Wallflower Gone Wild Read online

  Speaking of weaponry, should she fill her reticule with rocks? But there was no time for her to venture out into the garden. All she had were embroidery scissors. Olivia stuffed those into her reticule. At the last moment she applied a bit of lip paint.

  And then she donned the bonnet and ventured forth to meet her fate.

  As per the suggestion of the Duke of Ashbrooke, Phinn planned every last detail of a romantic picnic. In the park, he scouted the location of the ancient gazebo. It was indeed in a far corner, and he had the devil of a time finding it. But it was private, beautiful and perfect.

  He consulted with Rogan’s chef on the menu and personally determined which footman would accompany them. He wore one of his new jackets, which the tailor had only just finished. He procured a carriage with matching horses.

  Now all he needed was his betrothed.

  “I’m sure Olivia will just be a moment, Lord Radcliffe,” the terrifying Lady Archer said, again. They were sitting in the drawing room, discussing the weather, and had been doing so for the past quarter of an hour.

  He was not sure of it. In fact, he was sure that Olivia would take every excuse to delay. If she were suddenly stricken with a serious, rare, and highly contagious illness, he would not be in the least surprised.

  Phinn leaned back against the settee, allowing himself to comfortably settle in. Oddly, her every challenge only made him more intrigued and more determined to win her. In other circumstances—namely, without Lady Archer present—he might have indulged in fantasizing about when she finally surrendered and the pleasure they’d find together.

  But first this damned picnic. Fortunately, he had Ashbrooke’s advice to follow. The man was a legend. How could he go wrong?

  He would just be decisive and certain. He’d be commanding. Lord of the Castle. He’d make sure everything was perfect. Olivia wouldn’t have to do to anything but be wooed.

  If the stubborn chit ever deigned to make an appearance.

  Phinn addressed one of the servants, “Tell Lady Olivia it is time to depart. Please.”

  “Yes, of course,” the maid said meekly before vanishing.

  A moment later Olivia appeared, dressed in a perfectly respectable day dress of blue and white stripes. He thought fondly of the wildly inappropriate dress she’d worn at the ball the other night. She also wore a massive bonnet that dispelled all thoughts of kissing her, as did the lip paint that made an unfortunate reappearance. Good God, were they back to that again?

  But still . . . he did want to kiss her. Rub that stuff right off her lips with the pad of his thumb and then claim her mouth for the kind of kiss that left one completely senseless.

  Lady Archer bustled about, fussing with the enormous bonnet strings as if Olivia were still just a girl, managing to annoy both her daughter and himself. Did she not know that Olivia was very much a woman?

  “Make sure you have your gloves, Olivia. And perhaps a parasol, you do not want to freckle for the wedding.”

  Olivia pulled a face revealing how she felt about that, but still accepted the parasol her mother handed her and clutched it to her chest.

  “Let’s be off,” he said.

  “I’ll get my bonnet,” Lady Archer said brightly. His heart sank. Lady Olivia looked at him with a tortured expression.

  Be decisive and commanding.

  Do not involve Lady Archer.

  “Actually, Lady Archer, Lady Olivia and I would like some time alone to get to know each other. Perhaps we could all picnic another time, but today it will be just Lady Olivia and myself.”

  “But it’s improper, ” Lady Archer said. “The gossips are already saying the worst things.” Phinn was quite certain he might have hurt her feelings. But really. A man couldn’t woo a girl with parents hovering about. And they’d already meddled enough as it was.

  “Perhaps a maid might accompany us. But I would like to get to know Lady Olivia. Alone.”

  He heard a gasp from under the bonnet. He was aware that she turned to glance up at him. Was she still afraid of him murdering her? Or was she shocked to hear him stand his ground with her mother?

  “Good day, Lady Archer,” Phinn said, nodding to her. “We shall return later this afternoon.”

  Phinn extended his hand to help Olivia climb into the high perch phaeton. There was no way that she would ever manage to board on her own. For a second she thought of running. Not that there was anywhere she could go, and not that she’d get very far with skirts tangling around her ankles and this behemoth of a bonnet obscuring her vision.

  Reluctantly, she reached out and placed her gloved hand in his. His grasp was firm—but not the viselike death grip she had feared. For a moment he was just a handsome gentleman helping a lady into his carriage. It should have been a lovely moment.

  Why could it not just be a lovely moment?

  Then she remembered that she’d worn her most atrocious bonnet and applied lip paint again. Funny, that all she did was plot ways to repel him so completely that he’d break the marriage contract, and yet she only felt foolish doing it. What if being wicked didn’t suit her? What if she was Prissy Missy and she was rebelling against an inevitable fate?

  She sighed, her dreams of a lovely courtship and whirlwind romance drifting away . . .

  Phinn drove the carriage, and it wasn’t long before they reached the perimeter of the park. Her heart began to pound. He guided the equipage along Rotten Row and Olivia shrank down in her seat, mortified that the ton should see her in this ridiculous bonnet and with lip paint very liberally applied.

  Just when she thought there couldn’t be anything worse than being seen in such a ridiculous state with the Mad Baron for company, the carriage took a turn down a remote road she didn’t recognize.

  “Where are we going?” Her voice wavered as she inquired.

  “I have planned a picnic for us in the park,” Phinn answered, keeping his eyes focused on the road.

  “It’s a good thing I have brought the parasol,” Olivia replied. “I redden terribly in the sun.”

  It could also double as a weapon just in case . . .

  If only she’d had a parasol with a secret knife blade that emerged with a click of a discreet button, instead of this one that was so refined, delicate, and purely ornamental. It wouldn’t protect against the rain, let alone the violent advances of a murderous madman.

  “You needn’t worry. I have determined a shady, secluded spot for us,” Phinn said, giving her a glance and smile. Was that a cryptic smile? A kind one, or a malicious one?

  “I would feel more comfortable if we were in a more popular location,” she said. He wouldn’t dare harm her in public.

  Perhaps he wouldn’t at all, her conscience argued. At the ball the other night, she had made a complete spectacle of them both. He had every reason to be furious with her, for she’d embarrassed them with her inappropriate attire, drunken antics, and practically throwing herself at Lord Harvey (the memory of which still made her wince). When Phinn had reached out to touch a strand of her hair, she’d flinched, expecting to be hit.

  But it’d only been a tender touch, in which he brushed aside a wayward strand. It was the intimate gesture of lovers. Olivia glanced at him and dared to imagine, for the very first time, if Phinn and she made love. Sitting beside him in the close quarters of the phaeton, his muscled thigh was pressed against hers and she could feel his strong arm. Arms that might hold her—or harm her? She glanced up to his mouth—a full, sensuous mouth—and closed her eyes, imagining his lips pressing against hers.

  The carriage hit a rut in the road and she was jolted from her thoughts. Her appalling, wanton, unladylike thoughts, which left her feeling quite the same as she’d felt when her dress was torn and Phinn, on his knees before her, had given her That Look. Which is to say, a strange heat now stole through her limbs. She caught herself inhaling sharply, once again aware that her dress was far too tight. She wished she could remove it, along with the bonnet, for the ribbons were chafing around
her throat. If they married her dress would come off. Along with that jacket of his and everything else. She’d be alone, defenseless, and completely at his mercy.

  “You will like it, I am sure of it,” Phinn said.

  “I beg your pardon?” Olivia asked, alarmed that he had somehow read her mind.

  “The picnic. I’m sure you will like it,” Phinn said. Then, turning to peer curiously at her, he asked, “Why, what else were you thinking of?”

  “It doesn’t signify,” Olivia said, shrinking back against the seat. She wondered if he noticed that she was blushing, and if so, could she pass it off as too much sun? Not with this horrid bonnet and the stupid lip paint. She sighed. Just sighed.

  “You needn’t worry about whatever is troubling you,” Phinn said. “I have taken care of everything. You needn’t concern yourself with thinking at all.”

  She supposed that was meant to be reassuring. It was accompanied by a kind smile. But it only just reminded her that he wanted a biddable wife. A boring, docile creature who wouldn’t need to use her brain for anything other than to follow his commands. It went without saying that while she didn’t quite know what she wanted, she knew she didn’t want that. She wasn’t a child, or a little soldier or a servant. She was a woman who wanted love.

  Then the carriage went off the road entirely. She didn’t want this either, she thought, gripping the rail tightly in one hand and desperately clutching the parasol in the other. The horses trotted along, pulling the phaeton over the grass, then back onto another utterly desolate path.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Ashbrooke told me of the ruins of an ancient gazebo,” Phinn said. “I thought we might go there.”

  Olivia knew of it. The duke had built it—illegally and at great expense—as a testament to his love for Emma. Olivia was happy for her friend. Truly. If anyone deserved such love and happiness, it was Emma.

  But what about her? Didn’t she deserve true love, too?

  Phinn swore under his breath.

  “Are you sure you know the way?” Olivia inquired, even though young ladies never second-guessed a gentlemen. “Because you seem lost.”

  Phinn turned to face her. He fixed those green eyes of his on her face. Lifted one brow. Issued his challenge. “Do you know the way?”

  She felt quite taken aback.

  “No,” she admitted in a whisper. At this point she didn’t even know the way back to Rotten Row.

  “Ah, there it is,” Phinn said with a sigh of relief.

  There it was indeed. The strange edifice was constructed of stone, which had been made to look old. Thick branches of wisteria wound around the pillars. A dome roof provided shelter from the sun. She would need neither parasol nor bonnet.

  A footman had come in advance to set up a table and chairs. After helping her alight from the carriage, Phinn carried the picnic basket that had been secured to the back of the carriage.

  “Is that heavy? It seems heavy,” Olivia said. The hamper was enormous. He must have packed a feast, which was just as well since she was a bit hungry. And as part of her quest to break all the rules of ladylike behavior, she had quite enjoyed indulging at mealtimes. Especially when it was likely her last supper.

  “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.

&nbs
p; 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.”