Potent Charms (19 page)

"Well, this ain't how things are going to be while I'm
here," Dee pronounced as she set down her bag. She drew
her damp cape from her shoulders, tossing it over the arm
of a wooden chair which, due to a missing leg, was balanced on a brick. "I'm going to find the kitchen and make us all a pot of tea and try to find somethin' to settle that
poor girl's stomach." Dee turned to Stephen. "And don't
you, Mr. Duke, be getting any ideas. I won't be far." She
muttered this and that as she wandered toward the end of
the long, dim hallway.

Phoebe watched Stephen scowl as he watched Dee disappear from sight. She ignored the desire to soothe his
ducal sensibilities over her servant's brusque approach.
She had enough to worry about. Freeing her head from her
hood, she fought the urge to bury her face in her hands.
Tears would accomplish nothing. "I don't understand any
of this. However could this happen? Whoever would have
allowed it to happen?"

"We'll solve that puzzle in short order." He moved close
enough to tug on a lock of hair curling about her face.
"Best to think of something else right now. You seem to be
rather wet. Again." Using the knuckle of his finger, he
tipped her chin. "All last night while I tried to sleep, I kept
remembering a mere wall separated us."

The specks of gold in his dark eyes blazed with possibility. He obviously wasn't above coercion. She wanted nothing more than to curl into his arms and accept the solace
and anything else he offered. Before temptation overwhelmed her good sense, she forced herself to step back
and hang her cape on the lone peg of an oak coatrack, noting the trembling of her hand. "We had best find someplace
other than this drafty hallway, else Dee will be wondering
what we've being doing all this time."

"Dare we venture further? Dee might never find us." He
waggled his eyebrows. "Then again, that idea has definite
possibilities"

"Not likely. Nanny Dee is very resourceful."

"Trust me, darling. I do not underestimate your companion. It's evident she takes her job as chaperone quite seriously." His expression grew fierce, his forehead furrowed with wrinkles and his chin lifted a notch. "She has no
regard for my title or my preferences. Something to which
I must say I'm not accustomed. What good is a dukedom if
it earns you no respect? For two days, other than an occasional Mr. Duke,' she's done nothing but glare through me
as though she's reading my very thoughts. Last night,
before bed, she muttered strange words at my back. I
thought I'd surely wake missing a toe or another essential
part of my anatomy."

"That's absurd. She always mutters."

"Easy for you to say. She likes you."

The twinkle in his eyes caught her attention. The fox
was teasing her. She finally laughed. "You're trying to distract me."

Grinning, the humor no longer concealed beneath an
austere expression, he shrugged one shoulder. He crossed
to the bannister, eyed it suspiciously, then placed his sodden garments on the post. "You had that wounded look in
your eyes once again. It disturbs me. I promise, Phoebe, I
will get to the bottom of this."

"Thank you. You know, Dee actually likes you."

"God forbid I should ever become her enemy. Come
along." Grasping her hand, his thumb encircling her palm,
he followed in Dee's path.

They passed an arched doorway and peered inside to
find a dusty mahogany table large enough to accommodate
at least thirty people. Only four chairs surrounded it. After
three additional rooms, all noticeably devoid of furniture,
they found what they considered a haven: the library.
Books lined the shelves and the room boasted three chairs,
a chaise and a game table. A small desk stood in the corner.
A massive hearth with a marble mantel occupied most of
the opposite wall. Within minutes, two lamps glowed, a
fire crackled and Phoebe and Stephen sipped what Phoebe
considered a rather nice brandy. Stephen fiddled with the fire while Phoebe browsed through the papers littering the
desk. Nothing gave any indication to the why or wherefore
of the estate's dismal condition.

Stephen brushed the dust from his knees and fingered
the pages of a book left on the floor. "Do you expect your
husband to be a literary man?"

Growing accustomed to his game of question and
answer, which usually served his own purpose in some
way, Phoebe answered without thought. She was also
learning a great deal about Stephen. "It would please me if
he read, yes."

"Hmmm. Many men prefer dim-witted, uneducated
women, wives whose sole aim in life is to please their husbands, in all ways, Phoebe ways that have nothing to do
with reading, embroidery or the running of a household.
Would you like to know some of the manners in which a
man expects to be indulged?"

His voice had dropped to a provocative whisper, purposely slow and silky, laced with the promise of unspoken
things she had yet to experience, she was sure. "I believe,
sir, this topic is not at all appropriate."

"But a woman such as yourself might benefit from
knowing her husband's expectations," said Stephen. He
knew Phoebe's passion firsthand. He hoped she was curious as well. She needed to realize the fire that lay between
them, not yet fully explored, was missing in most relationships.

Her mind needed to know what her body already recognized. She wanted him. He felt it in her response every
time he took her into his arms, the manner in which her
eyes turned a darker shade of green when she sensed his
arousal, every time she pressed herself closer to absorb his
heat. Damn if he'd share that with another man. He fixed
his eyes on the book, which rested on his leg as he knelt by
the fireplace.

"Based on some silly notion that a true lady dislikes passion, some men prefer a quick tumble while practically
fully clothed in the dark, their only purpose to gain an heir.
Likely they have a mistress to satisfy their other needs." He
paused for effect. "But some men believe pleasure essential to lovemaking, whether married or with a mistress."

"Like yourself, I imagine."

"Absolutely. I believe immensely in giving pleasure as
well as receiving. I like a room shadowed but not dark so
touch can be seen as well as felt and sighs can be observed
as well as heard." He noted the rosy color creeping up her
neck and the tension in her hands as she gripped the stem
of her glass. Her eyes flashed with an awakened awareness
he knew he had taught her. His hands slid over the soft
leather of the book, stroking the binding from end to end,
and damn if his little game wasn't affecting him as well.

However uncomfortable, he was compelled to continue.
Crossing to her side, he turned her palm upside down and
lightly traced the length of each of her fingers. "Did you
know there are books that describe, in great detail, the
methods for men and women to pleasure one another?
Where to touch? How to touch?" Lifting her hand to his
lips, he scraped his teeth across the soft pad of flesh near
her thumb.

"Really?" Phoebe's voice came out as a squeak, no
small wonder considering the provocative images that
leaped into her mind. They were a vivid combination of
her own imagination, her newly awakened desire, her precious encounters with Stephen, and they were not at all
appropriate. But she could not stop them. Judging from the
jaunty tilt of his mustache, he knew exactly how this conversation was affecting her. The scamp.

Well, she wasn't above such manipulations herself. Two
could play at this game. She pulled her hand from his,
balling it into a tight fist to stop the disturbing sensations. "May a wife demand pleasure? I mean, it seems only fair.
If her husband neglects his duty to her then she should be
free to tell him what she needs, where she likes to be
touched, how she wants to be touched."

"Such women are rare indeed," Stephen said, his voice
heavy and a touch ragged.

"Then she would be all the more appreciated by her husband."

When she referred to a husband once again, he dragged
his fingers across his mustache. "Or her protector."

Before he could utter his next thought, a short, round
man as old as dirt, dressed in brown woolen breeches and a
long, dark coat, wobbled into the room. A large oilskin hat
covered his head, water dripping from its brim. He'd obviously been outdoors. A black patch covered one eye.

He gazed nervously from Phoebe to Stephen to the corners of the room, as if searching for someone or something. Wheezing, he said, "Pardon me, but might you be
the American?"

Before she nodded, Phoebe looked over her shoulder,
half-expecting someone to be there. "Yes. I'm Miss Rafferty. You must be Mr. Hampson."

"Wibolt, miss." He wheezed again then glanced nervously toward Stephen. "We wasn't expecting you today,
nor did we expect company with you."

"Let me introduce my acquaintance, the Duke of
Badrick."

Stephen stood, his ducal air sliding on like a second
skin. "Remove your hat, for heaven's sake. Miss Rafferty
also brought a companion and two friends. Is that a problem?"

Wibolt's face turned a deeper shade of red. He removed
his hat to reveal grey bushy eyebrows and a wild cap of
matching curls. With his grip tight about his hat, he shuf fled his feet from side to side. In between puffs of air, he
said, "No, sir. I'll have the other rooms prepared."

"While you're at it, see to bathwater and rouse a cook."
Stephen leaned forward, his hand outstretched. "Are you
all right?"

In between a hacking cough and another raspy bit of
breathing, Wibolt managed to say, "I was running, you see.
'Twill be fine shortly, your grace, but I thank you for asking."

Stephen didn't look convinced. In fact, Phoebe thought
he was preparing himself to catch Wibolt should he collapse. Beneath Stephen's contrary facade lay a kind man.
She said, "My chaperone is in the kitchen as we speak. I
think we shall eat here since this seems to be the one room
with suitable furnishings."

"That'll be fine, miss. I can have Mary Potter come over
to help, but..." He swayed to the side. "Well," he
wheezed, a hollow hissing sound. "It's only..."

Stephen clasped the man by his elbow and lowered him
into the nearby chair. "Spit it out, man."

"Hampson will be needing funds for pay and likely Mrs.
Potter won't stay the night due..." Wibolt glanced
between the doorway and Phoebe several times.

"Due to?" she prompted, hoping he'd manage to finish
his sentence before he fainted.

"Due to the ghost," he whispered.

Phoebe gasped, the brandy stinging her throat, which
ignited a fit of coughing. She managed to sputter, "Ghost?"

"Aye, milady." The poor man glanced to the doorway one last time, then to the tops of his sodden boots. He
appeared as though he might tie his hat in knots while trying to decide something of great importance. He squeezed
a deep breath of air into his lungs, looked up and blurted
out, "Lord Marsden, your grandfather. We can't keep decent help. Augustus scares them all away."

"Oh, for the love of Mary," Stephen snapped. "You don't
expect us to believe that pile of rubbish, do you?"

"Sir, it's the truth. If you stay here long enough, you'll
see what I mean."

"Enough. We'll discuss Miss Rafferty's ancestor another
time."

Phoebe finally managed to find her voice. "Are you
telling me there is no money in the estate account?"

"Well, " Wibolt cleared his throat, then muttered,
"Thank heavens."

Phoebe followed Wibolt's gaze to the doorway, afraid of
what she'd see, and then she couldn't believe her eyes. If
Wibolt seemed as old as dirt, then the man who'd just
arrived was older still. Above the starched collar, wrinkles
climbed up his neck to the top of his bald head. Although
his shoulders stooped a bit, his upright posture exhibited
years of service. His eyes seemed kind, alert and intelligent, assessing the situation quickly and thoroughly. He
sent a searching look to Wibolt, who shook his head. This
had to be Hampson.

"In truth, your Lordship, Marsden Manor is extremely
low on funds at the moment," the newcomer announced.

Leaning his hip on the edge of the desk, Stephen surveyed the newcomer. "Hampson, I presume?"

"At your service, sir." He nodded to Phoebe. "Welcome
to Marsden Manor, Miss Rafferty."

Speechless once again, she only nodded.

Wibolt pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and
dabbed at his brow. He inhaled deeply while his left eye
twitched. The man looked about to faint.

Stephen held up his hand. "Do not start wheezing again,
Wibolt. In fact, you can see to our rooms. Lady Pay ley is a
bit under the weather. She and her husband are upstairs somewhere. Please see them settled. Hampson, go to the
kitchen and bring Miss Rafferty's companion here. We
shall decide the sleeping arrangements for the night."

"Aye, yer lordship." Hampson pivoted to leave. Wibolt,
looking thoroughly relieved, quickly hobbled behind.

Phoebe rose from her chair and moved to the front of the
desk, taking a spot beside Stephen. Curiosity was gnawing
away at her patience. "Wait a moment. Hampson, whatever
happened here?"

"I'll handle this." Stephen moved toward the servant.
"We will explore the deplorable affairs of this estate in
great detail and decide what has to be done, but tomorrow
will be soon enough."

"Excuse me," Phoebe interjected.

"Hold a moment, Phoebe. Miss Rafferty will want to
review all the ledgers first. I'd say you have a great deal to
explain. For now, hire whatever help you need. I personally
guarantee any wages."

With his dismissal, Hampson looked one last time at
Phoebe with such hope, such trust, that she wondered if
she'd imagined it. Massaging the drumming in her head,
she turned on Stephen and advanced like a rabid dog. She
tapped his shirtfront with her finger. "If you've a mind to
take my life over, you might ask first. I happened to be
standing right here in this same little old room, or were you
so busy running my affairs you simply forgot I existed?
What right do you have to hire more staff? And what about
Wibolt and Hampson? Aren't you a tad bit curious about
my servants? And what if there is a ghost not that I
believe my grandfather's eavesdropping or such, but obviously something peculiar is going on. I might have had a
question or two."