Potent Charms (38 page)

"I don't think that's any of your business."

"It is if you want my help."

Winston burst into laughter. He couldn't help it. Here
stood the Duke of Badrick at his most desperate of times
and he was arguing with a tot. He laughed even harder.

Stephen, who couldn't quite believe the child's insolence either, glowered at Winston. The wee tyrant before
him actually expected, no, demanded, an explanation. He
crossed his arms over his chest in his most authoritative
manner. "If you must know, I am here to collect something
that belongs to me."

She stepped closer, not the least bit fearful of him. She
planted her hands on her hips, likely in the manner she had
seen her father do repeatedly. "I don't believe I like you."

Good lord, Phoebe wanted one of these of her own. It
was too much to comprehend. "The feeling is mutual.
However, I do not have the time to discuss our feelings
toward one another. Where is Miss Rafferty?"

"Why?"

"Why?" he bellowed. The butler lunged forward, as did
two other servants, prepared to protect their charge. A
gray-haired woman flew into the room, her feather-duster
mop above her head. The cook, judging from the pot in his
hand, had entered from another door down the hall. Winston raised his arm, silently requesting they wait.

Bliss trembled, but held her ground. "I won't let you
hurt her."

No one deserved his anger, which stemmed from sheer panic. Leastways not this child. Deflated, Stephen knelt
before Bliss. "I hope to make Miss Rafferty very happy. I
promise. I need to find her first."

Wisdom and acceptance shone in her eyes, an odd mix
to be found in one so young. Bliss spun on her heels and
proceeded up the steps. "All right."

The assembled group marched upstairs like a gaggle of
geese with Bliss in the lead. Winston brought up the rear
guard, the collected staff in between. Bliss stopped outside
a pair of mahogany doors. "She's in there with my father."

"Stay calm," Winston called from stairway.

As he reached for the doorknob, Stephen said a silent
prayer, a meaningful thing since he wasn't a man prone to
piety. What if they were married? Dear God, what if they
were making love, what if...? He felt a tiny hand grasp
his and squeeze. With renewed hope, he shoved the doors
open.

Phoebe sat on a settee, her head nestled on Tewksbury's
shoulder. White-hot rage soared through Stephen's veins;
it was such a surge of jealously, he was likely going to have
to kill someone after all. Then he noticed the trembling of
her shoulders. Tewksbury looked up. Phoebe lifted her
head. Stephen saw the tears in her eyes and lost all control.
He launched himself to her side. "What have you done to
her, you bastard?"

Before Stephen managed three steps, Tewksbury stood,
which effectively stopped Stephen's advance.

"That's diplomacy for you," Winston muttered as he
casually leaned against the doorframe. A small army of
servants, whose ranks quickly expanded, surrounded him.

Stephen shot scowls at both men, finally settling his
glare on Tewksbury. He spat out, "Get out of my way."

Tewksbury crossed his arms. "Do you think to force
me?"

Stephen didn't dignify that comment with an answer. "Phoebe, come out from behind him. I don't give a damn if
you're married. You'll be a widow by tomorrow. He can't
keep you."

Phoebe, frozen on the sofa until now, finally peeked
from around Tewksbury's hip. Her eyes were puffy and red
from crying - a considerable amount of crying, Stephen
thought. He wanted to plant a facer on Tewksbury all over
again. Clearly, he had put the tears in her eyes.

She said with a sniffle, "What happened to your face?"

"A minor disagreement," he answered.

"More like a minor battle," muttered Winston.

"Good evening, Winston," Phoebe said absently, as if
she had just noticed his presence. She kept her eyes fixed
on Stephen.

"For the love of God, we're not serving tea." In disgust,
Stephen threw his hands in the air. "Could we possibly
have some privacy?"

Tewksbury, Winston and Phoebe all spoke at the same
time. "No."

Leaning a bit further to the side, Phoebe asked, "What
do you want, Stephen?"

"Why were you crying?" he demanded.

"I felt like it."

"Damn frustrating when they do that, isn't it?" Winston
said while moving to a chair where he sat and massaged
his knee. "When Elizabeth cries, I want to flee the room
and take her in my arms at the same time. Then she never
seems to remember why she's crying."

Rising from the settee in a fluid motion, she put her
hands on her hips. "I know full well why I was crying."

Stephen wanted to pull her into his arms, to kiss every vile tear from her face. "Must we do this with an audience?"

"Until I hear something to persuade me otherwise, yes,"
Tewksbury said.

Stephen barely restrained himself from choking the
man, but killing someone was not a stellar way to begin a
honeymoon if he was going to have one. He didn't know
whether he would or not. "Answer me this. Are you married?"

Deathly silence overtook the confusion of the last halfhour. The ticking of the wall clock matched the drumming
in Stephen's head. He heard the rustling of Phoebe's
dress, Winston's sigh, the shuffling of the servants gathered in the doorway. A dog howled somewhere outside.
His future hung in the balance, dependent on one word:
yes or no.

The terrifying realization that he might have arrived too
late wrapped around his chest like a wide leather strap.
Stephen locked stares with Tewksbury, who contented
himself with making him squirm. Tewksbury's expression
was as telling as a stump's. Stephen clenched his hands at
his sides and waited.

Finally, Tewksbury said, "Not yet. What matter is it to
you?"

The tension eased from Stephen's shoulders, but the
knot in his stomach never lessened. He had yet to gain
Phoebe's agreement. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw
the gathered multitude watching the scene with a mix of
curiosity and astonishment. There was no hope for it. No
one was leaving. He spoke to Phoebe as though the room
were empty. "Come home with me."

Tewksbury crossed his arms over his chest. "She stays
exactly where she is."

Stephen mirrored Tewksbury's position. "Isn't that for
Phoebe to decide?"

"If I remember correctly, you relinquished that right,"
Tewksbury answered.

"He has a point there," interjected Winston.

Phoebe moved impatiently to Tewksbury's side. "If you
all don't mind, I have something to say."

She hadn't said more than a few words since he arrived.
Stephen took that as a good sign. He waved his arm in a
sweeping gesture. "By all means, darling."

"Don't you Jarling' me. You expect me to up and leave
Lord Tewksbury on the night of our wedding? Do you realize you put me though hell? Why couldn't you have
thought of this when I sent you the note?"

Taken aback by her attack, he mumbled, "I never
received a note. Hildegard intercepted it."

"You never received my note?" She repeated the words
more to herself than to anyone else. She looked to Winston
for validation. He nodded.

Shifting his weight to one leg, Tewksbury said, "Nothing has been said to change my mind."

A most profound curse slipped from Stephen's lips.

The matter was settled by an unexpected source. Bliss
strolled to her father's side and tugged on his jacket. "He
won't hurt her anymore, Father. He promised."

The calm assurance of those words, spoken by a mere
child, was simply too much to bear. Imagine, thought
Stephen. Championed by a seven-year-old. His life was no
longer recognizable. The beliefs he'd clung to had been
whipped upside down and inside out, ripped from the past
and reshaped into the present. The responsibility lay at the
feet of the woman before him, the woman who had loved
him and trusted him. And he had hurt her terribly. Softening his voice to a whisper, he said, "Phoebe, I'm truly
sorry. Trust me to make this right." He wasn't above begging. Stepping forward, he added, "Please."

"L.." The solemn despair in Stephen's voice tugged at
the wounded strings of her heart. Hope opened within her
soul like the bud of a lily awakening to greet the dawn. He was a fool. But fool that he was, she loved him. She'd been
sitting here, weeping all over Lord Tewksbury, apologizing
because she had been unable to marry him after all. Logic
and common sense dictated she stay, but her heart
demanded she go. The power of her love had made only
one decision possible. She had planned to return to London, to Stephen.

Now he stood before her of his own volition. Surely he
hadn't come all this way to wish her well, but his reasons
didn't matter. She would refuse him nothing. "I don't know
what you expect from me."

"Come with me and I'll make my intentions perfectly
clear." When she nodded, he gathered her into his arms.
The servants blocking the doorway parted, then scattered
down the hall. Winston, Tewksbury and Bliss followed
Stephen and lined the balcony. Stephen called over his
shoulder. "Winston, see if Tewksbury has a carriage for
you. I'll be taking yours."

"I'll expect to hear from her, Badrick," called Tewksbury.

Phoebe answered with a lopsided grin. "I'll be all right.
Truly." Halfway down the stairs, Phoebe said, "Wait."
Stephen stopped.

Climbing from his arms, she ran up the steps and knelt
beside Bliss. She whispered something in the young girl's
ear. Bliss grinned and nodded. Phoebe skipped back down
to Stephen. Hand in hand, they marched out the front door.
Once in the carriage, Stephen settled Phoebe on his lap.
"What did you say to Bliss?"

"I told her to find her father a wife who will love him to
distraction, to not settle for anything less. They both
deserve such a woman."

"God help him. With Bliss as his taskmistress, the poor
man doesn't stand a chance."

A sense of peace swelled within her. Her questions
about her future remained unanswered, but one thing was
certain, she belonged at Stephen's side and in his arms.
Laughing, she wrapped her body around his. "I know." She
nibbled on the soft flesh of his ear, the tender bruise beside
his eye.

"Phoebe."

The fire in his eyes revealed the heat within his body. Yet
he made no move to kiss her or drown her in sensation. Her
need to touch him shocked her. Her lips trailed down his
jaw to torment the crease in his mouth as her hands drifted
across shoulders. She moaned.

Capturing her wayward hands, he placed them in her
lap. "If you're not careful, you'll find yourself on your
back with your skirts tossed above your head."

She couldn't tear her gaze from his. Embarrassment
turned to yearning. Truth be told, she rather liked his suggestion. He must have sensed her train of thought, for he
whispered in her ear with that deep husky voice she
adored. "Another time, my dear. First I want a bath, then I
want a bed. Champagne, candles and absolute privacy."

During the entire trip, the blood pounded in her temples
with the rocking of the carriage. Stephen made innocuous
conversation. Had someone asked her, she doubted she'd
be able to repeat a word. Her thoughts lay with the night
ahead. They reached his home and were greeted by an exuberant staff who quickly rushed to meet Stephen's
demands. He deposited her in a room with instructions to
make herself comfortable, a feat she considered impossible. Her throat was as dry as a week-old biscuit and her
limbs suddenly felt weighted like a stone.

She found a white lace nightgown draped on the bed, the
fabric so sheer she briefly wondered why he wanted her to
bother. A silver brush lay next to it. The man was certainly full of surprises. Once she had changed, she waited beside
the window, gazing into a star-filled sky, anticipation
singing through every nerve in her body.

The door opened. Wrapped in a burgundy satin robe,
Stephen leaned against the frame, watching her with an
intensity that set her skin to tingling. His hair, still damp,
curled slightly around his ears. The robe parted at the waist
to reveal the tawny muscles of his chest. Like he had so
many times before, he extended his hand in invitation. She
went willingly.

Lit by moonshine and candlelight, his bedroom
appeared the place where dreams were made. He led her to
the bed and with a slow, agonizing pace, he unlaced the
bindings of the delicate gown until it pooled at her ankles.
Her breath hitched as his eyes gleamed with unspoken
promises and expectation.

He took her hand and guided it to the belt of his robe,
and she ceased to breathe at all. With trembling hands she
freed him from his clothing. She had glimpsed his masculinity before, but had never really had the opportunity to
see all of him, had been far too embarrassed to stare. Even
now, she couldn't believe that they had once joined body to
body. Her mouth, already impossibly dry, felt like a wad of
cotton had been stuck there for safekeeping and forgotten.
She felt her cheeks flush.

"As bad as all that?"

Her cheeks heated more. "No...I...

When he chuckled, she swatted him on the shoulder. "I
can't believe we...I mean, it doesn't seem ...I've never
really seen a man's body before."

"I should hope not. And I promise we'll do just fine.
Come here."

He lifted her to the center of his bed and with every
delectable inch of his body, he lowered her to the periwinkle cover. The satin fabric slid sensuously against her naked body. The hair on his chest and legs teased her bare
skin. She knew a single kiss would not satisfy either of
them. When he pressed his lips to hers, he spoke from his
heart.

She answered with her soul, claiming his tongue and
drawing it into her mouth. The weeks of separation and
indecision, the torturous hours of worry and despair turned
to raw desire. Her gasps shifted to moans as his body slid
against hers. Her kisses grew bolder while his caresses
seared a path across her shoulder, over and down her
breasts and beyond. With the greatest of care, as though he
held a cherished treasure in his hands, he repeated the
caresses over and over until she writhed in agony, her body
a mass of quivering need. Using his mouth, he paid homage to every inch of her, finally settling himself between
her thighs.