Potent Charms (37 page)

"No, sir, you did not."

"Splendid." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "By my
calculation, you must wed in three days. I see no reason to
wait. I took the liberty of procuring a special license. I
would like to marry tomorrow with my daughter in attendance."

"You've been quite thorough, haven't you?"

"I apologize that I cannot offer more than this."

"You offer more than I expected."

"Best to understand now, Phoebe. I leave very little to
chance. I want a wife and a mother and someone to bear an
heir. My proposal likely seems cold-hearted, but I would
not make it if I didn't think we could be happy. Are you
willing to take the risk?"

"I appreciate your honesty and you deserve mine before
this discussion goes any further. I still care a great deal for
Lord Badrick."

"I gathered as much from the other night at the museum.
Will you be faithful to me?"

She wanted to be insulted, but he had every right to ask
such a question. "Be assured that if I accept your proposal,
I would never do anything to embarrass or shame you."

"You're an honorable young woman. If I truly considered your infidelity a possibility, we would not be having
this discussion. I think you needed to hear yourself say the
words." He grinned, a warm boyish smile. "Perhaps I
needed to hear the words as well."

Her mood had improved with the conversation. His
quiet acceptance made her next request easier to ask. "In
all fairness to both you and myself, there is something I
must do."

His expression filled with understanding. "You wish to
contact Lord Badrick."

"I must."

"Is that wise?"

"I owe him the truth. He will come to see me or not.
Either way, I shall have my answer. I will send you a note
tomorrow morning. If need be, I can be ready to travel by
the afternoon."

He clasped her chin in his fingertips. Knowing he
intended to kiss her, she allowed her eyes to drift shut. His
lips met hers in a sweet, soothing kiss. She felt no fire, but
neither did she experience any disgust. He collected his hat
and stood. "I shan't wish you luck, for his good fortune
would be my loss. Whatever you choose, I will understand."

She watched his retreating back. Theirs would never be
a passionate marriage, rather one forged of friendship and
respect. She could be content.

Stephen's dart sailed through the smoky haze of the Lusty
Dog and landed in the cutout bottom of a whiskey barrel
that served as a target. Although his opponent, a sailor with
arms the size of tree limbs, grumbled and added another coin to Stephen's growing pile, the bull's-eye did nothing
to ease the suffocating anxiety he felt. Ever since his conversation with Phoebe, he had tried to come to terms with
losing her to Tewksbury.

This morning Stephen had escaped his house to come to
terms with his recent decision. Phoebe needed him. He
wanted her. And God help him, he loved her. Nothing or no
one, not a curse, a vindictive Gypsy, bitter relative or even
his own fears would keep him from Phoebe. It was time to
bury his ghosts once and for all. Though he had made his
mind up, he still needed a bit of time to accept his decision.
Yanking the wooden points from the target, Stephen
decided he had time for another game or two. Perhaps his
mood would improve. After all, wasn't a man supposed to
be happy when he proposed to his bride-to-be?

With that thought squeezing his mind, he saw Winston
threading his way through the crowded tavern, oblivious to
the stares and hushed whispers he attracted. Stephen's
presence had been quietly accepted after a few heated
glares. Evidently the presence of two lords was something
to be remarked upon.

Winston stopped and swiped his hand across the nearby
table to inspect the grime collected on his leather glove. He
grimaced. "By Henry, this place should either be torched,
or at the very least scoured with lye soap and aired for a
month."

"The price one pays for anonymity, my friend. No one
here prattles in my ear, nor do they cast disparaging
remarks or scowls my way. How did you find me?"

"I went by your home. Your coachman implied you
might be found here. He seemed unhappy, and I understand his ire. I remember this tavern from our last adventure."

"What do you want?" Stephen asked absently.

Stephen's opponent, who had been silently observing the conversation, finally lost his patience. He shoved Winston to the side no small feat considering Winston's powerful frame to stand directly in front of Stephen. He
grumbled, "You going to play or wag your lips? I want to
win some of me blunt back."

Winston glanced superciliously the meaty hand that
dared soil his linen jacket, then crossed his arms over his
chest.

Stephen smoothed the whiskers of his mustache as his
mood improved considerably. Perhaps a brawl was just the
thing he needed to purge the last of his frustration and in
a place like this a person simply planted a facer on one
man and soon the entire crowd was exchanging fisticuffs.
He grinned. "Winston, meet Scoots."

"Pleased," Winston said as he gave Stephen a look of
understanding. He wasn't taking the bait. "By all means,
play," he said. "I'll make sure our little conversation
doesn't disturb your game." Scoots's grunt was his only
response. Winston started to sit down, changed his mind
and leaned against the wooden beam. He nodded to
Stephen's opponent. "Charming fellow. Unfortunately I
don't have time today to teach him any manners. Elizabeth
ordered me to find you and drag your arse her words,
mind you back to her, at which time she intends to smash
her silver tureen over your obstinate head while she enumerates the pitfalls of stupidity. Again, her words." He
spread his arms wide. "So here I am."

"And you live to do to her bidding."

Winston's face blossomed into that silly, I'm-in-love
expression that Stephen had grown accustomed to seeing
on his friend's face. As Winston shrugged his shoulders,
accepting his condition with his usual ease, he said, "What
can I say? Besides, I wanted to see how you fared as well.
I must say, you seem to be taking all this business in
stride."

"What am I to do?" Stephen muttered more to himself
than Winston, as he watched the giant score thirty-five
points. He didn't really care one way or the other about
the game, though he was disappointed he wasn't going
to have his fight after all." 'Tis a sorry state of affairs
when a mere slip of girl lies a man low. Like a willow,
he can only stand so much, then he either bends in the
breeze or snaps in two. The concept of snapping is
anathema to me."

Raising a brow over the remark, Winston lifted
Stephen's drink and sniffed. "Waxing a bit poetic, are we?
How much have you had to drink?"

"Not enough," Stephen said. He rolled the three darts in
his fingers.

"Your turn," said the sailor as he swaggered between the
two men.

Winston shook his head, sighed and continued to talk to
Stephen. "I truly thought a woman had come along whose
charms were potent enough to make you forget that ridiculous curse someone to make you happy."

"Make me happy? Hell, since I've known Phoebe, I've
been confused, agitated, frustrated and endured enough
social functions to last me three lifetimes. She's willful and
stubborn and she refuses to see reason unless it smacks her
between her beautiful green eyes."

The giant braced his feet apart. His stance suggested
they listen. "Play."

Patting the broad shoulder of his opponent, Stephen
said, "No need to cob on, Scoots." He tossed a dart,
pleased to score another bull's eye.

As he watched, Winston said, "Well then, everything has
worked out for the best."

Stephen snorted, thinking of the life before him. He
threw a dart and scored another ten points. "I shall have no peace. I will worry every waking moment of my day, wondering where Phoebe is and what she might be doing,
whether or not she is safe. I'll go mad in short order."

"You made your choice. Put her out of your mind."

"Play," Scoots boomed. It was a demand, not a request.

Discussing Phoebe so openly revived Stephen's need to
pound something or someone. Scoots was quickly becoming a likely candidate. Tom between planting the dart in
the sailor's arse or the board, Stephen aimed as he said to
Winston, "I think, my friend, it would be rather difficult to
forget one's wife."

Winston pushed away from the beam. "Wife? Dear
Heavens. Phoebe left with Lord Tewksbury this morning."

The dart flew from Stephen's hand, landing with a
whack in the wooden breast of a carved seagull that sat
perched on a shelf by the bar where Scoots stood. Stephen
whirled about to face Winston. "Impossible. She's to marry
me."

"Does she know that?" asked Winston.

"I said play," the giant boomed.

Winston planted a firm hand on the sailor's shoulder and
squeezed. "The game is over, my good fellow. Go away."

"I intended to inform Phoebe this afternoon." Stephen
continued as though Scoots were nonexistent. "I can't
believe she would up and marry another man without so
much as a by-your-leave."

"She sent you a note."

"The hell you say," snapped Stephen, his arms already in
his jacket. "I received no note. What makes you think I
did?"

"She said so last night at the opera."

"Well, I didn't receive a damned note. Come along. We
don't have time to waste." He reached for the coins on the
table.

Scoots's meaty hand landed on top of Stephen's with a
resounding thud. "I want me blunt back."

There was no hope for it. Scoots refused to see the need
for expediency. Stephen hung his head in resignation,
balled his hand into a fist and planted it squarely on the
giant's broad chin.

When Winston and Stephen approached Tewksbury
Manor, a lone black carriage, the sort used by a local vicar,
was parked in front. Stephen cursed, then muttered a plea
of mercy. They had made a brief stop at Hildegard's on the
off-chance Phoebe might still be there. They'd encountered
Hildegard, who'd gleefully claimed responsibility for the
missing note, then in the same breath ranted and raved
about the loss of Marsden Manor. Hildegard would always
be a lonely, bitter woman. Stephen pitied her.

For the last hour, during the harrowing ride from London, he'd vacillated between silence and profanity. Winston had abandoned all attempts at conversation long ago.
At the moment, Stephen Lambert, the Duke of Badrick,
was loutish company. He leaped from the vehicle before
the horses completely stopped.

Winston quickly followed, trying one last time to appeal
to Stephen's common sense. "At least find out if they've
married before you attack like Edward on Scotland. A scene is the last thing you need to press your case."
Stephen charged up the stairs two at a time. "Why do I
have the feeling you're ignoring everything I say?" Winston called up.

"Because I am." Stephen rapped the brass knocker
against the giant oak door.

Knowing when to wave the flag of surrender, Winston
leaned against the brick wall and sighed. "This should be
interesting."

Stephen pounded, prepared to break the bloody door
down. When the butler finally peered out, his eyes were
round with shock. No small wonder, thought Stephen. His
jacket was torn and his eye was swollen half-shut. Winston
had fared no better in the brawl they'd just escaped. He
sported a bloody lip, a lump above his brow from a pewter
mug and more blood smattered on his lovely white cravat.
The stench of the bar from their clothing did nothing to
soothe the servant's nervousness. At the moment, Stephen
didn't give a damn. He shoved his way across the threshold. "Where the hell is Tewksbury?"

When the butler continued to gape, open-mouthed,
Stephen marched through the foyer and down the hall, his
footsteps thundering on the marble floor. He opened doors,
peeked inside, and, finding nothing, he slammed them shut
and proceeded farther. The butler practically ran to keep
up. Winston followed behind, doing his best to placate the
poor man before he dropped to the floor in a fit of
apoplexy.

A familiar tiny blonde with a mop of curls on her head
appeared at the bottom of the stairs. She tilted her head
regally and observed Stephen's approach. With all the dignity of Queen Elizabeth, the moppet wrinkled her nose and
pursed her lips. "You stink."

Stephen paused. "So good of you to notice. Where is
your father?"

She turned to the butler who was readying himself to
call in reserves at the least provocation. "Go along, Simpson, I can handle this." To honor the girl's wishes, the butler skulked to a nearby room but hovered in the doorway.
Bliss faced Stephen, and judging from the stern expression
on her face, the chit was about to offer him the proper setdown. "What do you want?"