Wallflower Gone Wild (14 page)

“Yes. It’s very heavy,” Phinn said. But he carried the thing effortlessly. Olivia tried, in a moment of charity, to be impressed with his strength and not, say, consider how he might easily hoist her away and have his way with her.

That thought made her blush. She wasn’t thinking about murder. For once.

The table had been set with plates, cutlery, and wineglasses. There wasn’t much room for the veritable feast that Phinn unpacked from the hamper. In addition to an enormous amount of food, there were bottles of chilled white wine and jugs of cool water.

“That is quite a feast,” she said, surveying all the food before her.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” Phinn said. Her heart reluctantly softened at his consideration. “Or what you were in the mood for.”

“That is very considerate of you. Thank you,” she said, providing him a glimpse of the ladylike manners she was famous for. Or had been. She’d caught a glimpse of the gossip columns saying:
At Almack’s, Lady Olivia Archer failed to display any of the grace, refinement, and manners we had come to expect from Prissy Missy.
Afterward, her mother had taken to bed with a vial of smelling salts for an afternoon. Olivia read all the gossip rags she could get her hands on and then considered taking to her bed as well.

“I also noticed that you have quite an appetite,” he said.

She was suddenly beset by a fit of coughing. To be fair, she had endeavored to eat an ungodly amount of food in his presence, all the better to scare him off. But still, that was really something a man should never comment on.

“Terribly sorry,” he said, looking earnestly pained by what he’d said. “That was the wrong thing to say.”

“Yes.”

“I just meant that—”

“It’s all right, Lord Radcliffe.” Olivia sighed. She had expected the picnic would be a disaster. At the very least it was only her pride that was wounded and not her person.

“Phinn. Please, call me Phinn.” He smiled. And her heart fluttered. He was handsome when he smiled . . . if only that scar of his didn’t remind her of his dangerous past.

Seated at the table, Olivia eyed the spread before them. A gentle breeze rustled through the trees. Other than the slight birdsong, there was no other sound. She was keenly aware that they were very much alone in a very remote location.

In anticipation of the meal, she removed her gloves. So did the Mad Baron. She saw that his hands were riddled with scars, as if warning her of his violent activities.

“What happened to your hands?” she asked.

“Oh, little accidents when working. Some are burns from dealing with hot metals as I forge tools, others are due to cuts from sharp machinery.”

“That is not as nefarious as I had imagined,” she replied.

“Terribly sorry to disappoint you,” he murmured. “Would you like some wine?”

“Please,” she said. Perhaps just one glass would soothe her nerves. She must take care not to have more than that.

Phinn poured a liberal amount of chilled white wine into both their glasses.

“Cheers,” he said, raising his glass to hers. They shared a smile—his hesitant, hers slightly petrified. Their gazes locked.

His eyes were really something. They were green and shadowed by dark lashes. And they knew things, those eyes. They were at once intriguing and terrifying.

She took a sip of wine. And he was handsome—Emma was right about that. He was
trying
to win her. She could see that, too. Men didn’t plan elaborate picnics in romantic locations if they weren’t intent on marriage to the lady in question.

And yet, he had basically confessed to murdering his previous wife. And now she was alone with him. In this secluded place. No one would hear her scream.

Phinn proposed a toast: “To seeing if we will suit.”

Ladies take small, dainty sips.
She took a long swallow of wine. Then another, until her glass was nearly empty.

Phinn peered at her curiously.

“Would you like some more?” he asked, offering the bottle.

“My mother discourages me from drinking wine,” Olivia said, taking another sip. “She says it makes a woman forget herself.”

“Drink enough of it and you’ll forget everything,” he quipped, which made Olivia smile nervously.

What did he want her to forget?
Her heart started drumming in her chest.

“Here, if you are going to drink thusly, you ought to eat,” Phinn said.

“Of course,” she murmured, availing herself of the meal before her—and the fork and knife in her hands, which could double as weaponry just in case. Between the cutlery, the embroidery scissors in her reticule, the parasol, and the bonnet with its ribbons, she was a veritable artillery of lady weapons.

Thus, she felt able to experience a measure of relaxation. The wine soothed her. The food was delicious. The scenery was lovely.

“Olivia, I owe you an apology,” Phinn said, surprising her.

“Whatever for?”

“I never should have suggested our wager,” he said. “It seems to have had some unintended consequences that I did not foresee.”

“Whatever do you mean?” She sipped her wine, wondering about these unintended consequences.

“You’ve read the gossip columns, I assume.”

“Of course,” she replied. She breathed as well.

“Your reputation has suffered because of the antics I provoked in you at Almack’s. Also, the lemonade was spiked, thanks to Rogan.”

Wait—hadn’t Prudence added gin as well? No wonder she’d felt so unconstrained.

“I have erred in judgment,” Phinn went on. “For that, I apologize.”

Olivia bit back a smile. This was the moment! He erred in believing her a biddable girl; she had proven otherwise. Now he no longer wished to marry her because of the reports in the gossip columns. Her brilliant plan was a success.

Taking care not to appear too happy, she replied in a carefully modulated tone: “I understand if you no longer wish to court me or marry me because of my tarnished reputation.”

“To the contrary, Lady Olivia,” Phinn said, his gaze settling on her. “My honor impels me to stand by you.”

“But . . . but . . . but . . .” Olivia stammered. This was not how it was supposed to work! “But we do not suit!”

Phinn sipped his wine. He looked at her with those eyes. Aye, he was no fool.

“Tell me, Olivia, how we do not suit.”

Was he serious? Olivia leveled a stare at him. Was that the slightest hint of amusement in the upturned corners of his mouth, or was she imagining things? She rather suspected he was bamming her, but if he wasn’t, then she could not pass up this opportunity to point out how she’d be the worst wife for him. Especially since he had declared his attentions to stand by her—presumably at the altar.

“Well, I am rather forward with gentlemen,” she said, thinking of all the rogues she had cavorted with: Lord Gerard, Beaumont, Harvey. “Surely you wish for a wife who is more devoted to you. And you alone.”

“That would be preferable,” Phinn agreed. “I wouldn’t care to share my wife’s company with other men.”

“I also drink to excess,” Olivia said. To punctuate this she took another sip of a very unladylike size. When she set the glass down she felt marvelously warm and quite dizzy. She wished to lie down, in fact. But she had to point out all the ways they were wrong for each other. “If you wish for a respectable wife, you mustn’t shackle yourself to a drunk who cavorts with rogues.”

She had never imagined saying such things about herself. She also had never imagined that she’d be so desperate to prove to a man that she was unsuitable and he definitely should not marry her.

It didn’t escape her notice, however, that there was a grain of truth in what he said—the papers had been cruel and would quite possibly ward off all other suitors. If Phinn didn’t marry her, she’d be a spinster. She would be the one failure in the history of Lady Penelope’s School for Young Ladies. But a true love match seemed more important than that.

“I cause scenes, as you know,” she carried on. “I’d probably drive you mad with all the scenes I would cause. I suppose your previous wife drove you mad.”

“Sometimes,” Phinn admitted. “But I had taken a vow. Till death do we part. I took that very seriously. So I did my best to honor that vow.”

Olivia paled. And reached to her reticule to ensure that the embroidery scissors were still there just in case she needed them. Assured, she took another sip of wine. It wasn’t quite making her forget herself, but it was loosening her tongue tremendously.

“Did you murder her because she drove you mad?” she asked in a whisper.

Phinn sighed. He sighed! What did
that
mean?

“Are you
still
hung up on the whole ‘mad baron murdered his wife’ gossip?”

“Yes! Yes I am. Any woman would be. Is that why you spoke to my parents about courtship before even meeting me? Because you knew I would refuse?”

“What the devil are you talking about?” Phinn asked, pushing his fingers through his hair. “Ashbrooke warned me—”

“You were talking to Ashbrooke about me?”

“Obviously. How else would I have known about this place?”

“While exploring for secluded places where you might ravish and dispose of a young woman. Obviously.”

Phinn scoffed. “Fond of gothic novels, are you? If you want to know, the duke offered a bit of advice about wooing reluctant women. He said that Emma said—”

“Emma said!” Olivia exclaimed incredulously. “I cannot believe her!” she muttered.

She took another sip from her wineglass. Found it empty. She reached for the bottle, but Phinn stopped her.

“I think you should have some water,” he said.

“No thank you,” she replied. “I am a wanton lady who drinks to excess, remember?”

He cracked a smile. Completely disregarding her wishes, he filled her wineglass to the brim with water.

“I find it interesting, Lady Olivia, that all your reasons we might suit focus on you. I can’t help but notice you haven’t mentioned anything in my character.”

“Well . . .”

“Do you find my appearance objectionable? I know the scar is a bit frightening. It was just the result of an unfortunate collision with a broken dish.”

Olivia looked at him, really looked at him. The scar wasn’t that frightening at all—just a white line slashing from his temple to his eye. Otherwise, his skin was flawless. His hair was dark and tussled. He pushed his fingers through it when he was frustrated, she had noticed. Given the state of his hair now, she had been bothering him quite a bit today.

“No,” she said softly. She did not find his appearance objectionable.

“Do you find me dull?”

She considered their interactions. He’d terrified her. Made her laugh. Vexed her. But he didn’t bore her.

“No,” she admitted.

“Is your heart set on another?”

“No.”

Phinn pushed his fingers through his hair. Gave a short exhale. He was growing impatient with her. She could see that, even with the ridiculous bonnet that obscured her vision.

“Do you truly fear that I will hurt you?” he asked. Since he
asked,
she thought she might as well give him an honest answer.

“I have brought my embroidery scissors in my reticule. Just in case.”

Phinn stared at her. Then he burst out laughing.

“Do you really find it amusing?” Olivia demanded.

Once he stopped laughing, he answered. “It’s not funny at all. But the alternative to laughter . . .”

Phinn leaned forward. “I am drawn to you, Olivia. You must marry someone. I would like to marry, and I’d like a different marriage from my first. In spite of all the ways you claim we will not suit, I think we will. For example, I was so glad to hear from you, your parents, and everyone, really, that you had so many hobbies you enjoyed. Pianoforte, painting, floral arrangements. You won’t need me to keep you amused all day, so I’ll be able to focus on my work.”

“And at night?” She realized she must be drunk to actually voice such a question.

“I want a wife at night, too,” Phinn said in a low voice. It sent a shiver up and down her spine. A sudden warmth inside. A curious longing. And fear. She couldn’t be that for him. She was too scared to be at his mercy like that. Naked, under him . . .

She turned a furious shade of red, then took another sip of her drink. Then she desperately wished to be elsewhere.

It wasn’t fair that she’d gone to great lengths to tarnish her reputation—and it hadn’t mattered. And he was the
one
man who wasn’t bored to tears by her ladylike pastimes. The unfairness of it all was suddenly just too much.

“I hate embroidery,” she burst out. “If I never sewed another sampler in my life, I’d die happy. I find the pianoforte dull. I’ve spent hours practicing the same scales over and over and I only play the same songs that my mother thinks are suitable for young ladies. Sometimes I think about playing bawdy songs in a proper musicale, but I am never asked to play because I am not as popular as the other girls. If I have to paint another assortment of fruit, flowers, and precious keepsakes I will go mad.”

“What do you like?” he asked, as if it were as easy as that. As if he wasn’t at all ruffled by her outburst.

“I don’t know. I never had a chance to know. And I never will know if I am shut up in the attics of your remote Yorkshire estate while you build all your dangerous contraptions! All the while, I shall be cowering in fear of the day that I meet the same violent fate as your first wife!”

Olivia clamped a hand over her mouth.

Young ladies do not have emotional outbursts.

P
hinn had once performed an experiment that did not yield the intended outcome. He thought it a failure until a year later, the knowledge he’d gained proving to be essential in solving a far greater problem. This picnic was similar. He’d hoped to know her better. It seemed he did now, though not how he had expected.

She was afraid of him, still. Fear drove people to do things they’d never imagine themselves capable of just to avoid it. Perhaps she wasn’t Prissy Missy. Perhaps she wasn’t, deep down, a painted, wanton woman prone to drink, in spite of the persona she’d endeavored to project. Somewhere in between those two extremes was the real Olivia, the one he was drawn to. She was scared.