Potent Charms (6 page)

"I beg your pardon?"

"What you ask is quite impossible."

Suddenly he stood beside her, his hands fisted on his
hips. "What game do you play, Phoebe?"

Straightening her spine, she tried to make herself appear
taller next to his imposing height. "I play no game."

"Then why the deuce did you give me the impression
you were interested in my proposal?"

"Is that what I did?"

"Yes," he snapped.

In order to satisfy her curiosity, she'd obviously hurt the man's feelings. An apology was out of the question, but in
goodwill after all, she did like the man and hated to see
him upset she decided to explain. Skirting around the
duke, she tied Flash next to Cavalier. "I found the information enlightening. No man ever asked me to be his mistress
before."

His eyes narrowed to thin slits. "Come now, Phoebe.
You hail from America, where you claim you had unlimited freedom to do whatever you wished. You fraternized
with men on a daily basis, and your evenings, well, who
the devil are Teddy and Timothy? You said your reputation
mattered not. You clearly have no real desire to wed and
you abhor and ridicule society's dictates, ignoring propriety at every turn. You invite, then meet me, unchaperoned,
at this unholy hour of the morning. By God, you even proposed to me. What else am Ito think?"

"That I have a will of my own," she shot back in irritation, regardless of the fact that he was possibly partly correct about her role in the misunderstanding. His glare grew
fiercer and she sighed. Losing her temper right now certainly wouldn't help. "It's obvious you misinterpreted my
boldness for something else altogether. I ran our plantation, for heaven's sake. Naturally I spent time with men,
my father and our workers included. I grew rather accustomed to having my say. My neighbors, Teddy and Timothy, were only fourteen years old. As to my current
dilemma, I must marry an English nobleman in less than
six weeks. If I don't, I lose my only estate, Marsden
Manor, as well as any other income. I'll be as poor as a
church mouse."

"I know that much," he muttered, obviously still disgruntled.

"You do? How?" she asked, more confused than ever by
his declaration.

"How what?"

"How do you happen to know so much about me when I
know so little about you? That seems rather unfair."

"After you disappeared from Lord Wyman's the other
night, I asked a few questions. Your plight is quite the talk
of the town. I offer you an alternative. As my mistress,
you'd be financially secure."

She wasn't sure which bothered her more: his arrogance, so typical of men who believed they needed to
molly- coddle women, or the fact that her dilemma was no longer
a secret. "Financially dependent is what I'd be. I'd be even
more tied to you than if I married."

"That's ridiculous. Once married everything reverts to
your husband."

"Not necessarily."

"Then, my dear, you would have managed to change the
way of things since Adam was a lad."

He sounded so confident, so patronizing. Irritation
warred with her determination to make him understand. "I
aim to marry a man who agrees to my terms." He looked at
her as if she'd grown a third ear. "If you understand my circumstance, then you know I bring a title to the altar. If I
cannot find a man to love then I will find a man eager for
that title and a stable income. Like you, I intend to be very
generous. In exchange, I will ask for my freedom. He can
go his way and I can go mine."

"Where do you expect to find these stellar candidates?"

"According to my aunt, there are any number of men
who qualify. In fact, Lord Milton and Sir Lemmer seem
interested."

Lord Badrick's limbs became rigid. Not a twitch or even
a breath disturbed his body. Only his lips moved. "Stay
away from Lemmer."

The hard edge to his voice was unmistakable. Although she didn't particularly like Sir Lemmer herself, she refused
to acknowledge that to Badrick. She shrugged her shoulders, wishing she was capable of standing as still as he.
The man had incredible self-control. "I understand he
seeks a title as well as money. I shall have both."

"The marriage will require a consummation. How do
you intend to deal with that?"

"I haven't reasoned that through."

"I'll tell you this, Phoebe Rafferty. None of those men,
especially Sir Lemmer, will keep you happy in that quarter."

This discussion was beginning to wear on her good
mood. Probably because she knew he might be right, a
possibility she found most disconcerting. "And you are
such a great lover women flock to your door?"

For the first time in several minutes, obviously pleased
with this particular topic, he relaxed. A sly, foxlike grin lit
his face. He crossed toward Phoebe, slowly forcing her to
retreat several steps until she backed herself against the
trunk of the large elm. Flash stood on one side. Shrubs bordered the other, effectively blocking the couple from the
road.

Stephen braced his arms on either side of her shoulders.
"I assure you, Phoebe, the women who come to my bed do
so eagerly and leave with no complaints."

"I did not question your"

"Abilities? Oh, but Phoebe you did just that. Now I feel
the need to exonerate myself."

She watched his brown eyes shift to black as he slowly
brought his lips to hers, allowing her plenty of time to
avoid his kiss. Her eyes fluttered closed the minute their
lips touched. She had once kneed a neighbor in the groin
and left him whimpering on the straw-covered barn floor
after he had stolen a quick peck. If need be, she knew she could administer the same punishment to Stephen. Yet, she
had no desire to do so. Timidly placing her hands on his
shoulders, she leaned into the kiss. He smelled of heather
and soap, and a masculine scent she recognized as his own.

She expected an assault, but received a tender persuasion with the soft blending of their lips. His tongue traced
a light path across the crease of her mouth, teasing yet
demanding entrance. When she opened her mouth ever so
slightly, he deepened the kiss. The muscular length of his
body pressed against her, her woolen jacket a sudden
unwanted barrier to the heat she felt. His hands claimed
her waist directly below her breasts, which ached in the
most peculiar way.

He ended the kiss as gently as it had begun. "Now, my
sweet, tell me my idea does not have merit."

With his withdrawal, she felt a moment's loss and licked
her lips almost as if she might recapture his taste. Enough
of this nonsense. She should have heeded her good sense
sooner. Now she would regret what she must do. She
pushed away from the tree and stepped away from
Stephen. He continued to watch her, smug. When standing
beside Flash, she grabbed a fistful of the horse's strawberry
mane and swung onto its back. She faced Stephen and said,
"I've always wanted love. By some demented twist of fate,
I find I need a husband with or without that luxury."

"Don't look in my direction, Phoebe. Love is for fools
and dreamers. I'm neither."

"How can you say that?" Phoebe asked. To her, love
heightened the senses, bound a man and woman together
in devotion and comfort.

"Love is a perpetual wound. I have no need of it. I have
no need of a wife. I will not marry you. Now or ever. I want
a mistress."

It appeared that they disagreed on the very nature of love, even its existence. "Well, then. It seems we have
reached a stalemate, but thank you for a lesson I'm sure to
find handy over the next few weeks."

Almost immediately, the lazy smile vanished. He
became the predator again, his body tense and wary. "What
do you mean?"

"If I cannot marry for love, I will control my own future
and marry a man of my choosing. I had not fully considered the implications of the marriage bed until just now. I
realize I shall have to test my candidates on that as well."

"You mean to bed them all before you decide?"

"Gracious, no. But a kiss or two will certainly help me
make up my mind."

"Phoebe."

She backed her horse from the copse of trees, away from
the dangerous glint in his eyes. "And one more thing, Lord
Badrick, regarding my outburst the other night."

He scrunched his eyebrows together as though trying to
remember. She almost pitied the man. "About possibly
choosing you as my husband. I must withdraw the suggestion. You simply will not do."

"Why not?"

"Why, sir, you'd never be a malleable husband."

Turning Flash to the track, eager to ride the wind, she
spurred her horse to a gallop. Phoebe needed to calm the
beating of her heart. She feared Badrick might follow. Her
heart feared he wouldn't.

For the first time in her life she had met a man who
made her feel the things the slave women back home
talked about. What rotten, horrible luck! The man was all
wrong for her.

Phoebe crept up the servant's stairs of Aunt Hildegard's
home, cautious of the creaking planks in the wooden steps.
All the while, she searched for reasons to avoid Lord
Badrick in the future.

He definitely disturbed her senses. No man had ever
managed to make her stomach flutter or her heart pound
the way he did. Even now, her pulse thrummed as she
remembered his tongue stroking the inside of her mouth.
Imagine, men and women kissing like that! She'd had no
idea and hadn't minded the least little bit. She visibly
shuddered at the thought of sharing a kiss the likes of that
with either of Lord Milton or Sir Lemmer. Kissing Lord
Badrick, she decided, was definitely a seductive argument
of itself.

Nibbling her lower lip, she concentrated even harder.
The man tended to jump to conclusions, and surely that
was a deterrent. Twice now, he had incorrectly judged her
actions. But she could hardly fault him for that, she real ized. She was guilty of that from time to time as well.
Hadn't she assumed he'd be the perfect husband?

Certainly the fact that he seemed accustomed to having
his way was a reason to avoid the man. He wouldn't accept
failure or defeat without a fight. She doubted that he'd
marry her and leave her alone at Marsden Manor to live her
life. Yet, was that a flaw or a virtue? She sat on a step, her
elbow braced on her knee, her chin tucked in her hand. She
further considered his confidence and high-handed behavior. It bordered on arrogance, but she admitted she liked
strong men who knew their own mind. Unfortunately, what
he wanted and what she wanted were at cross-purposes.
The man even refused to acknowledge the need for love in
a relationship. Well, there it was. The crux of the problem.
Based on the censure in his voice, the rigidity of his body
and his choice of words, his mind seemed made up. He
wanted a mistress. She needed a husband. She wanted
love. He wanted physical pleasure. Well drat, that was that.
She mustn't see him again.

Determined to erase him from her mind, Phoebe stood,
wondering how she could miss something so much when
she never really had it in the first place.

Listening at the top of the stairway, and satisfied when
she heard only silence, she tiptoed across the hall into her
bedroom. Phoebe's servant, Nanny Dee, stood at the window, staring at the street below. Her ebony skin glistened
in the sunlight. Both hands were clenched on her slender
hips, and the red scarf that covered her head shook from
side to side. She was clearly agitated about something.

Phoebe crossed the wood floor and glanced over her servant's shoulder to look outside as well. "Good morning,
Nanny Dee. Is something wrong?"

Dee whirled and wagged her finger in Phoebe's face.
"Don't you good-morning me, child. You're late, and that
woman is already up and callin' for you."

"Aunt Hildegard? Oh, dear."

"Yes, indeed. She already come lookin' for you once this
momin'. You best be gettin' yourself out of those boys'
clothes, into somethin' more presentable before she comes
a lookin' for you again."

Quickly shucking her cap, jacket, trousers and shirt,
Phoebe rushed to the room's white porcelain pitcher and
grabbed a wash cloth. She bathed while Dee stuffed the
worn riding garments into the bottom of a basket beneath
the bed, clucking and mumbling the entire time, a habit
Phoebe was long accustomed to.

"What did Aunt Hildegard want?"

"To ruin my day. She does that, you know. Ain't never
seen no one with such a sour disposition. That woman is
going to straighten my hair. And if she don't, then you
surely will. Goin' off like this every day."

Dressed in a clean shift, Phoebe sat at the mahogany
dressing table, grimacing when she saw her hair. She
yanked out the pins.

"Good heavens, child. Leave a curl or two on your head.
Give me that brush." Dee took over the task quickly and
competently.

Phoebe smiled. Since the day she came into the world,
she had relied on Dee for one thing or another. Phoebe
didn't think she would have survived her daddy's death
without Dee.