Potent Charms (18 page)

Slowly and seductively, he raked his gaze from one
ivory shoulder to the other, over her breasts, down her
torso, lower still and finally back up again. "I think you are
afraid. Afraid of what might happen between us."

"Nonsense. I'd just rather go inside and discuss my matrimonial candidates. You are supposed to offer council and
names."

His fingers toyed with the delicate gold necklace encircling her slender neck. "I'd rather make you mine."

Her nostrils flared and a gasp of air escaped her halfparted lips. "I'd rather you tell me about Lord Pennbright."

"The poor boy barely changes his trousers without his mother's approval. You marry him. You marry her.'"
Stephen's hand drifted to the small cluster of pearls that
rested between her breasts, his gaze focused on the shaded
hollow. "Tell me, Phoebe, do you like my touch?"

Her shoulders rose and fell dramatically with each
breath. "A true lady never enjoys a man's advances. What
about Lord Hemsley?"

Stephen considered the St. Anne Orphanage near St.
Giles, Hemsley's current philanthropic project. "He's a
bloody bosky. Often drinks himself into oblivion and practically bleeds his money to make amends." Leaning forward, he traced the delicate curve of her ear with his
tongue. "And you've been listening to Hildegard again.
You didn't answer my question. Do you wonder what else
lovers do?"

"I, um "She cocked her head to the side, allowing him
greater access. "Tell me about Lord Tewksbury."

Annoyance crept up Stephen's neck. There was little he
could say against Tewksbury. In fact, he respected the man.
Nibbling his way from her ear to her lips, he murmured,
"He's as dull as ditch water. He'd never make you bum."

"What?"

Her skin flushed a lovely shade of pink and to his great
pleasure her pulse pounded beneath his fingertips. "The
hell with Tewksbury," he said as his mouth devoured hers.
All conversation ceased as rational thought fled on the fluttering wings of sensation.

He'd set out to seduce her with words and had seduced
himself. Touch was not simply desired but necessary to
erase all other men from her mind. Passion ruled supreme.

When she molded herself to him, he whispered sounds
of encouragement, nonsensible sighs that brushed her ear
and teased his mind. He nibbled his way to her shoulder.
His hand inched upward to cover her breast. Her nipple
strained to greet his caress. With no consideration to time
or place, hearing only her ragged breathing and whimpers
of pleasure, he inched Phoebe's dress from her shoulders,
feathering gentle, wispy kisses over her heated skin. Each
alabaster inch he discovered aroused him more.

The silky fabric caught on the tips of her engorged
breasts. When Stephen leaned back to witness the stunning
vision, Phoebe opened her eyes and met his gaze with the
same intensity that surely burned in his. She followed his
eyes to the tops of her breasts and lifted her hand to cover
herself. Stephen shook his head, his voice a mere thread
and said, "Let me."

Phoebe wasn't sure if she spoke or not, wasn't sure if he
asked or told. The sight of her breasts nearly bared for his
perusal embarrassed yet inflamed her, weakening any and
all of her defenses. She raised her hands to his shoulders as
his hands slipped her dress to her waist. His fingers, slender and tanned, plucked her swollen nipple, shooting an
arrow of heat to her very core. The caress of his hand sent
a river of desire to Phoebe's belly and spiraled outward,
skittering over her skin and down her limbs. She arched
her back, not caring whether the action was wanton or not.
Her body craved his touch.

Both his hands cupped her breasts. "You are so damned
beautiful."

His praise, spoken in a husky whisper, thrilled her feminine pride. When his mouth covered one taut peak, she fell
into a pit so deep, so powerful, she cried out. The sounds
she made were foreign to her, but she couldn't stop them.
Tension built and expanded. Restlessness tortured her
body, all seemingly centered in the place between her
thighs. She strained closer to Stephen, tugged his head
upward. Wanton or not, driven by an unknown need, she
had to kiss him, wanted his body pressed fully against hers.

His arousal strained against his trousers, and through the
fabric of their clothes, he pressed against her very core, her
soft cries of surprise melting to shock, then into a lusty groan.
He continued the torturous rocking motion, driving them
both to madness. He wanted her naked beneath him, every
stitch of clothing piled on the floor. Such irrational thoughts were not only dangerous, but impossible. That knowledge
made his movements more desperate. He pressed his hardened length against her one last time, then ceased to move at
all. Phoebe whimpered his name and clung to his shoulders,
her head resting on his chest.

Seconds turned moments to minutes. The scent of passion filled the air. His body clamored for satisfaction.
Likely Phoebe felt the same, although he doubted she
understood the reasons why. The blasted female had no
idea the extent of his restraint. He wasn't an untried youth
incapable of controlling his baser urges, but surely this was
the closest he'd ever come to taking a woman - a virgin, he
reminded himself in a barn at a social function of more
than a hundred people. Damn his honor.

He wanted a bed and candles and satin sheets when he
made love to her the first time. He wanted her full acquiescence. If he lived that long. An extended state of arousal
couldn't be healthy for his well being or his throbbing
cock. Lifting his head, he reluctantly pulled Phoebe's dress
to its proper place. She kept her face hidden from his.
Lord, his passion had probably scared her to death. Still he
waited, prepared to explain the ways of men and women.
Damned if he'd apologize though. Not when she'd moaned
his name as she experienced the first stirrings of a woman's
pleasure.

When she finally gained the courage to look at him, he
nearly finished what he'd begun. Her eyes held no recrimination, no embarrassment or shame, only surprise and
something akin to awe. Lord, how she humbled him.

She started to speak and he pressed his finger to her lips.
If she spoke one word, uttered what he saw reflected in
her eyes, he wouldn't be responsible for his actions. She
needed the safety of people. A multitude of people. "Shhh,
sweetheart. Say nothing." Allowing her no opportunity for rebuttal, he grasped her hand and led her from the barn in
silence.

The stars shone brighter, the air smelled fresher, Phoebe's
senses more alive than she'd ever thought possible. The
breeze teased her skin, reminding her of Stephen's caresses
and her uninhibited response stimulated by pure explosive
pleasure.

She certainly had a better understanding of why some
women did the things they did and she imagined there was
more, so much more, to experience. Had Stephen not
stopped, likely she would never have asked him to. The
man, his touches, his kisses, obliterated reason.

When they reached the door to the conservatory and
peered through it, she immediately sensed his withdrawal.
She remembered her earlier conversation with those horrible women. No wonder he avoided his own kind, erecting
walls around his emotions and private life. She knew
enough to know one didn't change someone else's way of
thinking overnight.

Like a small cotton bush, a seed had to be planted before
new roots took hold.

Also, with a little nudge from her, maybe, just maybe,
people might judge Stephen differently. Of course, a little
cooperation on his part would be useful.

"You look like the barmaid trying to pull a pint from an
empty keg," Stephen said. "What are you thinking?"

She knew he wouldn't discuss his status in society. She
refused to discuss their little interlude in the barn, and
she doubted he wanted to discuss her matrimonial choices.
She lied. "I was thinking about Marsden Manor."

Kissing the knuckles of her fingers, he said, "If you
wish, I can continue your lessons while we venture to the
coast tomorrow."

She tilted her head to one side and pursed her lips. "I
assume you refer to your offer to help me find a husband?"

He leaned close to her ear. "Think again, my dear."

A soft whisp of air teased the nape of her neck, making
her tremble through her limbs to her fingertips. She cleared
her throat, pretending not to be affected. She was thinking
all right, but it certainly wasn't anything she cared to share
at the moment. She had her owns plans for the trip to Marsden Manor.

Phoebe tugged the hood of her cape about her head in a
futile attempt to keep the rain off her face, her eyes riveted
on the massive stone structure looming before her. "My
inheritance seems to be falling apart."

"Lord, child," Nanny Dee muttered as she stood beside
the carriage. "You sure this is the place?"

"According to the vicar. This is Marsden Manor."

Gravel crunched beneath Stephen's feet as he joined the
two women. He stood silent for a moment, then cleared his
throat. "Phoebe, my dear,, ,tis propitious this place is two
days' ride from London. If a suitor managed to make it
across those roads without losing his way, one look at this
place and he would scuttle back to civilization with his
betrothal ring tucked in his waistcoat pocket."

Regardless of the truth of the statement, Phoebe shot
Stephen a quelling look. She certainly didn't need him to
point out the shortcomings of her inheritance. They were
as plain as day itself. Turning back to examine the build ing, she sighed. Marsden Manor was not what she had
expected.

Four ornate spires, one on each corner, rose to varied
heights above the three-storied mansion. Pointed arches set
with leaded glass lined the entire front of the manor along
with a score of gargoyles precariously balanced on crumbling stone ledges. Like battle-worn sentries who currently
spit water through their mouths, each seemed to be missing
an ear, a wing or some body part. She sighed again, this
time her shoulders falling with the deep breath. Marsden
Manor was an elaborate, poorly designed combination of a
French chateau and a house of horrors that was tumbling to
the ground, stone by gray stone. And it was all hers or
soon would be. Once she married. Right now, at this very
moment, she wished her inheritance had been a small brick
cottage anyplace where dry weather prevailed.

Between Dee's constant scrutiny, Stephen's incessant
probing into the type of husband she wanted, Elizabeth's
sudden indigestion and Winston's worrying about Elizabeth, the two-day trip had been long and tedious. The poor
weather, the hour spent pulling their carriage from the
mud, coupled with the fact that they had gotten lost twice,
hadn't helped. They gained no comfort in the pitiful food
served at the inn last night either. Now, to arrive here and
discover this... well... a meal with Hildegard almost
became appealing. Hoping to hide her disappointment, she
said, "Perhaps the inside offers a different perspective."

Winston stopped beside Stephen with Elizabeth in his
arms. "Let us hope the roof repels water."

"Come on," Dee ordered. "We're all getting soaking
wet. We'd best go inside and see if n it's any better."

Elizabeth struggled in Winston's arms. "For heaven's
sake, put me down. My stomach hurts, not my feet."

Stephen grasped Phoebe's elbow, following Winston
and Elizabeth up the steps as they pecked at one another like two guinea hens. The massive double doors were
patched with odd pieces of wood and the brass gargoyle
knocker was missing its right hand. When no one
responded to his pounding, Stephen turned the knob and
crossed the threshold.

The sinking feeling in the pit of Phoebe's stomach
plummeted all the way to her knees. The inside wasn't a
sight better than the outside. Cracks in the plaster stretched
across the bare walls like veins in an aging hand. A worn
Aubusson rug covered the wooden floor while a ricketylooking bannister, missing a quarter of its rungs, led
upstairs. The house needed a good cleaning, better lighting, new furnishings, and then some. All of which required
money. Something she lacked.

Quicker than hell could scorch a feather, the formidable
task of finding a suitable husband willing to keep her
inheritance had become almost insurmountable. That is, if
she couldn't convince Stephen to marry her.

Stephen rubbed a finger through the dust on a small
table in the entry way. "You did say you sent word of your
visit?"

"Yes." Her voice quivered slightly. "I wrote as soon as I
received a note from my solicitor and gave our tentative
date of arrival."

"Perhaps they never received the missive," Elizabeth
interjected. She pressed her hand over her mouth. "Oh,
dear, I think I'm going to be sick again."

Winston bolted toward the stairs, calling over his shoulder. "I'm going to try to find my wife a chamber pot and
put her to bed."