The Seduction of Lady Phoebe (20 page)

Marcus nodded. “I am aware of that. I’ll have to consult St. Eth and Fairport to insure she is protected.”

Returning from the buffet table to the table where the ladies were waiting, Rutherford said quietly to John, “I can’t imagine a threat for which Phoebe is not the equal.”

John responded, “Nor I, but because of the expression in Finley’s face and the way he obviously feels about Phoebe, I cannot deny him.”

“I find a fine irony in all of this,” Rutherford said.

John smiled. “I can see how you would.”

Marcus grinned. So Rutherford had been on the receiving end of Phoebe’s fist. It served him right.

After supper, Marcus tensed as they were returning to the ballroom and Travenor once again confronted Phoebe.

Chapter Thirteen

“L
ady Phoebe, I believe you must now dance with me. I have been waiting all evening. You’ve stood up with Lord Marcus twice.” Travenor puffed out his chest. “Under the rules, you may not dance with
him
again.”

Marcus responded, “Travenor, you seem to be plagued with bad luck. Lord Rutherford here has just now been accepted as Lady Phoebe’s partner.”

“Rutherford?” Travenor spouted. “But, but—I heard him—he is to dance with Miss Marsh.”

Miss Marsh smiled innocently. “Oh, no, Lord Travenor, you are mistaken. I am to stand up with Lord Marcus.”

Very briefly, a black look of rage passed across Lord Travenor’s face.

“You see, Travenor,
I
have not danced twice with Lady Phoebe,” Rutherford said and leveled his quizzing glass at Travenor. “You, I think, are
de trope
. Shall I give you a hint? It is very bad
ton
to eavesdrop.”

Lord Travenor opened his mouth to speak again.

Hester turned to John, saying clearly, “My dear, I believe after Phoebe has danced with Lord Rutherford, we should leave. I’m becoming fatigued, and we have a full day to-morrow.”

Having had the wind taken out of his sails, Travenor finally left.

Hester narrowed her eyes, staring after him. “I would like to know how he came to think himself so important.”

“What was that boorish behavior about? Who does he think he is?” Phoebe asked heatedly. “To talk about me as if I were a piece of property to which he has some rights. He—he is a
troll.
”

As angry as Marcus was with Travenor for distressing Phoebe, Marcus knew he’d made substantial progress, and replied, “I will happily give up the name to him.”

Phoebe’s eyes flashed quickly to his and humor returned to her countenance. “Yes indeed. You’ve quite outgrown it.”

Marcus turned to Miss Marsh. “Thank you, Miss Marsh, for being so quick-witted in offering your dance partner.”

“It was my pleasure, my lord. I would gladly help any lady avoid dancing with”—she grinned at Phoebe—“a troll.”

On her way home, Phoebe thought of nothing but the kisses and the waltzes she shared with Marcus. If she’d been alone in the coach, she would have touched her lips to see if they were still heated and swollen. She’d felt his physical response to her. It thrilled her she made him react that way. It was a power she’d never known before, or maybe never wanted to have over a man.

“I was very impressed by Lord Marcus,” Hester said.

Phoebe glanced over at her sister, raising a brow.

“I mean that his manner is excellent, his conversation informed, and his—his . . . Well, no matter.” She stopped. “Phoebe, are you any closer to knowing if you will accept him?”

“A little, I think.” Phoebe glanced briefly at John. “I do not wish to discuss it right now.”

Hester lapsed into silence.

Once at St. Eth House, Phoebe practically floated to her room. Her mind and senses were still focused on Marcus’s kisses. Free to do so, she touched her mouth, remembering the feel of his lips brushing hers. The memory of the way he’d lifted her, holding her against his hard body, caused a strange tingle to arise in her, and she flushed with heat. She closed her eyes and sobered.

Her sisters were right. She couldn’t go on this way much longer. Each time they were alone, she let him take more liberties with her person. Where would it stop? Any other man would have already pressed her to marry him—particularly after tonight.

But Marcus didn’t press her, for that she was thankful, and his protectiveness felt right, as it should be between them. Phoebe sighed, snuggled down under the covers, and closed her eyes.

She was walking in a family picture gallery, sun lit half of it and a shadow moved from the doors at the end of the room. Phoebe woke punching her pillow. It was a few moments before she realized she was alone, safe in her bed.

Tearing open the bed hangings, she took large gulps of the cool night air. Was she deranged? No matter how she responded to Marcus when she was awake, that day still haunted her. Her mind and her body were at war with each other and her heart ached. How was she supposed to make a decision when she was so confused?

Afraid to return to sleep, she read until the hour or so before dawn, and then waited for Marcus to call. When he didn’t, Phoebe wondered if he truly cared for her, or if the courtship was some game he was playing. She was certainly no longer in control.

The next day, when Marcus wanted to walk down the street to within a few feet of St. Eth House, he stopped himself. Ladies were usually tired after a late night, or early morning—and what if she did not wish to see him? Phoebe had not invited him to come and, surprisingly enough, there were no entertainments that evening.

By the following morning, Marcus could wait no longer. If he wasn’t to go mad, he had to see Phoebe now. Marcus saddled his horse and arrived at St. Eth House at seven o’clock.

The door was opened by an astonished footman, who imparted the knowledge that Lady Phoebe had not yet come down, however, if his lordship wished, Ferguson would inquire if Lady Phoebe was awake.

Marcus was shown to a parlor.

Ferguson entered the room a few minutes later to inform him that Lady Phoebe would be down within fifteen minutes. Marcus settled in to wait. In his experience, no woman could be ready in under thirty minutes. She arrived ten minutes later.

He blinked at the radiant smile she gave him and wanted to take her in his arms.

“Good morning,” she said. “What a lovely surprise this is. Ferguson tells me we are due for another warm day.”

Returning her smile, Marcus took the hands she held out to him. It was the first time he had touched her bare fingers. He pressed his lips first to them.

Phoebe’s cheeks turned a becoming shade of pink.

“Ah, Lady Phoebe, I’ve found another way to make you blush. Come, I hear your horse being brought round.”

Pulling her by the hand, he started toward the hall until Phoebe stopped him. “What is it?”

Her tone was firm but kind. “Marcus, you may not hold hands with me through the house.”

He gave her his best wide-eyed innocent expression. “Why can’t I?” Before she could answer, he started walking toward the hall again.

Hearing her sigh behind him, Marcus grinned to himself.

“Very well,” she conceded. “Just this once. It would not be very dignified to fight over it.”

Phoebe removed her gloves from a pocket and was trying to fasten them as she walked through the door.

He took the gloves from her. “Allow me.”

He held her hand, and though she gave him a surprised look, allowed him to fasten the buttons.

Her gaze searched his face. “Thank you,” she said with a touch of confusion. Her mare whinnied when she saw Phoebe, and she used the excuse to regain her hand. “I’ve not had an opportunity to ride her in a few days.”

Marcus admired the mare’s points. She was as dainty a chestnut as he’d ever seen. Her bloodlines were obviously excellent.

Phoebe walked around his large roan. “Marcus, he is lovely. What is he, eighteen hands?”

“Yes.” Marcus shook his head. “Is there anything you don’t know about horses?”

She grinned. “Not much. What is his name?”

“Rufus. I bought him shortly after I returned.”

When Marcus lifted Phoebe to the saddle, he heard her breath catch, and she glanced at him. He was pleased to see her as affected as he was. She had to know that their connection was growing, but she said nothing. Other than allowing him to kiss her and protect her, she’d given him no clue as to her feelings. How was he supposed to know if she loved him or would accept him?

Upon reaching the Park’s gate, they urged their horses to a trot.

“I love to ride. How did you know?” she asked.

He kept pace with her as they headed toward Rotten Row. “Someone may have mentioned it to me the other evening.”

“Ah,” Phoebe said, smiling. “My sister or my brother-in-law?”

“Neither,” Marcus responded. “Rutherford.”

Phoebe put the mare through her paces. “Oh, Marcus, look at her. She’s always so playful.”

They reached the track on Rotten Row and Phoebe gave the horse her head.

Marcus admired Phoebe’s seat and the light way she held her reins.

He pulled up behind her at the turn. “She’s fast. I thought I’d catch you easily.”

“She’s like the wind, isn’t she?” Phoebe’s face glowed. “Uncle Henry said she had thoroughbred in her line. She is wonderful.”

“What is her name?”

“Lilly.”

“Race you?” he asked.

Phoebe looked around and, seeing no one, she replied joyously, “Yes, why not!”

His heart swelled at the excitement on her face. My God, he loved her more every day.

They laughed and galloped back down the track. They were in no hurry. Breakfast would not be served for another three hours at least in either of their houses.

Phoebe had been so glad to see him this morning. More so than she thought she’d be. On horseback, she could study Marcus more easily than when driving her phaeton. His seat was excellent, and she was happy to see him so at ease with a horse he’d not had long. Rufus knew who was his master. Phoebe remembered what Marcus had said a few days ago about being used to having his orders obeyed. Now that she let herself, she could see it. Then it occurred to her that he was never on the go. Never smelled of brandy. His scent was more of leather, and the sea. His hands, when they touched hers, had been strong and slightly callused, as if he’d done manual work. She liked the feel of them.

As she urged Lilly to a trot, she realized he was letting her set the pace.

They were among a group of trees, when Marcus stopped.

Phoebe reined in beside him, waiting.

He settled Rufus close to her then reached over to take her face to kiss her. Just at that moment, the horses decided to move apart. “Well, it was a good idea when I thought of it.”

She laughed. It occurred to her that she’d wanted him to kiss her, even here, where anyone could ride past.

A low growl from her stomach caught her attention. “I’m famished.”

Marcus nodded. “As am I. When I have a household of my own again, I’ll order breakfast to be served early.”

She turned Lilly toward the gate. “I’ll wager if we go back to St. Eth House now, François, my uncle’s chef, will find something to feed us.”

“Lead on.”

After they entered St. Eth House, Phoebe motioned to Marcus to follow her through the baize door leading to the kitchen.

With a brilliant smile on her face, she approached François, the St. Eth
chef de cuisine
. “François, we have been riding and are so very hungry. Will you feed us?”

He glanced from her to Marcus.
“Oui, milady. Naturellement
.
”

François gave them each a warm bun with honey before shooing them up the stairs to await their breakfast.

Phoebe took a place at the table and Marcus sat next to her. Ferguson brought tea and she poured them each a cup. The buns were wonderful, tasting of honey and butter. She wondered what François would send up for the rest of their breakfast.

Marcus gave a satisfied sigh. “Phoebe, I can’t thank you enough for the tea. I almost always have to have coffee at home.”

That was very strange. Puzzled, she asked, “Why do you not ask for tea to be served if you don’t like coffee?” It was the first time she’d ever seen him disgruntled.

“I asked for tea once, years ago, and my father gave me coffee. He was so adamant, I never asked again. I still feel like a guest at Dunwood House, as if I’ll be returning to Jamaica. . . .”

She understood the feeling of not having a home. “As if you don’t belong anymore?”

“Yes.” He reached for her hands. “How did you know?”

Phoebe closed her fingers around his. “When Geoffrey married Amabel, I stayed just long enough to make sure she felt comfortable in her role and with our—their people. Now, although they both assure me it is still my home, I don’t feel that bond anymore. It is no longer my place to make changes.”

“Such as starting the orphan asylum?”

She smiled tightly. “Yes, that and other things. Responsibilities, which were mine for so many years, are now Amabel’s. I have very little to do at the Place. No occupation to speak of. I am not used to being idle or superfluous.”