Wallflower Gone Wild (18 page)

Chapter 14

The only thing one can politely say about the wedding of Lady Olivia Archer and Lord Radcliffe is that it happened. It was quite uncertain for a moment.

—
“
M
ISS
H
ARLOW’S
M
ARRIAGE IN
H
IGH
L
IFE,”
T
HE
L
ONDON
W
EEKLY

A
t eleven o’clock that morning it was official. She was now Lady Radcliffe. Mrs. Mad Baron. The fate she had feared and protested so vehemently was now hers.

During the small, intimate ceremony in the drawing room, she had stumbled over the words “submit” and “obey.” The vicar didn’t seem to mind. Neither did her parents. And Phinn? His expression was inscrutable. There was just that scar, which was so menacing. And the firm line of his mouth. And those green eyes of his she couldn’t bear to gaze into.

Make your own rules,
her midnight rescuer had said. Perhaps she’d try that tomorrow. Today, she felt too much all at once—sadness that
this
was her wedding day instead of the joyful occasion she had long dreamt of; regret that she hadn’t met that man from the garden sooner, for he seemed to understand her; and fear for the future.

For what would tonight would bring? And every night ever after? Every time she considered it, her corset felt far too confining. She couldn’t breathe. Would the kissing be rough and unyielding, as with Brendon (Brandon?). Or would it be the perfect slow dance, as with her Mysterious Midnight Rescuer? Would the Mad Baron even kiss her at all?

She fully expected to be whisked away to Yorkshire immediately after the wedding breakfast. Thus, she was confused when the carriage rolled to a stop but a few moments later in front of Mivart’s Hotel on Brook Street in Mayfair.

“We’re here,” Phinn said.

“A hotel?” she inquired, lifting her gaze to his, surprised. “I thought we would travel to your estate and live there.”

“We might do that one day,” he said. “But I have business in London and I thought you might prefer to be near your friends while we are still getting to know each other. I did not wish to rent a house without consulting you first.”

At this unexpected reprieve, Olivia felt the tightness in her chest ease. Her mad wandering of his remote estate would wait. She would have the comfort of her friends in these early days of her marriage.

Perhaps . . .

Phinn had more to say, “That is, if you are amenable. If there is something you would prefer, please tell me.”

Perhaps he wasn’t as horrid and unfeeling as she had feared.

For the first time all day, she managed a full breath. Perhaps she would not be so lonely after all. Perhaps he was not overbearing and commanding all the time. Perhaps he would consider her wishes. In this instance, he had somehow managed to just
know
what she wanted.

Like the man in the garden. He had understood her, even when she was least deserving of it. If only she’d found him sooner. If only she hadn’t lost him.

She hadn’t had a clue how to find him, though Lord knew she’d wracked her brain over the matter ever since. Her mother hadn’t given her a moment to herself in which she might find him—had she even known where to look.

Thus, she was here now—the grandly decorated lobby of Mivart’s Hotel—on the arm of her husband. Well-dressed men and women lounged in settees, many holding conversations in foreign languages.

They were shown to a beautiful suite of rooms, with two bedchambers adjoining a large drawing room that was decorated in soothing shades of pale blue and green. Large windows overlooked Brooke Street.

Olivia strolled around the room taking in all the fine furnishings and paintings. Phinn was either beggaring them with every night spent in this suite—or he was rich indeed. She had never paused to consider it. She discreetly cast glances his way, noting the calm and efficient manner with which he dealt with the servants. What else did she not know about him?

“Will this do?” Phinn asked, coming to stand beside her, referring go the suite. He clasped his hands behind his back. She was suddenly aware of how tall he stood. How broad his chest. How strong he was. For once, she thought not of how he might overpower her, but how she might curl up in his arms seeking comfort.

“It’s lovely,” she said, offering him a shy smile. “Did you see your friend Lord Rogan has left us a bottle of champagne?” She had noticed it during her perusal of the room. “That’s kind of him.”

Not that she was quite in the mood for champagne after the Cyprian ball. Or that night at Almack’s. Now that she was making her own rules, she rather thought she wouldn’t drink to excess.

“Meddlesome, more like it,” Phinn replied dryly. He glanced about the room with narrowed eyes, as if searching for more “gifts” or “meddling.”

“I’m not quite sure I can make sense of the note he left, though,” Olivia said, plucking the small vellum card.

“What does it say?” Phinn asked, standing close behind her and reading over her shoulder. With him so near, she could not concentrate on deciphering Rogan’s handwriting. Instead, she puzzled over the urge to lean back against his chest and into his embrace. It had been so lovely and comforting when the good man from the garden had held her. Would it be the same with Phinn?

“Oh, that bastard,” Phinn swore.

“What is it?” Olivia asked, turning to face him, and now even more intrigued.

“Nothing,” he said, shoving the card in his pocket. “Let me show you to your rooms.” He clasped her hand and led her through a set of double doors.

Her bedchamber was beautiful. The spacious room also had large windows, pale butter yellow walls, a small furniture set before the fireplace, and a fine four-poster bed. Upon which were strewn an assortment of books and periodicals. While Phinn gave directions to the maid about her luggage, Olivia curiously picked up one of the periodicals.

The first thing she noticed were the pictures. Were these fashion periodicals? If so, they were a lovely gift. She’d happily spend her first day of married life in this bed, perusing the latest fashions, deciding which to buy now that she didn’t need her mother’s approval.

But upon closer look, Olivia noticed that the women in the pictures were not wearing clothes. In fact, neither were the gentlemen. What on earth was
this?
She peered even closer. What
strange
activities were they engaged in?

The men and women were stretched out on the bed with their limbs tangled together . . . and bent over writing desks . . . and bent over settees. It started to dawn on Olivia that these were depictions of The Act.

She tilted her head and turned the page. So that’s what was under the fig leaf on the statues at the British Museum.

She glanced over at Phinn. Did he mean for them to do all these things? Her mind immediately conjured up an image of them in such positions. A man kneeling before a woman who sat on a chair with her legs spread to an unladylike degree. A woman straddling a naked man lying on a mattress. A woman’s mouth on a man’s— She quickly shut the publication, cheeks burning.

She felt an unsettling feeling in her belly and a flush of heat spreading throughout her limbs. It wasn’t unlike the sensation she’d experienced when she’d kissed her Mysterious Midnight Rescuer. Was it the pictures themselves or her imagination picturing she and Phinn in such states? Did he mean for them to do all these things?

“What are these?” she asked, gesturing at the array of publications. Her voice sounded odd to her ears. Goodness, would he notice?

“Let me see,” he said, sounding as curious as she. Olivia handed him the one she’d been looking at and picked up another, a book, entitled
50 Ways to Sin
.

She gasped when Phinn immediately snatched it out of her hands.

Instead she picked up another.

“Are these things you wish us to do? Are these instructional?” she inquired. Was he concerned that she wouldn’t know anything? She was supposed to be innocent, wasn’t she? Was this a new ladylike art that she was now to perfect, after careful research and daily practice? Her mother had just said,
Ladies lie still and oblige their husbands.

Olivia had questions. Phinn did not have answers.

“No. Just never mind,” he said in a rush, turning very red. “You shouldn’t see these.”

“Because if this is depicting what I think it is . . .” Olivia said, frowning, unsure how to finish the thought. “My mother said I had to lie very still. But she didn’t mention lying still over a desk while . . .”

She wasn’t quite sure what to make of the strange sensations the pictures afforded or how to interpret Phinn’s clenched jaw and darkened eyes.

“Say no more, I beg of you,” he said. He sounded, oddly, as if he were being strangled. Then he rushed to gather up all the publications by the armful, but some kept slipping out and falling. As he tried to catch them, more fell to the floor. Olivia bent to help retrieve them. Their heads collided in the process.

“Oh!” she gasped, rubbing her cheek just below her eye, where it had connected solidly with his forehead.

“Are you all right?” Phinn asked, dropping them all to the ground to reach out to her, concerned. He tenderly touched the spot where they’d hit. She winced—but not from his touch.

“I’m fine. Are you?”

“Yes,” he said, rubbing his own forehead. That’s when she noticed the bruises on his swollen knuckles. “What happened to your hands?”

“Nothing,” he said, even though something had obviously happened. He rushed on, collecting all the scandalous materials. She noticed
50 Ways to Sin,
again, and the title
Wicked Wanton Women
. One book fell open to a page of illustrations. Upon closer inspection, her mouth dropped open in shock as she took in prints of women with their skirts pulled up, exposing everything. Gentlemen, also in a state of undress, clasped and fondled the women.

“Are these yours?” she ventured.

“These are definitely not mine,” he said vehemently. “They belong to a friend.”

“A friend?” she asked, alarmed. “What kind of friend?”

Did he have a mistress already? What did she care, anyway? He could at least be discreet about it on their wedding night.

“Rogan. This is all Rogan’s doing,” Phinn said tightly. “And it’ll be the last time he meddles . . .” His voice was tight. His jaw was clenched. There was a faraway look in his eyes that frightened her.

“Phinn,” she said softly.

“I apologize,” he said stiffly. Then he fixed his gaze upon her face and took controlled and measured breaths, as if trying to restrain his temper. “Perhaps you’d like to lie down.” When she must have widened her eyes in alarm, he hastily added, “To rest! Just to rest. I have to go out for a moment.”

“Where? And when will you be back?”

“Just stay here,” he said sharply. So sharply that she was taken aback. In that moment she realized that until this moment Phinn had never spoken harshly to her.

Stay here, wife. Wait.

She’d been married for less than a day and it was already everything she’d been afraid of.

P
hinn didn’t go very far because apparently Lord Rogan couldn’t leave well enough alone. She was alerted to his arrival by Phinn’s enraged bellowing.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Olivia looked up from studying the one book that had slipped under the bed and that Phinn had failed to collect. She stuffed it under the pillow, opened the door just a crack and peered out.

“Just on my way to my club,” Rogan said jovially, as if oblivious to Phinn’s rage. “Thought I’d see how things were faring.”

“Has it never occurred to you to leave a man and his bride alone on their wedding night?”

“Found the champagne, did you?” Rogan asked. Then, dropping his voice, “And the other things . . .”

Phinn paused in his furious pacing to yell, “What the hell were you thinking, Rogan?”

“I thought I’d be helpful,” Rogan said, sounding remarkably impervious to Phinn’s temper. She wasn’t the object of it, yet still her heart raced as she stood hidden behind a lockable a door. How the man could stand there immune to Phinn’s rage was mystifying. He was either incredibly brave or very daft. Or he knew that Phinn was all bark and no bite, though the bruises on his fist suggested otherwise.

“You thought you’d help by terrifying her?”

“It’s supposed to be inspiring. Stimulating, if you will,” Rogan said, rocking back on his heels.

“Not to virgins.” Phinn bit out the words.

“And their prude husbands.” Rogan’s jest fell flat.

“Oh, that is
not
true,” Phinn raged, which Olivia found immensely intriguing. Of course he’d been with other women. He’d been married. Had they done the things in the pictures? She wasn’t quite sure how she felt about that. “What is true is that you have overstepped. You’ve gone too far this time, Rogan. I don’t know what’s worse—that you left such offensive materials in my wife’s chamber or that you’ve returned to see how we’ve fared.”

“Is that the thanks I get for all the advice I’ve given you?” Rogan replied, wounded. “The advice, which I might point out, has helped you land the girl.”

“There are so many things wrong with that statement I don’t even know where to begin.” Olivia watched through a crack in the door as Phinn pushed his fingers through his hair, frustrated. “Your advice was terrible.”

“What, showing her how strong you are?” Rogan asked.

“Not exactly the most brilliant idea when she thinks I’m a murderer,” Phinn said. And Olivia remembered that strange comment about “feats of strength
.
” And her fear of being carried off by him. “I’m not sure what’s worse: that or your suggestion that I impress upon her how large and remote my estate is.”

“How was I to know all the young chits were still gossiping about that?” Rogan challenged.

“And all those stupid lines!” Phinn went on. “Is your father a thief? Stars in your eyes? My God, what an ass I’ve made of myself at your direction!”