Potent Charms (8 page)

"What of this morning rendezvous?"

"I'm as confused as you are. Perhaps the flowers were
sent to the wrong household."

"Siggers," snapped Hildegard. "Who delivered these?"

He kept a bland expression on his face. "A street urchin,
madam."

Hildegard glared from Phoebe to Siggers and back as if
they had conspired with one another. She even threw Charity a passing glance of disgust before she declared, "Siggers, dispose of them."

"Aunt Hildegard," interrupted Phoebe, her voice calm
but resolute. She intended to keep her gift. "Those were
delivered to me. I believe I'm entitled to make the decision
to keep or throw them away."

"A true gentleman does not send flowers without a
proper introduction. And a true lady would never accept
them."

"Who's to know, Auntie? I certainly won't tell." Phoebe
rescued the flowers from the butler, knowing as long as he
held them, he would feel bound to do his mistress's bidding. "If you don't wish to share their lovely scent, I will
gladly take them to my room."

"Oh, mother," said Charity. "They are quite pretty."

"Go upstairs." Hildegard waved Charity away as easily
as she might a chambermaid. With her daughter gone, she
focused her full attention on Phoebe. "Let me make myself
perfectly clear on this issue. I will allow you to keep those
flowers because I wish it. If and when you discover the
person responsible, you will tell me immediately."

The devil she would. "Of course," agreed Phoebe.

"And" Hildegard leaned in "do not think, for one
moment, that you have me fooled."

Phoebe watched Hildegard storm across the marble
floor, her shoulders squared, her chin held high. How
exhausting. And how depressing. She still had five weeks
left in this household.

Crossing to Siggers, who remained by the arched doorway, Phoebe placed her hand on his elbow. "Thank you for
not divulging my little secret."

"I don't know to what you refer, miss," he said. He
winked and departed.

Phoebe knew otherwise. In a very short time, with common courtesy and simple kindness, she had earned the servant's loyalty.

She buried her face in the colorful bouquet, absorbing the texture and fragrance. Thinking of the scoundrel
responsible, she frowned. Goodness gracious, the man was
resourceful. She'd give him that. She'd left him not more
than an hour ago, and already she had flowers. Dozens of
them. Instead of honoring her wishes, he'd chosen to issue
a challenge. Whether foolish or wise, she felt herself grin
all the way to her toes.

The females in the theater sighed collectively as the darkhaired soprano clung to a high note, her tale of misery captivating the audience. Aside from an occasional glimpse to
the stage, Stephen barely paid heed to the production. He
felt as he did often of late: irritated. And now he felt impatient, which, to his dismay, irritated him all the more.

Three days had passed since he'd met Phoebe in Hyde
Park, since he'd submitted to the irrational impulse and
sent her flowers along with a challenge. Perhaps not his
most stellar of ideas, he decided. The illusive female
hadn't bothered to take her early morning ride since. She
obviously meant what she'd said about wanting a husband
and not a protector.

Well, he meant what he had said as well. He had evaluated every detail of her situation forward and backward,
circling around to do it all over again. Numerous times. He
still believed that he, being a man, knew what was best for her. Men were supposed to take care of women. That was
the way of things.

He shifted in the high-backed chair as he thought back
to his rather hasty proposal. Clearly he had shocked the
girl. Still, his idea was the logical solution. He sighed. She
probably expected a jeweled trinket or two, soft words in
the very least. He simply needed opportunity. Primed with
anticipation like a hound on the hunt, he glanced across
Covent Garden's horseshoe auditorium, trying to see his
prey.

Opportunity had presented itself moments before The
Italian Girl in Algiers began. Phoebe sat across the room in
the company of her aunt and cousin. The opera's intermission couldn't come soon enough. As if by divine intervention, the audience erupted into exuberant applause,
signaling the end of the first act.

Winston leaned over Stephen's shoulder. "A rousing first
act. What do you suppose the chap will do to mend the
fences he destroyed?"

Stephen wondered exactly what he had missed. "Who
can say? How about you, Elizabeth?"

Flipping her fan open, she said, quite confidently,
"Mustafa will plead momentary insanity and beg Elvira's
forgiveness."

Winston snorted. "Darling, he cannot beg the woman to
return. T'would be unseemly for a man in his position."

"Unless he is a man in love, who finally accepts that a
woman will have her way no matter what," she stated
emphatically. "Certainly, you would do the same for me."
When Winston hesitated, she nudged him in the side with
her elbow.

Winston laughed and wrapped Elizabeth in his arms.
"Of course, my love. I would do anything to please you. I'd
wrap you in silks and jewels. I'd swim the Thames although I'd probably perish shortly thereafter due to disease. I'd even sell my favorite stallion, all to prove my love
and devotion." His comment earned him another swat to
his ribs, only this time Elizabeth's laughter joined his.

Stephen watched the tender display with a hint of envy.
As the image of Phoebe intruded on his thoughts along
with a flash of longing, he immediately squelched the
annoying sensation. Love was not for him. "I think I'll
grab a bit of air."

"Splendid. We'll join you," announced Winston.

The three wended through the throng of people who
milled about the upper balcony, some venturing to the
upstairs verandah, others meeting friends in private boxes.
Purposely, Stephen led Elizabeth and Winston to the other
side of the theater toward his prey. A group of boisterous
young dandies involved in a lively debate moved toward
the entrance, leaving Phoebe in their wake. Stephen recognized her at once. Standing beside a painting of Henry
VIII, her back to the mad crush, Phoebe wore a simple
emerald gown. Her hair was swept on top of her head,
which provided a lovely view of her neck and shoulders. A
light dusting of freckles tinted her skin a touch of peach.
Stephen anticipated the discovery of all the delightful
places where freckles decorated her body.

Elizabeth prodded Stephen in the shoulder, breaking the
spell. "Is that Miss Rafferty over there?"

He kept his voice as casual as possible. "I believe it is."

"Shall we?" Elizabeth never waited for his response, but
charged ahead, wrenching the choice completely out of
Stephen's hands.

Cheerfully, Winston said, "I suppose we had best follow.
Otherwise we will never know her intentions."

Well, blast. Stephen wanted to talk to Phoebe, but certainly not with an audience. He lengthened his stride, overtaking his friends to reach Phoebe first. From behind, he whispered in her left ear. "You've missed your rides,
Phoebe Rafferty, and I've missed you."

Whirling about to face him, her expression changed
from surprise to annoyance. She drummed her fingertips
together. "Lord Badrick, do you have any idea the trouble
you almost caused me?" She lifted her chin in dismissal.
"Go away before my aunt returns."

"Impossible." Not having a trinket anywhere on his person, he resolved to be sweet. "You look stunning this
evening. I believe I prefer this choice of dress over
breeches, darling."

"Do not call me that. And whyever can't you leave?"

Leaning closer, he noted the alluring scent of lilacs
clinging to her skin, reminding him of their time alone in
Wyman's garden. What he wouldn't give for a few
moments of privacy. He whispered again, "Friends."

"Begging your pardon?"

"My friends wish to meet you." Glancing over his shoulder to guage the speed of Elizabeth's arrival, and realizing
she was almost upon them, Stephen stepped back to a more
appropriate distance. "Here they are now."

The transformation in Phoebe's face was remarkable.
The panic and irritation vanished, replaced by an artful
smile, one obviously polished from years of practice.
Aside from the slight tint to her cheeks, she appeared calm,
poised and confident. He'd wager last month's poker winnings her pulse was racing and her heart was pounding.

Winston, content to wait, hovered nearby. Elizabeth, on
the other hand, moved very close, her eyes gleaming with
excitement. Stephen could practically hear her mind hard
at work with matchmaking possibilities. He almost
moaned. Unfortunately, he couldn't very well ignore propriety, or his friends. Elizabeth would introduce herself
anyway.

"Miss Rafferty, may I introduce my dear friends, the
charming Lord and Lady Payley."

Elizabeth clasped Phoebe's hand in both of hers and
squeezed. "I still consider Winston's mother Lady Payley.
So please call me Elizabeth. I am delighted to meet you.
I've heard so much about you."

Phoebe peeked at Stephen from the corner of her eyes.

Elizabeth chuckled. "Heavens, not from him, from your
cousin, Charity. You and I are going to be fast friends. I can
tell these things, you know. You must join us in our box. I
wish to learn all about you and your home."

The emphasis on you, thought Stephen. Sending a warning, he straightened his lips and glared at Winston.

With wide-eyed innocence, his friend shrugged his
shoulders, then gently pried Phoebe's hand from Elizabeth's. He bowed from the waist. "And call me Winston.
Please excuse my wife. She barrels blissfully through life
without a thought. Had she run the war, Napoleon would
have surrendered within a matter of days. I married her to
save her from herself. What say you, Stephen? Shall Miss
Rafferty accompany us for the balance of this eve?"

Obviously intent on meeting Phoebe as well, Winston
provided little assistance. Stephen practically growled this
time. "A stellar idea."

"Thank you, but my aunt--"

"Not to worry," Stephen said, grasping Phoebe's hand
and draping it securely across his forearm. "You and I shall
move along. Elizabeth and Winston will gladly wait to
explain your decision, spinning a reason so believable it
will allow your aunt no choice but to submit."

Elizabeth, one hand on her hip, frowned. Winston plastered a silly grin on his face.

"All right, sir." Phoebe shot Stephen a look that clearly
said, I know what you're about, "As long as you mind your
manners."

Placing one hand across his chest, speaking most
solemnly, Stephen said, "I will behave the perfect gentleman." He added mischievously, "Of course, everyone's
expectations of a gentleman vary greatly. Come along."
Stephen wanted Phoebe all to himself for a few minutes.
He waved at Elizabeth and Winston. "Feel free to take as
long as need be."

"Last I recall, you said I shouldn't be seen with you,"
Phoebe said as she walked beside Stephen.

"I've changed my mind."

"Why?" she asked absently.

"Perhaps I want everyone to know I'm an interested
party," answered Stephen.

"This is not a game, your grace."

"Our relationship has exceeded formalities, Phoebe.
Call me Stephen." He stopped beside an usher for a
moment, exchanged a few words, then led her to another
flight of stairs, hidden by a blue curtain. "Did you like the
flowers?"

"They were lovely even though Aunt Hildegard now
suspects the worse of me. Believe you me, I pled total
ignorance. Wherever are we going? I thought we were
meeting your friends."

"All in good time. First, I want a moment's privacy."
Feeling pleased with his initiative, Stephen felt the scales
tip in his favor for the first time in days.

"Don't misunderstand me," explained Phoebe, ignoring
the warning in her temple, "but I have something better
said in private as well." Determined to clarify her position,
she moved ahead of Stephen, entering a small yet lavishly
decorated room opposite the stage. A fancy table inlaid
with jade and marble stood in the comer, a variety of liquor
and crystal glasses set on top. A royal-blue settee was
angled in the other corner. Four gold chairs faced the stage.
A curtain of thin white netting covered the view to the stage, easily concealing the occupants from the people
below. The room was obviously designed with privacy in
mind. "Whose is this?"

"This, my dear, is the King's royal box. Of course, due
to his illness, he is never seen here. From time to time, the
Prince Regent ventures here, as does Queen Charlotte and
other Royals. For a tidy sum, special patrons or couples
who wish to remain anonymous and alone, may borrow it."
Stephen closed the door and crossed to the table. "Do you
wish for something to drink?"

Standing beside the table, dressed all in black, Lord
Badrick exuded a maddening arrogance that aroused every
fiber of Phoebe's very being. And she was alone with him.
Her traitorous mind conjured the image of his lips on hers,
their bodies melded together. She straightened her shoulders and strengthened her resolve. Alcohol might calm her
nerves, but thankfully, good sense ruled. "No, thank you."