by Peggy Waide
"To be my mistress." Stephen said.
"I see." Actually Phoebe saw nothing at all but a man she thought handsome and charming enough to seduce a stable filled with women, a man who looked overly proud of himself with his chin lifted and a cocky grin plastered on his face. Goodness, he infuriated and intrigued her. However had he come to the conclusion she would be willing to agree to such a proposal? She tapped the toes on her left foot and twisted the reins into a tight knot about her fingers. "We hardly know one another. What makes you think such a relationship even possible?"
"Quite simply, 1 want you."
She knew he intended to kiss her. And no tree blocked her escape this time. Truth be told, wanton or not, she'd been waiting, even hoping, for this very moment. She watched his fingers, long and elegant, slide about her waist, and she trembled. His other hand gripped her chin. As his lips descended, she met him halfway.
DUCHESS FOR A DAY
For Kevin, Dakota, Jordan and Alex. I love you all.
This title was previously published by Dorchester Publishing; this version has been reproduced from the Dorchester book archive files.
Penrith, England, 1723
Lightning flashed across the sky. A clap of thunder shook the ground. The wind howled. The trees and shadows swayed as partners in an eerie dance to mother nature's music. Soon rain would pummel the ground. It was not a good night to be out. Yet, from beneath the canopy of his tent, Lord Badrick watched a shriveled old crone hover outside the circle of light cast by his fire.
"Duke," she called. "Dare you face me?"
She emerged from the mist, a creature of the night, one with the forest. Lord Badrick's two companions bounded to their feet, their hands gripping the hilts of their swords. One wave of the Duke's arm stalled their action. "What is the meaning of this?"
"I see you do not recognize me," she said. Three small steps brought her closer. Gold coin earrings glittered in the firelight. Her multi-colored skirt flared about her ankles as she walked.
"You are a gypsy."
"More than that, I am Juliana Romov, mother of Rosala."
The wind gusted, lifting the heavy wool of Lord Badrick's cloak. He shifted his weight from leg to leg, narrowing his eyes to reexamine the woman before him. "The name means little to me."
"Promising wealth and marriage, you seduced my Rosala. Without remorse, you discarded her to marry your noble lady. In shame, Rosala took her life. Now, she lies beneath the cold ground. You will pay."
"Wait a bloody minute"
"Ay, Romale, ay Chavale, sa lumiake Roma" The gypsy's voice rose in volume as she chanted the ancient curse. Ake vryama. Vi"
"For God's sake, speak English."
"God cannot help you now. Already, the crows gather, awaiting the deaths that shall follow."
"Cease this trickery. I will not give you a farthing."
"You think money can buy my forgiveness?" The gypsy spat on the ground before her. "Foolish man. Your title, your power and your threats mean nothing to me. Only tragedy will accompany your wealth." She pointed a tangled root at the duke while her left hand clutched a gold amulet around her neck. "For generations to come, the sons of your house will beget sons. Each son will marry noble ladies and each marriage will end in loneliness, misery and death as long as the Romany travel the pathways of this land."
An eerie cackling tumbled from the gypsy's mouth, taunting Badrick to step closer. She raised her gnarled fingers to the skies. "I call my curse from the heavens. May it canter hot on your heels to hell."
A bolt of lightning split the tree beside the woman. When the smoke cleared, only a blue-black braid of hair laced with colored ribbons and gold coins atop a tattered scrap of red linen remained.
London, 1817
Couples twirled on the white marble floor, a stark backdrop for the rainbow of colored gowns that filled the long, narrow ballroom. Yet, regardless of the festive air, Phoebe Rafferty stood amidst three hundred people and felt more alone than she'd ever thought possible. After one week, she hated England and British formality. She despised the task of finding a husband even more.
The small orchestra played a country dance. Phoebe tapped her satin-colored toes to the rhythm of the music, fighting the urge to clap like she would have back in Georgia. Instead, she fisted her hand in the soft folds of her gown and cursed her fate.
The shrill whisper of her aunt's voice invaded Phoebe's dreary thoughts. "Yes, Auntie?" she asked.
Lady Hildegard Goodliffe shrugged her twiglike shoulders and shook her head. "Phoebe, do stop fidgeting. Everyone will wonder if fleas infest your wardrobe, such as it is, or if you simply lack the ability to sit still."
Charity, Phoebe's cousin, giggled behind her fan. The feathered wrens perched in her mud-colored hair bobbed dangerously from side to side until one toppled to the floor. Whyever anyone would purposely choose to wear a stuffed bird in her hair escaped Phoebe. Stifling the urge to ask just that, she gritted her teeth. In a small act of defiance, she straightened her spine and thrust her bosom out further than Aunt Hildegard preferred. She peeked at her new guardian and saw what she saw every day. Superiority and disapproval.
"Remember your purpose, girl. This quest bears substantial difficulties as it is."
Phoebe erased all expression from her face and fixed her eyes on the sputtering candles of one of the three massive chandeliers that hung from the domed ceiling. Lands alive, she had very little time. If she did not find a husband, her mother's fortune by order of her will would be forfeit.
"The fact that you offer a title and an estate as your dowry will appeal to any number of gentlemen, regardless of your shortcomings. However, I refuse to allow this task to become an embarrassment to me, or my daughter. I suffered enough when my sister eloped to the colonies with your father. He was a poor Irish nobleman with no future and even less common sense. You are most fortunate that my father left you Marsden Manor. Are you listening, young lady?" With her customary scowl plastered on her face, Hildegard swatted the inside of Phoebe's wrist with lethal accuracy. "Pay attention. We have visitors."
Phoebe glanced where directed, saw three men advancing and fought the overwhelming urge to turn tail and hide. In the lead was Sir Lemmer, a handsome enough man, though he tended to make strange noises with his teeth. Sir Milton, a pompous bore who resembled a green bean with a tuft of blond hair, strutted on Lemmer's heels. The Honorable Ellwood followed. He wore painfully tight chartreuse breeches, a white shirt with a ridiculously tied cravat and a green paisley jacket. Being prone to accidents, he nearly collided with a servant.
God's whiskers, not again. She'd already spent the better part of last evening playing whist with the three men. The cards had offered livelier conversation.
"Remember, girls, do not acknowledge their presence until I say. Show an appropriate amount of interest when I do. Smile."
Phoebe barely suppressed a groan. According to Aunt Hildegard, all three men possessed the qualities needed for viable suitors. They were second sons with no title, older than twenty but younger than sixty and virtually oozed aristocratic charm. She shuddered. To think, one of these men could possibly be her future husband. Phoebe wanted a love match. She'd have better luck pulling a hair from a bald man. With that thought, she did groan. Out loud.
"Phoebe," Hildegard snapped. "Stop making those hideous noises. People will believe you prone to stomach ailments. Charity, do try to maintain a normal conversation without any mishaps."
Looking as though she might swoon with anticipation, Charity nodded. The girl welcomed any and all suitors, Phoebe thought jealously. Since it was her first season, if Charity failed to make a match, she could wait another year.
Phoebe wanted to stomp her feet and scream. At ten and eight, she deserved the
same opportunity. Unfortunately, she had only six weeks to complete the task.
Hildegard continued to lecture from the side of her mouth. "You may dance two country dances with each. I forbid you to waltz. And Phoebe, curb your tongue. Men have little tolerance for women with bold notions, and even less for those inclined to speaking their mind. Put your past behind you. Remember, you now reside in England."
However could she possibly forget? Hildegard reminded her daily. Phoebe opened her eyes to find Sir Lemmer at her side, the oppressive scent of cedar emanating from his clothes. Sir Ellwood, smiling with dimpled cheeks, circled once, twice, then settled beside Charity, who wore the same besotted expression as he did. Lord Milton satisfied himself with the empty spot on Phoebe's other side. Phoebe sighed.
The darkness fitted Stephen Lambert, Duke of Badrick's mood. As a favor to his friends, he had promised to attend this damnable anniversary ball hosted by Elizabeth's uncle. And he regretted it. He'd seen the sidelong glances and heard the whispers when he'd entered the ballroom. A cursed title proved tempting fodder for the gossipmongers of the Ton.
He calculated he had another hour of this fustian nonsense before he could bid Lord Wyman and Winston and Elizabeth good night. Until then, this empty room, a snifter of brandy and a cigar appeased him.
Sitting on a red velvet chaise, Stephen absently gazed about Lord Wyman's private study. Four crystal wall lamps beside the door and a candelabrum on a table shed enough light to distinguish bits and pieces of his newfound sanctuary. Shelves of books lined the left wall near an alcove concealed by a wooden screen. Erotic paintings hung on the other two walls and a white marble statuary of women in various stages of undress sat on pedestals hidden in the shadows near the draped windows. Scanning Lord Wyman's newest acquisition, an ebony nude astride a dragon, Stephen wondered what the London matrons would say if they knew of Wyman's collection and the private parties held in this very room.
The brass doorknob to the study turned. Irked by what he considered an invasion of his privacy, Stephen stood and slid into the dark alcove. He felt no inclination for small talk. With any luck, the intruder would realize that this was not one of the party rooms and leave quickly. On the other hand, someone may have come to utilize the very chaise he'd just left. Dash it all, how bloody inconvenient.
Behind the screen, he peeked through the small heartshaped hole near the top as the mahogany door swung open.
A fey-looking creature darted inside, slammed the door and collapsed against the solid barrier as if the dark room meant salvation. With a mass of copper curls framing delicate eyebrows against a background of ivory porcelain skin, the little beauty was a study in contrasts. A simple ribbon confined the curls to the top of her head, exposing a slender neck. A hint of peach color touched her lips and cheeks. She appeared fragile and delicate, but the thrust of her chin hinted at an inner determination. Her breasts were delightfully full, pushed up as they were in her gown. Their rising and falling with her breath was tantalizing.
Then she smiled. Stephen was accustomed to lust, but the response of his body, his powerful impulse to touch her, surprised him. But damn, this woman possessed a luscious little body that begged for a man's hand.
While he glanced to the study door, expecting her companion to follow for surely she awaited one she inspected her surroundings. She tiptoed to a painting and gasped at its risque nature. Then another. And another. When she reached the fourth picture, she tilted her head almost upside down. "Well, I never."
Suddenly, he desperately wanted to know the color of her eyes. Captivated by her indignation and unable to remain hidden another moment, Stephen seized the opportunity. "I certainly hope not. Unless, of course, sexual experiences in aberrant surroundings appeal to you."
The girl whipped about, her peach silk gown flaring like a midshipman's bell. She frantically searched the corners of the room. Then, irritation, of all things, flitted across her face. "How dare you not announce your presence, whoever you are."
"What do you think I just did?" Color rose on her cheeks, matching the flaming curls on her head. She was really quite lovely.
"Are you a thief?" she queried while edging toward the door.
"Hardly."
"I know for a fact you're not Lord Wyman. Why are you hiding in his house?"
Not the typical female, Stephen thought. Damn pawky, in fact. He could see now, that her eyes were blue or possibly green.
"Who says I'm hiding? You disturbed my privacy."
"A mishap easily corrected." She spun on her heels to leave.
"Wait. There's no need to hurry off." His voice sounded almost peevish, but he didn't want the girl to flee. At least not until he discovered her name or her purpose. Her companion had yet to appear and his mind whirled with the possibility that he could yet salvage something from this abominable evening after all. "Were you going somewhere in particular?"
She peered over her shoulder, her eyes narrow slits of speculation. "I was looking for the library. I figure I took a wrong turn." With a quick glimpse about the room, she added, "At least I hope I took a wrong turn."
"Are you meeting someone?"
"Whatever made you think that?"
"Feel free to take another look around. This is not the usual place for a lady to visit. Especially alone and without good reason."
That certainly garnered a reaction. She reversed her position and crossed her arms, which accented the fullness of her breasts. She thrust her lower lip out, a delightful lip, he thought, lush, full. Perfect for a man's kisses.
Obviously insulted, the girl marched forward several steps and tapped her left foot in agitation. Her eyes flashed with anger. They were beautiful, emerald green, like the Lincolnshire meadows in spring. A trifle amused yet more intrigued, Stephen wondered if she showed the same amount of passion in bed.
"Goodness gracious, as I said a moment ago, I got lost." She spoke with a distinct bite to each word, her irritation emphasizing the silky drawl of her voice that identified her as a foreigner.
The voice alone made him think irrational thoughts. She sounded like an outraged virgin, but Stephen knew better. No proper young lady regardless of her heritage-wandered about, by herself, in the private quarters of a man's home. Suddenly, the evening appeared quite promising. He and his mistress had parted ways ages ago and he'd never replaced her. Perhaps the time had come.
"You don't believe me?" Phoebe asked, squinting at the alcove's mysterious occupant. "I find your insinuations insulting. I'm also tired of explaining myself to someone who skulks in dark corners."
"I don't skulk."
"Really? Besides bad manners, whatever do you call it when someone refuses to show himself?"
"A desire for privacy."
"Something altogether different comes to my mind, rude ness. It's suspicious, arrogant and secretive. I'm beginning to think you have something to hide after all."
"Impertinent, aren't you. All I hide is myself."
"How can I be sure?"
"I never lie."
"And just whom shall I ask for references? I have yet to hear a name or see a face. Come out of the corner and I just might believe you." Phoebe waited anxiously, wondering if the stranger would comply. She should leave. Now. To be alone with a man, any man, in a room such as this, if discovered, would surely be a social sin of the greatest magnitude. Then again, she'd learned long ago that running away accomplished nothing. Truth be told, she wanted to stay, to match the rich timbre of his voice to a face. For some reason, this man, this voice, intrigued her. "I'm waiting."
He stepped from behind the screen, and bowed slightly. "Stephen Roland Lambert, Duke of Badrick at your service. And you are?"
Allowing herself time to dislodge the breath of air trapped in her lungs, Phoebe executed a perfect curtsy. Oh la, she'd called a duke a thief. If he was a duke. Although she doubted he would lie about something so easily confirmed. She squared her shoulders and politely said, "Miss Phoebe Rafferty, formerly of Georgia.
"
"A pleasure, Miss Phoebe Rafferty."
While he crossed to the round oak table near a red chaise and lit three candles, Phoebe studied her mystery man for the first time. Glory, he was handsome and then some. He stood over six feet tall, was broad-shouldered and longlegged, and dressed in black all the way to the gleaming tips of his polished boots. A modestly tied white cravat was the only exception. His straight hair fell to his shoulders, matching the ebony mustache lining his upper lip, which curled slightly, and the brows that arched over the most astonishing cocoa-colored eyes she'd ever seen. He held a drink in one scarred hand. Everything about the man seemed dark, dangerous. Her heart seemed to dance when he moved closer.
"See," he said. "I'm quite alone. And I hold no priceless heirlooms in my possession."
She squelched the urge to voice the remark on the tip of her tongue. She'd practically called him a liar once already.
Splashing an amber liquid into his glass, he asked, "Would you care for a drink?"
"No, thank you." Unsure of what to do, she paced about the room. When she came eye to breast with a marble statue, her sense of reason returned, and then some. "I must go."
"And rob me of the one bit of pleasure I might find this evening? Come now. Need I worry about a jealous man barging in to challenge me to a duel for finding myself alone with you?"
"Goodness gracious, no. Need I worry about an irate female?"
"Nary a one. Therefore, neither of us need rush off. Besides, do you honestly wish to return to that mad crush, Phoebe?"
She knew she should reprimand him for using her name with such familiarity, but with his deep, refined voice, she liked the way her name sounded on his lips. When bay rum and heather filled her nostrils, she realized he stood directly behind her. Pivoting to face him, she exhaled and lifted her chin a notch. "I've overstayed myself as it is, Lord Badrick."
His rumbling laugh and full smile transformed his somber features to those of a charming rogue. Even his eyes twinkled with humor. "Don't go missish on me now, Phoebe. I'm not a lecherous fool. I promise to behave as the perfect host. We can be friends, simply two poor souls sharing a bit of solitude. I shall guard our secret with my life. What do you say?"