Lessons in Enchantment

by Patricia Rice

  Unfazed by her request, Andrew spoke to an older lady wearing a permanent frown of disapproval. “She needs sturdy brown walking boots. Send one of your girls to fetch a shoemaker.”

  Phoebe almost giggled as the old crone gaped at his audacious command. Let someone else suffer his male arrogance.

  Another eager young clerk curtsied. “I’ll bring Mr. Ledbetter, sir. Might I suggest a pretty pair of kid slippers for around the house as well?”

  “Excellent. Tell Mr. Ledbetter to bring samples.” He glanced down at Phoebe’s bare feet as if deciding what else he could demand.

  She pulled up her skirt and daringly pointed her toe at him, almost laughing at the sudden blank expression of lust softening the furious tension in his jaw muscles. She wasn’t averse to vicarious thrills, and that look went a long way toward preventing her from killing him. “Stockings. While you’re behaving like Napoleon conquering Austria, order stockings, sturdy ones.”

  “Silk ones,” he countered, not tearing his gaze from her toes.

  The hatchet-faced older woman finally stepped in. “A trousseau?” she suggested in disdainful tones.

  Phoebe supposed it was the disapproving hauteur of women like this that had kept her out of fancy shops. She disliked being judged for the clothes she chose. Used clothing could be purchased without snotty clerks and tossed aside without a qualm once damaged. And generally plain gowns didn’t require hampering corsets and crinolines.

  But she loved pretty fabrics as much as anyone. And really, the old woman was no more than a shopkeeper. Did it really matter if a clerk was accustomed to wealthy clients and disapproved of impoverished nobility? Filthy impoverished nobility. It stung to be humiliated, so possibly it mattered a little, but now that she was here, she’d make the best of it.

  “A trousseau, yes,” Andrew said with such satisfaction that he begged to have a bolt of wool flung at his head. “Silks and lace.”

  “No,” Phoebe corrected. “I want two pair of plain, sturdy stockings, a new chemise in good calico, flannel knickerbockers and matching petticoat for the winter, to go under the striped gown.” She dropped her skirt to hide her feet and headed back to the dressing area and the waiting seamstresses.

  “A complete trousseau in silk and laces and frilly nightwear,” Andrew countermanded. “And a blue gown immediately, with whatever frippery it requires.”

  Phoebe swung and glared. “No crinolines or gowns requiring them, ever. And if you demand anything else, I shall order a new split skirt and wool stockings. I can buy my own clothing, thank you, so you need to toddle on to your meetings.”

  “It’s not what you can do that concerns me,” he replied with equal emphasis. “It’s what you won’t do. So I’m not going anywhere until I see boxes of fripperies sitting on that counter.” He crossed his arms, leaned against the wall, and crossed one booted foot over the other as if he meant to become part of the furniture.

  Phoebe lifted a hand mirror to fling at him, but the young clerk hurriedly presented a stack of chemises and distracted her. “If you’ll step behind the curtain, we can take your measurement, and you can try these on while we pin up the blue gown.”

  Torn between wanting to beat the obstinate man about his thick head, and the allure of pretty fabrics and new attire, Phoebe thought she might rip right down the middle. Instead of following the clerk, she studied the ridiculous stack of delicate underthings with longing and demanded, “Why are you doing this to me? Is this some perverted revenge?”

  “Aye right,” the annoying man agreed dryly. “The woman takes years off my life and dumps her biddy of a mother on my doorstep, and it’s revenge I need. Torture her, ladies. Cover her up from head to foot in frills and furbelows so she remembers she’s female. And then figure out how to make that split contraption so she isn’t showing her knickers to all the kingdom while flitting around on that dratted penny farthing.”

  A reply to that just wasn’t possible. Phoebe allowed the clerks to push her back into the dressing room while her frazzled nerves and muddled mind tried to make sense of this day.

  She had savings. She could certainly buy her own clothing. She just didn’t, because there were better ways of spending her limited funds. Besides, she only destroyed anything she wore.

  But her feminine soul cried out for a bit of pretty ribbon or lace every so often. She loved her silly new hat. New boots would be practical, she told herself. They’d last for years. It was just. . . She studied the fancy underpinnings she’d never worn and simply couldn’t see the point.

  She reached for the blue flannel on the bottom of the stacks the clerks were piling around her. At this concession, a young seamstress shook out a frilly confection and held it up to Phoebe’s front while others divested her of her best gown. She’d worn her newest gown this morning to impress her mother and Andrew, and because she was to see their solicitor this afternoon, and. . . after rescuing Evie, it looked like every other rag in her wardrobe, only worse.

  And she was just a little bit tired of doing everything herself. She’d almost cried in relief when Andrew had materialized out of the crowd and started ordering men to hold up the draperies she’d flung down. The men might never have worked out what she’d intended if he hadn’t been there to organize them. He’d saved Mrs. Tarkington’s life and probably Evie’s. And she’d been grateful to have his broad shoulder to cry on when the horror had caught up with her.

  Against his will and in a state of fury, the man still offered the aid she’d never known.

  Which made this wardrobe feel like charity. Or payment for what she’d given freely, which terrified her. He couldn’t still mean to marry her, not after today.

  That fear took a little of the pleasure out of the pretty clothes the seamstresses kept producing from the depths of their storeroom. She let them take her measurements and tighten seams and hem a gown to wear now. She agreed to the brown striped merino because she simply couldn’t resist. It seemed horribly wasteful, but she agreed to a pair each of calico and flannel undergarments. She refused a new corset, even though the design looked to be marvelously more comfortable than her own and had adorable embroidery. Determinedly, she donned the sturdy new stockings with the new blue wool gown and insisted that the bill be sent to Mr. Lithgow.

  She’d forgotten the shoes until it was time for her to leave, and she realized she had nothing to protect her new stockings.

  “The shoemaker is waiting, my lady,” a young clerk said. “Your gentleman is right. The blue looks beautiful with your eyes. Not many dark-haired ladies have such light eyes. It’s quite striking.”

  Malcolm blue eyes, Phoebe knew, inherited like the other odd traits her family often passed on. Her looks had never meant anything to her—until the moment she stepped out of the dressing room, into the shop, and Andrew’s eyes lit as if she’d just invented a flying machine.

  She suddenly felt shy. Her stylish new dress emphasized curves she’d never displayed in her ill-fitting second-hand gowns. She was much too aware of the way her bosom pushed against the ruffles of her bodice and her nipples brushed the soft cotton of her new chemise. She’d never paid much attention to her clothes before. They were merely there for decency and warmth.

  Andrew’s hungry gaze made her feel as if the garments were intended to be stripped off and cast aside. Which was when she began to understand his perverse commands for lingerie she’d never wear.

  The shoemaker distracted her by offering a pair of butter-soft tan boots with good stout heels and soles. A lad waited patiently by the door with a box of different sizes and shapes. The tan ones fitted perfectly, and Phoebe refused to take them off to try any others on.

  “Send the bill to Mr. Lithgow,” she said crisply, walking back and forth on the carpet, enjoying the way the leather cradled her foot—and the soles that didn’t flap.

  “Send the rest around to the address I gave you, and she can try them on at leisure,” Andrew ordered. “Come along, my lady, before your mother sends out
search parties.”

  He could tempt her all he liked, but she didn’t have to buy anything more. In all likelihood, she’d be moving in with her mother to a new residence soon. She reached for her ratty gloves, realized they were in her old gown, and didn’t have time to call for them before Andrew handed her a lovely pair to match her new blue dress.

  He handed out gold coins as if they were water. The staff bobbed and curtsied, and Phoebe had to bite her tongue, knowing how much those rare coins meant to ill-paid clerks.

  Plastering on a smile, she thanked everyone, made certain they had her solicitor’s address, and with one last glance in a mirror to see how Dahlia’s hat complimented the new dress, she stalked out.

  “You may go on about your business, sir,” she informed Andrew once outside. “It’s only a short distance to the house from here. I can walk it.”

  “The horse must go back in its stable. If you won’t ride, I’ll walk with you. The clerk is correct. That dress sets off your beautiful blue eyes. What is the chance we can talk privately without your mother breathing fire down our backs?” He unfastened the reins of his horse from the post.

  His flattery shouldn’t go to her head, but unaccustomed to anyone noticing her eyes, it did. Phoebe was intensely aware of his broad form even as he stayed to the street with his horse. He’d managed to keep his silk hat through all the morning’s travails, and his elegantly tailored suit scarcely looked rumpled. She didn’t know how he did it, which made her grumpier.

  “Almost none,” she replied curtly, although the steam had finally seeped from her temper. Consequences had a way of doing that. “Mr. Lithgow is probably with her now. You are far better off finding a meeting to attend than accompanying me back to the house.”

  “If you’ll take the front stairs when we arrive, I’ll take the horse back to the stable, and we’ll at least avoid the questions about where we’ve been. But we will talk,” he said firmly, pointing her toward the pretty walkway by the park.

  “That’s all we’ll do,” she reminded him, marching away before she could give in to weakness and ask if they could just run away to the Americas.

  Twenty-four

  Hugh, unsurprisingly, had reached the house first. He had papers in hand before Drew even took off his hat. Simon paced the hall and practically dragged Drew into the workshop before he’d divested himself of his coat. Apparently his cousin had recovered from his drunken stupor and was in full battle mode.

  Drew was more interested in listening for feminine voices in the front room, but Hugh waved the documents in his face, as always, to command his attention.

  “The consortium wants us to negotiate with the lienholders. That’s why I called you out there before all the rumpus began. Then I come back here and the lawyer we’re supposed to consult on the negotiations is sitting right there in the front room!”

  “Talking to a countess,” Simon said in disgust, before heaving his battleax into the fray. “I’ll be taking the children and finding a safer place for them. Just because we caught the culprits doesn’t mean the ones who give orders won’t try again.”

  Having spent a day fighting fear, himself, and Phoebe, Drew grabbed the metal rim of Phoebe’s bicycle in his bare hands. He twisted spokes to settle his frustration without beating his cousin over the head. “You’ll not be going anywhere without a governess to mind the weans.”

  And he damned well wasn’t sending Phoebe away unless he went with her.

  He swung on Hugh, avoiding the stack of papers. “The lawyer is out there because he is solicitor for Lady Phoebe and the countess, who just happen to be the lienholders with whom we must negotiate.”

  His brain might be a muddle, but he’d finally assembled that nugget of certainty. She’d owned a flat in that wreck of a building. He let the news smack his partner in the face.

  Hugh gaped, then slumped into a chair, digesting the magnitude of the problem with his usual mathematical precision. “We can’t cover the cost of a lien.”

  “And we can’t ask Phoebe and her mother to take less than the flat is worth. They need the funds to find another place to live,” Drew said, whacking a spoke back into place.

  His governess, an earl’s daughter, was homeless—with no means to correct the situation.

  “Which means paying more than we have,” Hugh said miserably. “Or taking in another investor.”

  Simon threw up his hands. “Don’t look at me! I’ve sunk everything into that mine they’re trying to shut down. I have more than I can manage already.”

  “How the devil did we end up in this witch’s brew?” Hugh asked, crumpling his papers in disgust.

  Simon laughed without humor. “You called on Letitia’s family, remember? The School of Malcolms? They should have called it the School of Magic.”

  Magic or not, Phoebe’s aunts probably knew about the sale of any property relating to their family and had deliberately stirred the cauldron by sending Phoebe here. He could almost respect their perspicacity. Drew whacked another spoke as Abby timidly knocked on the door frame.

  “Cook asks if you be wanting a luncheon sent up,” she said into the frustrated silence following Simon’s remark.

  They stared at the maid in astonishment.

  Cook never asked. It was well past the hour when she sent up the meats and breads that went stale and attracted mice before they got around to looking for food. Drew’s stomach was eating him from the inside out, but he’d expected to forage.

  This change in routine had to be the work of the magic women in the parlor—ones accustomed to ordering servants about and expecting to be obeyed.

  Drew flung down his hammer. “Serve it in my office, if you would, please.”

  Knowing Cook’s predilections better than Simon, Hugh raised his eyebrows in query.

  “Phoebe.” Drew stalked for his office, trying not to appear too desperate. “I’ll have to marry her just to get fed.”

  Following him, Simon laughed hollowly. “Better you than me. Once the bairns start coming, she’ll forget you exist, just wait and see.”

  That was bloody rubbish. Letitia had doted on him. But if it made Simon feel better. . .

  But the notion of children spun Drew’s head around, and he didn’t try to answer.

  “If you marry Phoebe, you could make her partner. . .” Hugh hurried after him, plotting.

  “If I marry, I’ll have to throw the lot of you out on your maggoty heads,” Drew countered, unable to focus without a hammer in his hand. “I’ll have to find a real workshop and an office, and I won’t have funds for investing in foolishness. So let’s plan with what we have and not wish upon stars.”

  Simon hooted in derision. “You’ll not have a life to call your own. Give it up, man, and go beg the girl for her hand and her flat, and I’ll handle the Association on me own.”

  “It’s all over but the shouting,” Hugh said gloomily, helping himself to a sandwich before Abby could set her tray on the desk. “I’ll go live in the slum and supervise the project.”

  “Where’s the whisky? We need to mourn the man’s bachelor state and congratulate him on his upcoming nuptials.” Simon rummaged among the bookshelves, hunting for Drew’s hidden liquor cache.

  Recalling Phoebe’s joyous acceptance of his lovemaking, her trembling body as she cried into his shoulder, her naked toes defying his notion of propriety, Drew savagely devoured his sandwich and blocked out the mockery.

  He’d built his wealth on sheer stubbornness and a refusal to stay knocked down. He simply had to decide on a goal and go after it. He’d like more time for that decision.

  He didn’t have time. Hugh had worked hard on obtaining those properties. He needed an answer now. Simon was in danger of losing himself inside a bottle if he couldn’t see his children safe and his wife avenged now.

  And Phoebe. . . Phoebe could be carrying his child. She might take wing and fly at any moment, before he’d had time to work through all the ramifications of marrying well beyond his sta
tion or his imagination.

  Marriage and children should prevent her from attempting any more reckless stunts like today, right?

  “I’ll make the women see reason,” he decided, saying it aloud so he would believe it.

  His friends’ hoots as he set down his sandwich and headed out the door warned he was only fooling himself, that his cock was doing the thinking for him.

  Phoebe almost choked on her watercress sandwich when Andrew stalked through the parlor doorway, looking like a condemned man.

  He’d shed his tailored coat and was in shirtsleeves, his form-fitting waistcoat and trousers indecently exhibiting his broad shoulders, muscled chest, and narrow hips. She gaped, unable to disguise a surge of lust and the need to examine the placket. . . Swallowing, she focused on his cravat, rumpled from the morning’s adventures. But then her gaze followed the strong column of his throat to the square jut of his jaw and his grim expression. . .

  She was sitting here in all her new finery, looking like a proper lady for a change, and he appeared to have done a morning’s work in a stable. She sipped tea to stop gaping.

  “Mr. Blair,” Lady Persephone said sharply. “Your coat, please?”

  Ignoring the countess, he turned to Mr. Lithgow. “Sir, I believe we have a lien to discuss. Once that is resolved, the ladies can make their decisions.”

  Phoebe’s stomach dropped to her feet, and she set her teacup aside. Why would he know about the lien?

  The friendly solicitor stood to shake his host’s hand. “I represent the ladies, you understand, sir. You’ll need your own man to handle this properly.”

  Phoebe narrowed her eyes. “Mr. Lithgow, you have told Mr. Blair about our private conversations?”

  The solicitor beamed, his eyes bright behind his wire-rimmed spectacles. “Of course not, my dear lady, of course not. I have done my very best to keep your current situation and your business completely separate. I have not revealed your names. Apparently Mr. Blair has learned it from another source.”