Potent Charms (3 page)

"I don't skulk."

"Really? Besides bad manners, whatever do you call it
when someone refuses to show himself?"

"A desire for privacy."

"Something altogether different comes to my mind, rude ness. It's suspicious, arrogant and secretive. I'm beginning
to think you have something to hide after all."

"Impertinent, aren't you. All I hide is myself."

"How can I be sure?"

"I never lie."

"And just whom shall I ask for references? I have yet to
hear a name or see a face. Come out of the corner and I just
might believe you." Phoebe waited anxiously, wondering if
the stranger would comply. She should leave. Now. To be
alone with a man, any man, in a room such as this, if discovered, would surely be a social sin of the greatest magnitude. Then again, she'd learned long ago that running away
accomplished nothing. Truth be told, she wanted to stay, to
match the rich timbre of his voice to a face. For some reason, this man, this voice, intrigued her. "I'm waiting."

He stepped from behind the screen, and bowed slightly.
"Stephen Roland Lambert, Duke of Badrick at your service. And you are?"

Allowing herself time to dislodge the breath of air
trapped in her lungs, Phoebe executed a perfect curtsy. Oh
la, she'd called a duke a thief. If he was a duke. Although
she doubted he would lie about something so easily confirmed. She squared her shoulders and politely said, "Miss
Phoebe Rafferty, formerly of Georgia."

"A pleasure, Miss Phoebe Rafferty."

While he crossed to the round oak table near a red chaise
and lit three candles, Phoebe studied her mystery man for
the first time. Glory, he was handsome and then some. He
stood over six feet tall, was broad-shouldered and longlegged, and dressed in black all the way to the gleaming
tips of his polished boots. A modestly tied white cravat was
the only exception. His straight hair fell to his shoulders,
matching the ebony mustache lining his upper lip, which
curled slightly, and the brows that arched over the most astonishing cocoa-colored eyes she'd ever seen. He held a
drink in one scarred hand. Everything about the man
seemed dark, dangerous. Her heart seemed to dance when
he moved closer.

"See," he said. "I'm quite alone. And I hold no priceless
heirlooms in my possession."

She squelched the urge to voice the remark on the tip of
her tongue. She'd practically called him a liar once already.

Splashing an amber liquid into his glass, he asked,
"Would you care for a drink?"

"No, thank you." Unsure of what to do, she paced about
the room. When she came eye to breast with a marble
statue, her sense of reason returned, and then some. "I
must go."

"And rob me of the one bit of pleasure I might find this
evening? Come now. Need I worry about a jealous man
barging in to challenge me to a duel for finding myself
alone with you?"

"Goodness gracious, no. Need I worry about an irate
female?"

"Nary a one. Therefore, neither of us need rush off.
Besides, do you honestly wish to return to that mad crush,
Phoebe?"

She knew she should reprimand him for using her name
with such familiarity, but with his deep, refined voice, she
liked the way her name sounded on his lips. When bay rum
and heather filled her nostrils, she realized he stood
directly behind her. Pivoting to face him, she exhaled and
lifted her chin a notch. "I've overstayed myself as it is,
Lord Badrick."

His rumbling laugh and full smile transformed his
somber features to those of a charming rogue. Even his
eyes twinkled with humor. "Don't go missish on me now,
Phoebe. I'm not a lecherous fool. I promise to behave as the perfect host. We can be friends, simply two poor souls
sharing a bit of solitude. I shall guard our secret with my
life. What do you say?"

The thought of a friend appealed to her something
awful. She doubted a man with his looks and charm lacked
for company of any kind, but oddly enough, though never
having met him before tonight, she felt a sort of kinship
with him. Certainly the alternative of returning to Aunt
Hildegard held no appeal. She crossed to the table. "A few
more minutes then."

"Marvelous. Now tell me, how do you find London so
far?"

"Do you prefer the appropriate social repartee or honesty?"

He chuckled, a warm rich sound. "Honesty, by all
means."

"In that case, damp, soggy and insufferably gray."

"Are you referring to our weather or our conversation?"

She opened her mouth to say "both," but thought better
of it. "The weather, of course."

"Of course," he drawled. "And why would a lovely
young lady like yourself flee the festivities of a ball?"

"I was fresh out of things to say. Besides, I prefer
smaller, less restrictive affairs. It's difficult to enjoy oneself
when one must constantly remember what one can and
cannot do. Even if you do behave as best you can, you still
risk disapproval from the matrons, who seem to have nothing better to do than scrutinize everyone else's behavior."

The amber liquid in his glass swirled as he moved his
hand in small circular motions. His eyes gleamed like
those of a panther she'd once seen. "A woman after my
own heart. Did you have such liberty in America?"

"Yes, indeed. My life was far simpler back home. There
was very little I didn't do if it suited my fancy."

"You'll be hard pressed to find such freedom in England. Society is rather exacting about the way young ladies
behave."

"I've already discovered that. I never heard so many
rules in my life. It's quite tedious, if you ask me."

"Tell me then. What did you leave behind?"

The distant strings of the small orchestra filtered
through the house and into the room. Swaying to the
music, she considered all that she used to do. Goodness,
life on a plantation was so different. Where did one begin?
She paced a few steps until she stood in front of the painting that had drawn her full attention earlier, as stunned this
time by what she saw as she was the last. A nearly naked
man and woman sat on top of a black horse engaged in,
well, a behavior that looked rather suspicious and equally
impossible. At least, she thought it was impossible and if
not, likely improbable.

She whirled about and blurted the first thing that came to
mind. "I rode Hercules every morning." Lord Badrick
lifted a solitary brow. "My horse," she quickly added,
knowing her cheeks flushed with color by the sudden flare
of heat she felt. Silly chit. She silently scolded herself for
her foolish reaction. The man had no idea what she was
thinking. When she noticed the glimmer of amusement in
his dark eyes, she quickly changed the topic.

"Sometimes we raced, but rarely did anyone beat me.
Hercules was too fast. At night I sometimes played poker
with Timothy and Teddy, our neighbors. They even taught
me to cheat." Whyever had she said that? "Not that I ever
did, or would, mind you. And on the hotter days, I fished
with Tobias and the whole lot of us sometimes swam in the
river behind our house."

Her mouth seemed to be running amok, traveling faster
than Whiskey Creek after a heavy rain. She couldn't seem
to stop herself from talking, or fussing with the lace on the sleeve of her dress. She paused, allowing him time to say
or ask something. When he didn't, she decided he wanted
to hear more. After all, he'd asked, hadn't he?

"My nanny drew the line at boxing, said it was no sport
for a female, but not before I learned a few things which
proved useful a time or two."

The duke opened his mouth as if he meant to speak, then
snapped it shut. Glowering at his drink, he shook his head.
"You're serious?"

She couldn't help but notice the disbelief in his voice.
"Of course I am. Why would I make up something like
that? I loved my home, my life."

"Then what brought you to England?"

He was clearly dismayed. Phoebe considered lying. But
waiting only delayed the inevitable, a lesson she had
learned at an early age. If Lord Badrick spent any time in
society he would discover the truth himself. "I'm here to
find a husband." The light disappeared from his eyes.
Defensively, she said, "I see I've shocked you, although I
don't know why. Everyone knows the season is designed to
match young women with eligible men."

"Doing and telling are as different as chalk from cheese.
Few women speak openly of such things."

"What do they do then? Lie?" He stared at her. Discomfited, she added, "My preferences matter little either way. I
have no choice."

He swallowed the last of his brandy in one gulp and set
the glass on the table beside her with a deliberate thump.
"There are always choices, Miss Rafferty."

The stiffening of his spine, the rigid set of his broad
shoulders, the way he used her proper name, all were sure
signs of his withdrawal. Just like a man, she thought, to
spook at the mention of marriage. "Perhaps for men. For
women-"

Lord Badrick suddenly glanced to the door, grabbed her arm and dragged her into the darkest corner of the alcove,
behind the wooden screen. He held a finger to her lips.
"Shhh."

"Let me go." Struggling against the duke's grip, Phoebe
peeked around the side and saw the study door fly open. A
man and a woman scampered across the threshold and fell
against the wall in a tangle of arms before the door even
closed. Phoebe needed no additional explanation.

With his expression more irritated than anything else,
the duke whispered, "It appears someone intends to usurp
our sanctuary. Follow me." He started to drop to his knees.

Phoebe held on to his elbow. "Excuse me, your grace.
Whatever are you doing?"

"Avoiding unnecessary embarrassment for all involved
and saving your precious reputation."

"Can't we cough or something? Perhaps they'll leave."

"I see you have a great deal to learn about the strictures
of London society. Rather they'd demand we show ourselves. I'd hate to ruin your chances of making a suitable
match. We shall crawl behind the curtains to the terrace."

"Surely they'll see us."

He peered over her shoulder. "Highly unlikely."

Curious, Phoebe followed his gaze. The woman, her back
to the alcove, stood before the man, who now sat on the
chaise. His head was nestled in her lap. "Whatever is he-"

Lord Badrick practically shoved her to her knees. "Not
now."

Six feet of wooden floor loomed between her and the
crimson velvet curtains. Her heart beat a frantic rhythm.
She felt his warm breath on her ear, which oddly enough
caused her heart to flutter even faster. "Excuse me, your
grace. It seems we'd be better off if we stayed right here."

With an impatient motion of his head, he indicated
that he found the suggestion preposterous. "As you wish.
I, on the other hand, do not intend to remain here and witness an interlude deserving of privacy." He eased his
way toward the terrace, and reaching the heavy drape, he
slid beneath.

Phoebe sat on her heels long enough for his feet to disappear and decided she just might be better off with him.
When she pushed herself under the curtain, Badrick
grasped the brass doorknob. Wasting no time, he hauled
her to her feet, opened the door and pushed her outside.
Luckily, no one occupied the terrace.

Clutching her wrist, he stood and pulled her down the
stone steps behind an evergreen hedgerow. In her haste,
one slipper came off, but Lord Badrick retrieved it and then
followed her into the garden below.

The scent of roses filled the cool night air. The sound of
sprinkling water from a nearby fountain matched the fast,
soulful warble of a nightingale. Small torches, which distorted their shadows as they fled Wyman's study, lit the
maze of the garden's stone paths.

"I think that's far enough," the duke said as he searched
their surroundings most thoroughly.

Phoebe lifted her hand from her mouth and giggled.
"Oh, my goodness. I'm beholden to you, Lord Badrick.
That's the most fun I've had in months."

Fisting his right hand on his hip, he dangled her slipper
in his other fingers. Obviously bemused by her reaction, he
asked, "You're not frightened?"

"Heavens, no." she answered. "I'm sorry. Should I be?"

He clamped his lips shut and led her farther away from
the house. Once again she found herself in the shadows
with this man. She stood near enough to feel the linen of
his jacket against her hand, to hear his sudden intake of air.
Her throat constricted and the urge to slide into his arms
shocked her. When he cleared his throat, she practically
jumped backwards.

Thrusting the lost shoe into her hands, he said, "I hope tonight's escapade taught you an apparently well-needed
lesson."

His words were clipped and impersonal. "Which lesson
was that?" she asked nervously as she replaced her slipper.

"Do you not realize that if caught, your reputation
would be ruined?"

Phoebe circled a white marble statue of Pegasus nestled
in an alcove of a hedge, wishing the mythical creature
could steal her troubles away. She loathed the idea of
returning to the ball, to her aunt and the task ahead. Unfortunately, she had few choices left. Resigned to her fate, she
sighed. "I'm not sure it matters a'tall," she answered quietly. "What of yours?"

"Mine would suffer little."

"Another rule created by men for the benefit of men."

"Hardly. For their own protection from men much like
myself, ladies do not explore houses by themselves, especially those in search of suitors. Nor should they gad about
gardens with strangers. Few women find humor in such
circumstances, and I might add, these rules are usually for
the ladies' own good."

"Or so men think," she muttered. "Well, I happen to be
very good at thinking for myself though I appreciate
your concern."

He edged closer, pinning her between his body and the
statue. The cold marble at her back and the heat of his body
were a stirring combination. He gently cupped her chin
and tilted it up, studying her intently with those amazing
eyes. They were colored like Jamaican coffee, she now
decided. Several breathless moments passed.