Wallflower Gone Wild by Maya Rodale

Olivia’s hand in marriage.
    “Allow me to escort you,” he said firmly.
    She thought about refusing—he could see it in her eyes—but smiled slightly and murmured, “Of course.”
    O livia reluctantly accepted the Mad Baron’s offer for a turn about the ballroom, if only because it seemed preferable to the less sparsely populated terrace and practically desolate garden.
    They linked arms, and she rested her fingertips lightly on his forearm. It was firm. Muscled. She could feel it through the gloves and his jacket. She thought he just mucked around with sciencey things. But now she found herself curious . . .
    Also curious: everyone else in the ballroom.
    They were staring again. Everyone. All the lords and ladies invited to the ball were taking a long look at the shocking sight of London’s Least Likely to Cause a Scandal arm in arm with a man so scandalous he hadn’t been in town for the past six years.
    She glanced up at him. Phinn . He didn’t seem bothered in the slightest by all the stares. How could he do that? Was he so unfeeling that he cared not what the ton thought of him? Or like her, had he perfected the demeanor of one who wasn’t bothered in the slightest? What if they were alike in some way?
    He glanced down at her. Caught her eye. She looked away with an embarrassed blush.
    “I’ve heard you have many hobbies,” he said. “Tell me about them?”
    Olivia felt a flush of anger. I’ve heard about your hobbies. Did they tell him of her reputation for speaking endlessly about the dullest subjects imaginable? Was he bamming her? But another sidelong glance at the Mad Baron told her he was completely earnest.
    She spied an opportunity to utilize a tried and true method for repelling men.
    “Oh, I enjoy the usual activities for ladies,” Olivia said. In other words, he could find another woman with the same hobbies. “I embroider, play the pianoforte, and paint watercolors.”
    She peered up at him, expecting to see his eyes glaze over and the vague expression of polite disinterest. But no.
    “What do you paint?” he asked.
    “Still lifes, mainly. An endless combination of flowers, fruits, and decorative home items,” she said, sounding bored. Indeed, she had long ago tired of her inanimate watercolor subjects. “However, I would like to paint portraits of the male nude.”
    Beside her, the Mad Baron started coughing, and Olivia didn’t even try to restrain her smile. Lud, it felt good to finally say that aloud!
    “I’m sorry, my lord. Have I shocked you?” she asked ever-so-sweetly.
    “I thought you would say landscapes,” he said in a strained voice.
    “I suppose you’re going to tell me the landscapes in Yorkshire are beautiful and perfect for painting.”
    “Yes,” he said simply. “I have no skill at painting, but I appreciate the talent in others.”
    “Well, I’m sure if you practiced every Monday and Thursday for two hours since the age of six, you’d excel at it as well,” Olivia replied dryly.
    “Perhaps that’s why I’m good at mechanical drawings,” Phinn said, not bothered by her dry retort. “I’ve been working on them since I was young and it still occupies much of my time.”
    Olivia was reminded of a line from the broadside. The Mad Baron would, apparently, spend days and weeks in a barn on his property, constructing strange machines and instruments of torture.
    “What things do you build?” she ventured, curious as to how he would explain building dangerous and deviant machines.
    “Currently, I’m assisting the Duke of Ashbrooke in constructing the Difference Engine he designed. Should we be successful, this machine will be revolutionary.”
    “That must keep you very busy.” Honestly, she couldn’t believe that Emma and her husband had a hand in bringing this dangerous man to town. Perhaps he would be too busy to court her and she might somehow find another man to elope with.
    “Yes. But you have your own interests to keep you occupied,” he