—not that anyone could see what they did. The lights were dark. The audience’s attention was focused on the opera singer. She and Phinn were discreet. But there was something slightly wicked about having these feelings—these smoldering, sparking, heated feelings—in public.
And yet, they were merely holding hands. Besides, she had gloves on. Had they done this prior to the wedding it would not have been grounds for marriage.
The gloves—those had to go. Phinn began to flip open the buttons of her gloves, one by one, with a masterful single-handed maneuver. How did he know to do that? Was he more of a rogue than she had thought? She’d never thought that he was an innocent, but she hadn’t truly considered w
hat he knew or what he could make her feel.
Next he tugged firmly at each fingertip, making his intentions clear. He wanted her bare skin. Olivia dared a glance at him and saw his gaze fixed ahead. No one would know. This was their secret.
Her glove fell silently to floor, followed swiftly by his.
The exquisite agony commenced anew, this time with bare skin upon bare skin. She had never truly experienced a man’s bare skin against her own. This was new, and something she shared with Phinn alone.
Again, he slowly and softly teased the soft skin of her palm with slow, deliberate circles of his fingertips. Because his touch was so light, she strained to be more aware of herself. Her every nerve was attuned to the light, fleeting connection of his skin upon hers.
Again, her breathing was affected. Again, he traced along her fingertips, his touch so light she held her breath to feel it fully.
And then he dared to trace his fingertips all along the sensitive and exposed skin along the inside of her arm from her wrist to the short tulle sleeves.
It was an arm. A hand. A simple touch. It was nothing that would lead to a special license, for instance. These were lies Olivia told herself. But each stroke sent shivers up and down her spine. She found herself forcing her legs tight together. Because of the heat, and the desire.
Her gaze was fixed upon the stage; she didn’t see a thing. Her new corset was laced too tightly. That had to be why she was nearly overwhelmed with the urge to rip the stays. It was too hot in the box.
Phinn treated her to another long slow caress. She allowed another slow exhale, as if she might control her racing pulse. In an instant it became a sharp gasp.
If he could make her feel this just by holding hands, how would she survive anything more? She had seen the pictures. She had seen their expressions of ecstasy. She knew there was more than this. Truly, she feared it and craved it in equal measures.
Olivia tilted her head, curls brushing against her bare shoulders. She stole a glance at the man beside her. Husband. Stranger. He was handsome.
Phinn turned and caught her looking at him. Gazes locked. The song faded away. He offered a hesitant smile. Her heartbeat quickened. Olivia made the corners of her mouth turn up and discovered it didn’t take much effort at all, really, to smile at her husband. Whom she knew almost nothing about. Except that with just his fingertips he could take her breath away. And if he was so tender and seductive, could he really be so violent?
She did not know this man. But now she wanted to.
Chapter 17
Young ladies ought to maintain a proper distance between themselves and gentlemen, especially when in a carriage.
—ONE OF LADY ARCHER’S MANY RULES
The previous evening, Phinn had taken advantage of the darkness afforded at the opera to hold Olivia’s hand. Although that didn’t quite describe the hours they had touched and she hadn’t pulled away. For hours, he’d imagined more. The images from those illicit periodicals came to him, unbidden, and he couldn’t resist imagining himself tangled up with Olivia. Want was not strong enough a word. That magnetic pull he felt toward her only increased in strength the closer he got to her.
Those hours had been passed in a tortured state of arousal, all the more enhanced by her willingness. By some miracle he had restrained himself from whisking her away to some dark corner of the opera house and burying himself deep inside. Not for their first time, at least.
He wanted to see her hair unbound, tumbling around her face, grazing her breasts. He wanted to sink his fingers in and pull her close for a long, deep, slow kiss. Nor did he want to stop there. He didn’t want to stop until she was crying his name as she came and he felt her contracting around him. Then, maybe, he’d stop.
But Phinn held back, not trusting his ability to restrain himself from going all the way, immediately. Besides, to kiss her and to become intimate with her was to reveal secrets he didn’t know how to share and wasn’t sure he wanted to.
This morning he awoke even more frustrated.
He looked forward to a long day spent immersed in the construction of the Difference Engine. It absorbed his focus completely. He’d driven Nadia mad with his long hours devoted to his work. Would Olivia care? He didn’t think she would.
He had thought Nadia would be satisfied with the attentions he gave her in the bedchamber—for all they didn’t get along during the day, there was one place they were compatible. Combustible, more like it. He recalled nights and mornings, utterly spent. She’d been too tired to do anything but sleep peacefully.
He was thinking far too much of bedding. But Olivia was around and he was too aware of how badly he wanted her and how badly she hadn’t wanted to marry him. He would not come on too strong. He would not scare her off.
He had to avoid temptation.
Phinn opened his bedroom door expecting to sneak out at first light, before his lovely wife awoke. Instead, he found her dressed and waiting.
“Good morning,” she said a touch hesitantly. She offered him a shy smile. It did things to him, that smile.
“Good morning,” he replied. She wore a pale yellow gown, and tendrils of her blond hair framed her face. Angelic, she was. Angel, he almost called her.
“I thought we might take the carriage together,” Olivia said.
“Are you coming with me to work on the engine?” he asked.
“I could before I carry on to visit with Emma,” she offered. Phinn recalled one of Nadia’s visits to his workplace. She found it incredibly dull—and him by extension. But he wasn’t too obtuse to realize that Olivia was making an effort.
It was just a carriage ride. He could endure a carriage ride without ravishing her. Especially at this hour. Because gentlemen did not ravish their innocent lady wives in carriages at ungodly hours of the morning. Especially gentlemen with dangerous pasts who terrified their virgin wives.
But God, he wanted to . . .
God made it so difficult not to.
Once in the carriage, Phinn was all too aware of Olivia. Her scent—like roses and woman—enticed him. Her face was bare, though her cheeks were faintly pink from either heat or a blush. Her eyes were blue and he couldn’t look away. Her lips were pink and he wanted to make them red from his kiss.
And it seemed there was more of her to see. Something different about her.
He was used to seeing her in white. This gown was like a ray of sunshine, or a flame, or molten gold. It clung to the curves of her breasts. He wanted to touch them. Taste them. Love them. He’d admired her before and certainly hadn’t found her wanting. But something was different.
“Is that a new dress?” he asked.
“Yes. I took the liberty of ordering a new wardrobe,” Olivia replied, eyeing him nervously for his reaction. Of course—she knew what a devilish temper he had and didn’t know what would set him off.
“I look forward to seeing it,” he said, thinking that he really wanted to see all of her new gowns on the floor.
“Are you not going to question the expense?”
“Is it exorbitant?”
“Perhaps. I know not,” she replied, again eyeing him. Was she testing him? They hadn’t discussed her pin money, had they? They hadn’t discussed much, and they were bound together for life.
Phinn just shrugged and smiled. “I’m sure it’s fine.”
That was the thing about having previously invented some of the more useful machinery of the day. She probably couldn’t beggar him if she tried. She and the rest of London didn’t seem to know that about him either. It wasn’t as if he registered the patents under the Mad Baron.
Things that were not fine: what happened next.
Because the traffic at this hour was not the usually congested standstill disaster of later in the day, the horses progressed along at a steady clip. Given their speed, it would take them longer to stop should another vehicle, also progressing at a brisk pace, emerge in front of them.
When it happened, the driver maneuvered exper
tly, jerking hard on the reins and spurring the horses to make a quick turn to the left. As a result the carriage tilted on its wheels. As a result, both Phinn and Olivia found themselves tumbling together and landing in a very . . . suggestive, inappropriate, arousing position.
One that had been detailed in Wicked Wanton Women, though with far less clothing.
Phinn had managed to catch her in his arms and turn so he was the one to land on the floor of the carriage. There they were: a tangle of limbs and skirts and boots.
“Are you all right?” he rasped. He had hit his head hard, but all he could think about was the proximity of her luscious pink mouth and how very badly he wanted to kiss her.
“Yes,” she gasped. “And you?”
Could she feel how badly he wanted her? Olivia wriggled her hips, brushing against his arousal and drawing a groan from his lips.
“I’m so sorry,” she apologized.
“It’s all right,” he said. But really, he was dying. He closed his eyes. If only they were back at the hotel. In their suite. Preferably in a bed, but he’d take the drawing room floor over the carriage floor.
In the process of trying to disentangle herself, Olivia succeeded in reminding him just what he craved. He couldn’t resist stealing a caress here and there. As if that would satisfy him. As if that didn’t make him want her more. Perhaps the carriage floor wasn’t the worst place.
She also succeeded in revealing her legs to him. Long, slender, shapely legs clad in delicate silk stockings. And what of the garters, and what of the rest? She returned to the upholstered seats and he finally dragged himself up beside her.
“Phinn, are you sure you’re all right?”
She reached out and cupped his cheek with her hand. There was such concern in her gaze, as if she truly had no idea that it wasn’t an injury that had left him speechless. It was desire. And if he wasn’t mistaken, he might have detected some desire in her gaze, too.
No, things were not all right. But then things were about to be.
