Potent Charms (2 page)

The wind gusted, lifting the heavy wool of Lord
Badrick's cloak. He shifted his weight from leg to leg, narrowing his eyes to reexamine the woman before him. "The
name means little to me."

"Promising wealth and marriage, you seduced my Rosala. Without remorse, you discarded her to marry your
noble lady. In shame, Rosala took her life. Now, she lies
beneath the cold ground. You will pay."

"Wait a bloody minute"

"Ay, Romale, ay Chavale, sa lumiake Roma" The gypsy's
voice rose in volume as she chanted the ancient curse. Ake
vryama. Vi"

"For God's sake, speak English."

"God cannot help you now. Already, the crows gather,
awaiting the deaths that shall follow."

"Cease this trickery. I will not give you a farthing."

"You think money can buy my forgiveness?" The gypsy
spat on the ground before her. "Foolish man. Your title,
your power and your threats mean nothing to me. Only
tragedy will accompany your wealth." She pointed a tangled root at the duke while her left hand clutched a gold
amulet around her neck. "For generations to come, the
sons of your house will beget sons. Each son will marry
noble ladies and each marriage will end in loneliness, misery and death as long as the Romany travel the pathways of
this land."

An eerie cackling tumbled from the gypsy's mouth,
taunting Badrick to step closer. She raised her gnarled fingers to the skies. "I call my curse from the heavens. May it
canter hot on your heels to hell."

A bolt of lightning split the tree beside the woman.
When the smoke cleared, only a blue-black braid of hair
laced with colored ribbons and gold coins atop a tattered
scrap of red linen remained.

London, 1817

Couples twirled on the white marble floor, a stark backdrop for the rainbow of colored gowns that filled the long,
narrow ballroom. Yet, regardless of the festive air, Phoebe
Rafferty stood amidst three hundred people and felt more
alone than she'd ever thought possible. After one week, she
hated England and British formality. She despised the task
of finding a husband even more.

The small orchestra played a country dance. Phoebe
tapped her satin-colored toes to the rhythm of the music,
fighting the urge to clap like she would have back in Georgia. Instead, she fisted her hand in the soft folds of her
gown and cursed her fate.

The shrill whisper of her aunt's voice invaded Phoebe's
dreary thoughts. "Yes, Auntie?" she asked.

Lady Hildegard Goodliffe shrugged her twiglike shoulders
and shook her head. "Phoebe, do stop fidgeting. Everyone will wonder if fleas infest your wardrobe, such as it is, or if
you simply lack the ability to sit still."

Charity, Phoebe's cousin, giggled behind her fan. The
feathered wrens perched in her mud-colored hair bobbed
dangerously from side to side until one toppled to the floor.
Whyever anyone would purposely choose to wear a stuffed
bird in her hair escaped Phoebe. Stifling the urge to ask just
that, she gritted her teeth. In a small act of defiance, she
straightened her spine and thrust her bosom out further
than Aunt Hildegard preferred. She peeked at her new
guardian and saw what she saw every day. Superiority and
disapproval.

"Remember your purpose, girl. This quest bears substantial difficulties as it is."

Phoebe erased all expression from her face and fixed her
eyes on the sputtering candles of one of the three massive
chandeliers that hung from the domed ceiling. Lands alive,
she had very little time. If she did not find a husband, her
mother's fortune by order of her will would be forfeit.

"The fact that you offer a title and an estate as your
dowry will appeal to any number of gentlemen, regardless
of your shortcomings. However, I refuse to allow this task
to become an embarrassment to me, or my daughter. I suffered enough when my sister eloped to the colonies with
your father. He was a poor Irish nobleman with no future
and even less common sense. You are most fortunate that
my father left you Marsden Manor. Are you listening,
young lady?" With her customary scowl plastered on her
face, Hildegard swatted the inside of Phoebe's wrist with
lethal accuracy. "Pay attention. We have visitors."

Phoebe glanced where directed, saw three men advancing and fought the overwhelming urge to turn tail and hide.
In the lead was Sir Lemmer, a handsome enough man,
though he tended to make strange noises with his teeth. Sir
Milton, a pompous bore who resembled a green bean with a tuft of blond hair, strutted on Lemmer's heels. The Honorable Ellwood followed. He wore painfully tight chartreuse breeches, a white shirt with a ridiculously tied cravat
and a green paisley jacket. Being prone to accidents, he
nearly collided with a servant.

God's whiskers, not again. She'd already spent the better part of last evening playing whist with the three men.
The cards had offered livelier conversation.

"Remember, girls, do not acknowledge their presence
until I say. Show an appropriate amount of interest when I
do. Smile."

Phoebe barely suppressed a groan. According to Aunt
Hildegard, all three men possessed the qualities needed for
viable suitors. They were second sons with no title, older
than twenty but younger than sixty and virtually oozed
aristocratic charm. She shuddered. To think, one of these
men could possibly be her future husband. Phoebe wanted
a love match. She'd have better luck pulling a hair from a
bald man. With that thought, she did groan. Out loud.

"Phoebe," Hildegard snapped. "Stop making those
hideous noises. People will believe you prone to stomach
ailments. Charity, do try to maintain a normal conversation
without any mishaps."

Looking as though she might swoon with anticipation,
Charity nodded. The girl welcomed any and all suitors,
Phoebe thought jealously. Since it was her first season, if
Charity failed to make a match, she could wait another
year.

Phoebe wanted to stomp her feet and scream. At ten and
eight, she deserved the same opportunity. Unfortunately,
she had only six weeks to complete the task.

Hildegard continued to lecture from the side of her
mouth. "You may dance two country dances with each. I
forbid you to waltz. And Phoebe, curb your tongue. Men have little tolerance for women with bold notions, and
even less for those inclined to speaking their mind. Put
your past behind you. Remember, you now reside in England."

However could she possibly forget? Hildegard reminded
her daily. Phoebe opened her eyes to find Sir Lemmer at
her side, the oppressive scent of cedar emanating from his
clothes. Sir Ellwood, smiling with dimpled cheeks, circled
once, twice, then settled beside Charity, who wore the
same besotted expression as he did. Lord Milton satisfied
himself with the empty spot on Phoebe's other side.
Phoebe sighed.

The darkness fitted Stephen Lambert, Duke of Badrick's
mood. As a favor to his friends, he had promised to attend
this damnable anniversary ball hosted by Elizabeth's
uncle. And he regretted it. He'd seen the sidelong glances
and heard the whispers when he'd entered the ballroom. A
cursed title proved tempting fodder for the gossipmongers
of the Ton.

He calculated he had another hour of this fustian nonsense before he could bid Lord Wyman and Winston and
Elizabeth good night. Until then, this empty room, a snifter
of brandy and a cigar appeased him.

Sitting on a red velvet chaise, Stephen absently gazed
about Lord Wyman's private study. Four crystal wall lamps
beside the door and a candelabrum on a table shed enough
light to distinguish bits and pieces of his newfound sanctuary. Shelves of books lined the left wall near an alcove
concealed by a wooden screen. Erotic paintings hung on
the other two walls and a white marble statuary of women
in various stages of undress sat on pedestals hidden in the
shadows near the draped windows. Scanning Lord
Wyman's newest acquisition, an ebony nude astride a dragon, Stephen wondered what the London matrons
would say if they knew of Wyman's collection and the private parties held in this very room.

The brass doorknob to the study turned. Irked by what
he considered an invasion of his privacy, Stephen stood
and slid into the dark alcove. He felt no inclination for
small talk. With any luck, the intruder would realize that
this was not one of the party rooms and leave quickly. On
the other hand, someone may have come to utilize the very
chaise he'd just left. Dash it all, how bloody inconvenient.

Behind the screen, he peeked through the small heartshaped hole near the top as the mahogany door swung
open.

A fey-looking creature darted inside, slammed the door
and collapsed against the solid barrier as if the dark room
meant salvation. With a mass of copper curls framing delicate eyebrows against a background of ivory porcelain
skin, the little beauty was a study in contrasts. A simple
ribbon confined the curls to the top of her head, exposing a
slender neck. A hint of peach color touched her lips and
cheeks. She appeared fragile and delicate, but the thrust of
her chin hinted at an inner determination. Her breasts were
delightfully full, pushed up as they were in her gown. Their
rising and falling with her breath was tantalizing.

Then she smiled. Stephen was accustomed to lust, but
the response of his body, his powerful impulse to touch
her, surprised him. But damn, this woman possessed a luscious little body that begged for a man's hand.

While he glanced to the study door, expecting her companion to follow for surely she awaited one she
inspected her surroundings. She tiptoed to a painting and
gasped at its risque nature. Then another. And another.
When she reached the fourth picture, she tilted her head
almost upside down. "Well, I never."

Suddenly, he desperately wanted to know the color of her eyes. Captivated by her indignation and unable to
remain hidden another moment, Stephen seized the opportunity. "I certainly hope not. Unless, of course, sexual
experiences in aberrant surroundings appeal to you."

The girl whipped about, her peach silk gown flaring like
a midshipman's bell. She frantically searched the corners
of the room. Then, irritation, of all things, flitted across her
face. "How dare you not announce your presence, whoever
you are."

"What do you think I just did?" Color rose on her
cheeks, matching the flaming curls on her head. She was
really quite lovely.

"Are you a thief?" she queried while edging toward the
door.

"Hardly."

"I know for a fact you're not Lord Wyman. Why are you
hiding in his house?"

Not the typical female, Stephen thought. Damn pawky,
in fact. He could see now, that her eyes were blue or possibly green.

"Who says I'm hiding? You disturbed my privacy."

"A mishap easily corrected." She spun on her heels to
leave.

"Wait. There's no need to hurry off." His voice sounded
almost peevish, but he didn't want the girl to flee. At least
not until he discovered her name or her purpose. Her companion had yet to appear and his mind whirled with the
possibility that he could yet salvage something from this
abominable evening after all. "Were you going somewhere
in particular?"

She peered over her shoulder, her eyes narrow slits of
speculation. "I was looking for the library. I figure I took a
wrong turn." With a quick glimpse about the room, she
added, "At least I hope I took a wrong turn."

"Are you meeting someone?"

"Whatever made you think that?"

"Feel free to take another look around. This is not the
usual place for a lady to visit. Especially alone and without
good reason."

That certainly garnered a reaction. She reversed her
position and crossed her arms, which accented the fullness
of her breasts. She thrust her lower lip out, a delightful lip,
he thought, lush, full. Perfect for a man's kisses.

Obviously insulted, the girl marched forward several
steps and tapped her left foot in agitation. Her eyes flashed
with anger. They were beautiful, emerald green, like the
Lincolnshire meadows in spring. A trifle amused yet more
intrigued, Stephen wondered if she showed the same
amount of passion in bed.

"Goodness gracious, as I said a moment ago, I got lost."
She spoke with a distinct bite to each word, her irritation
emphasizing the silky drawl of her voice that identified her
as a foreigner.

The voice alone made him think irrational thoughts. She
sounded like an outraged virgin, but Stephen knew better.
No proper young lady regardless of her heritage-wandered about, by herself, in the private quarters of a man's
home. Suddenly, the evening appeared quite promising. He
and his mistress had parted ways ages ago and he'd never
replaced her. Perhaps the time had come.

"You don't believe me?" Phoebe asked, squinting at the
alcove's mysterious occupant. "I find your insinuations
insulting. I'm also tired of explaining myself to someone
who skulks in dark corners."