by Peggy Waide
The thought of a friend appealed to her something awful. She doubted a man with his looks and charm lacked for company of any kind, but oddly enough, though never having met him before tonight, she felt a sort of kinship with him. Certainly the alternative of returning to Aunt Hildegard held no appeal. She crossed to the table. "A few more minutes then."
"Marvelous. Now tell me, how do you find London so far?"
"Do you prefer the appropriate social repartee or honesty?"
He chuckled, a warm rich sound. "Honesty, by all means."
"In that case, damp, soggy and insufferably gray."
"Are you referring to our weather or our conversation?"
She opened her mouth to say "both," but thought better of it. "The weather, of course."
"Of course," he drawled. "And why would a lovely young lady like yourself flee the festivities of a ball?"
"I was fresh out of things to say. Besides, I prefer smaller, less restrictive affairs. It's difficult to enjoy oneself when one must constantly remember what one can and cannot do. Even if you do behave as best you can, you still risk disapproval from the matrons, who seem to have nothing better to do than scrutinize everyone else's behavior."
The amber liquid in his glass swirled as he moved his hand in small circular motions. His eyes gleamed like those of a panther she'd once seen. "A woman after my own heart. Did you have such liberty in America?"
"Yes, indeed. My life was far simpler back home. There was very little I didn't do if it suited my fancy."
"You'll be hard pressed to find such freedom in England. Society is rather exacting about the way young ladies behave."
"I've already discovered that. I never heard so many rules in my life. It's quite tedious, if you ask me."
"Tell me then. What did you leave behind?"
The distant strings of the small orchestra filtered through the house and into the room. Swaying to the music, she considered all that she used to do. Goodness, life on a plantation was so different. Where did one begin? She paced a few steps until she stood in front of the painting that had drawn her full attention earlier, as stunned this time by what she saw as she was the last. A nearly naked man and woman sat on top of a black horse engaged in, well, a behavior that looked rather suspicious and equally impossible. At least, she thought it was impossible and if not, likely improbable.
She whirled about and blurted the first thing that came to mind. "I rode Hercules every morning." Lord Badrick lifted a solitary brow. "My horse," she quickly added, knowing her cheeks flushed with color by the sudden flare of heat she felt. Silly chit. She silently scolded herself for her foolish reaction. The man had no idea what she was thinking. When she noticed the glimmer of amusement in his dark eyes, she quickly changed the topic.
"Sometimes we raced, but rarely did anyone beat me. Hercules was too fast. At night I sometimes played poker with Timothy and Teddy, our neighbors. They even taught me to cheat." Whyever had she said that? "Not that I ever did, or would, mind you. And on the hotter days, I fished with Tobias and the whole lot of us sometimes swam in the river behind our house."
Her mouth seemed to be running amok, traveling faster than Whiskey Creek after a heavy rain. She couldn't seem to stop herself from talking, or fussing with the lace on the sleeve of her dress. She paused, allowing him time to say or ask something. When he didn't, she decided he wanted to hear more. After all, he'd asked, hadn't he?
"My nanny drew the line at boxing, said it was no sport for a female, but not before I learned a few things which proved useful a time or two."
The duke opened his mouth as if he meant to speak, then snapped it shut. Glowering at his drink, he shook his head. "You're serious?"
She couldn't help but notice the disbelief in his voice. "Of course I am. Why would I make up something like that? I loved my home, my life."
"Then what brought you to England?"
He was clearly dismayed. Phoebe considered lying. But waiting only delayed the inevitable, a lesson she had learned at an early age. If Lord Badrick spent any time in society he would discover the truth himself. "I'm here to find a husband." The light disappeared from his eyes. Defensively, she said, "I see I've shocked you, although I don't know why. Everyone knows the season is designed to match young women with eligible men."
"Doing and telling are as different as chalk from cheese. Few women speak openly of such things."
"What do they do then? Lie?" He stared at her. Discomfited, she added, "My preferences matter little either way. I have no choice."
He swallowed the last of his brandy in one gulp and set the glass on the table beside her with a deliberate thump. "There are always choices, Miss Rafferty."
The stiffening of his spine, the rigid set of his broad shoulders, the way he used her proper name, all were sure signs of his withdrawal. Just like a man, she thought, to spook at the mention of marriage. "Perhaps for men. For women-"
Lord Badrick suddenly glanced to the door, grabbed her arm and dragged her into the darkest corner of the alcove, behind the wooden screen. He held a finger to her lips. "Shhh."
"Let me go." Struggling against the duke's grip, Phoebe peeked around the side and saw the study door fly open. A man and a woman scampered across the threshold and fell against the wall in a tangle of arms before the door even closed. Phoebe needed no additional explanation.
With his expression more irritated than anything else, the duke whispered, "It appears someone intends to usurp our sanctuary. Follow me." He started to drop to his knees.
Phoebe held on to his elbow. "Excuse me, your grace. Whatever are you doing?"
"Avoiding unnecessary embarrassment for all involved and saving your precious reputation."
"Can't we cough or something? Perhaps they'll leave."
"I see you have a great deal to learn about the strictures of London society. Rather they'd demand we show ourselves. I'd hate to ruin your chances of making a suitable match. We shall crawl behind the curtains to the terrace."
"Surely they'll see us."
He peered over her shoulder. "Highly unlikely."
Curious, Phoebe followed his gaze. The woman, her back to the alcove, stood before the man, who now sat on the chaise. His head was nestled in her lap. "Whatever is he-"
Lord Badrick practically shoved her to her knees. "Not now."
Six feet of wooden floor loomed between her and the crimson velvet curtains. Her heart beat a frantic rhythm. She felt his warm breath on her ear, which oddly enough caused her heart to flutter even faster. "Excuse me, your grace. It seems we'd be better off if we stayed right here."
With an impatient motion of his head, he indicated that he found the suggestion preposterous. "As you wish. I, on the other hand, do not intend to remain here and witness an interlude deserving of privacy." He eased his way toward the terrace, and reaching the heavy drape, he slid beneath.
Phoebe sat on her heels long enough for his feet to disappear and decided she just might be better off with him. When she pushed herself under the curtain, Badrick grasped the brass doorknob. Wasting no time, he hauled her to her feet, opened the door and pushed her outside. Luckily, no one occupied the terrace.
Clutching her wrist, he stood and pulled her down the stone steps behind an evergreen hedgerow. In her haste, one slipper came off, but Lord Badrick retrieved it and then followed her into the garden below.
The scent of roses filled the cool night air. The sound of sprinkling water from a nearby fountain matched the fast, soulful warble of a nightingale. Small torches, which distorted their shadows as they fled Wyman's study, lit the maze of the garden's stone paths.
"I think that's far enough," the duke said as he searched their surroundings most thoroughly.
Phoebe lifted her hand from her mouth and giggled. "Oh, my goodness. I'm beholden to you, Lord Badrick. That's the most fun I've had in months."
Fisting his right hand on his hip, he dangled her slipper in his other fingers. Obviously bemused by her reaction, he aske
d, "You're not frightened?"
"Heavens, no." she answered. "I'm sorry. Should I be?"
He clamped his lips shut and led her farther away from the house. Once again she found herself in the shadows with this man. She stood near enough to feel the linen of his jacket against her hand, to hear his sudden intake of air. Her throat constricted and the urge to slide into his arms shocked her. When he cleared his throat, she practically jumped backwards.
Thrusting the lost shoe into her hands, he said, "I hope tonight's escapade taught you an apparently well-needed lesson."
His words were clipped and impersonal. "Which lesson was that?" she asked nervously as she replaced her slipper.
"Do you not realize that if caught, your reputation would be ruined?"
Phoebe circled a white marble statue of Pegasus nestled in an alcove of a hedge, wishing the mythical creature could steal her troubles away. She loathed the idea of returning to the ball, to her aunt and the task ahead. Unfortunately, she had few choices left. Resigned to her fate, she sighed. "I'm not sure it matters a'tall," she answered quietly. "What of yours?"
"Mine would suffer little."
"Another rule created by men for the benefit of men."
"Hardly. For their own protection from men much like myself, ladies do not explore houses by themselves, especially those in search of suitors. Nor should they gad about gardens with strangers. Few women find humor in such circumstances, and I might add, these rules are usually for the ladies' own good."
"Or so men think," she muttered. "Well, I happen to be very good at thinking for myself though I appreciate your concern."
He edged closer, pinning her between his body and the statue. The cold marble at her back and the heat of his body were a stirring combination. He gently cupped her chin and tilted it up, studying her intently with those amazing eyes. They were colored like Jamaican coffee, she now decided. Several breathless moments passed.
Finally, he broke the silence. "It's time to return."
She found herself oddly disappointed when he stepped back. Once the ability to move returned, Phoebe silently followed the duke, admiring the play of his leg muscles beneath his well-tailored pants, the grace with which he walked.
They halted beneath a large elm. Bright lights shone through the windows, casting shadows about the garden. The stone steps leading to the red brick mansion beckoned as if commanding her to return and do her duty.
Pulling a cigar from his coat pocket, Lord Badrick struck a match and lit the tip. He leaned insolently against the trunk of the tree. "If anyone asks, claim you came outside to enjoy a bit of air. All will be well."
"What about you?" she asked.
"I'll be along shortly. It's best for you not to be seen with me. Trust me on this. Go."
Her shoulders heaved and her mind whirled with possibilities. Lord Badrick claimed to be unattached. He was handsome and charming and aside from the mysterious comments about his character, he appealed to her as no other man had. Her breath exhaled in a rush. "I imagine you'll find this atrociously bold, but I ride in Hyde Park every morning about seven. In case you're ever out that early."
"I'll keep that in mind." He lifted her hand to his lips and placed a gentle kiss on the inside of her wrist. "Good-bye, Phoebe Rafferty. Good luck with the hunt."
It was a wonderful turn of phrase, and it gave Phoebe hope. She was the huntress like the mythical Diana, a female warrior who controlled her destiny with dignity and pride. Her small steps toward the house, although labored, were resolute. Another notion, though whimsical, gathered clarity in her mind.
Fantasy or fact, she needed to find a husband. And quickly. So far, during her first week in England, she had met a bushel of men, none of whom were even remotely attractive to her.
The idea swarming in her mind seemed unreasonable, irrational and foolish. Yet, as far as she was concerned, her predicament was all those things, too. Deciding she had nothing more to lose, she skipped back to the duke's side and grinned. "Perhaps, Lord Badrick, I'll hunt you."
Dumbfounded, Stephen could have sworn the chit giggled as she fled. She skipped across the lawn, and up the steps to the top where she stopped, turned and dropped in a perfect curtsy.
He swore. How had he become a candidate for marriage? He wanted a mistress, not a blasted wife. After killing two wives, he had no intention of entering the state of matrimony ever again. The Badrick line as well as its infamous curse would die with him.
He flicked his cigar to the ground and crushed it with the heel of his boot. Deciding he had best discover more about Miss Phoebe Rafferty, he marched at a clipped pace toward the house in search of Winston. The man was a diplomat and Stephen's closest friend; he would have some information.
He found his friend leaning against a pillar in the corner, the man's broad shoulders nearly as wide as the marble. He wore a look of contained annoyance.
Circling from the back, Stephen leaned over Winston's shoulder and said, "You look ghastly. I warned you love and marriage led to misery."
The scowl on Winston's face deepened. "Humph. I'll be far happier once Wyman makes his toast to our continued happiness. Then I can drag Elizabeth home. Where the devil have you been?"
"Around and about." Like the matching half to a pair of bookends, Stephen mirrored Winston's stance and leaned against the opposite side of the pillar with one leg crossed at the ankle.
"In other words, you found someplace to hide. Can't say I blame you. The rumors that accompany your name constantly amaze me. I overheard Lady Tisdale tell Lord Peltham you post the skulls of dead animals about Badrick Manor to ward off gypsies. Did you know you also sleep with ropes of onion and dill about your neck? Thank goodness you no longer behead dark-skinned boys with black hair and eyes." Winston frowned, disapproval crossing his face. "My God, does Elizabeth intend to dance with that toad?"
Stephen followed his friend's gaze to see to whom he referred. Yes, Lord Hadlin definitely fell into the toad category. While listening absently to Winston ramble, Stephen scanned the rest of the crowded room for any sign of Miss Rafferty. She was nowhere to be seen.
"I apologize for asking you to come tonight," said Winston.
"Hmmm." Where the devil had the girl disappeared to?
Winston tapped Stephen on the shoulder, shifting his gaze between his friend and his wife. "This pillar carries on a better conversation than you. You're caught up to your elbows in something. What's going on?"
Not yet prepared to explain anything in detail, Stephen smoothed his mustache several times. "I heard you, Win ston. You apologized. No harm done. Although I prefer my privacy, I grew accustomed to society's scrutiny long ago. It's never stopped me from doing what I wanted in the past and it certainly won't in the future."
"If you spent more time in London, the speculation would lessen. People love mystery."
"Perhaps. Do you happen to know a Phoebe Rafferty?" Stephen was eager to change the subject.
Winston's brows rose and his blue eyes gleamed with speculation. "The heiress?"
Now this was an unexpected surprise. "What do you mean heiress?" asked Stephen.
"You know, rich, wealthy, unusually attractive dowry. Why do you ask?"
"Then you've met her?"
"Not exactly. Elizabeth heard rumblings of a newcomer to town with an inheritance up for bid, so to speak. And you know Elizabeth. She talked with Charity Goodliffe tonight. Evidently, the American girl arrived last week. Hildegard Goodliffe is her aunt."
Unfortunately, Stephen knew Lady Goodliffe from previous business dealings with her now-deceased husband. The censure that curled his lips couldn't be stopped. "More's the pity."
"My thoughts exactly. Do you know this American?"
"What else did Elizabeth glean from her conversation with Charity?"
Pushing himself away from the pillar, Winston placed his hands on his hips. "I refuse to answer another question until you tell me what this is all about."
The last thing Stephen ne
eded was interference, but he wanted answers. He pursed his lips and chose his words carefully. "I met Miss Rafferty tonight and I simply wish to know a bit more about the girl."
"Really?"
Knowing his friend's desire to see him remarried and noting the all-too-eager expression on Winston's face, Stephen gave him a scowl. "Don't go looking for something that's not there."
"Relax, my friend. I am not ready to summon the vicar." Winston waggled his eyebrows. "Yet. I've to meet the girl first. I haven't seen you talking to anyone, and you disappeared almost as quickly as you arrived. Where did you see her?"
"Wyman's private study."
"Surely you jest."
When Stephen shook his head, Winston's mouth fell slack. His friend's stunned reaction almost made Stephen laugh. Almost.
"Now, I must say, you've succeeded in piquing my curiosity. What the devil was she doing in Wyman's library? For that matter, what were you doing in Wyman's library? My goodness, I appreciate a naked woman as well as the next gent, but I find that room exceedingly..."
"Crude?" interjected Stephen.
"Precisely."
"It was the one room in which I believed I would find privacy until you made your announcement. Evidently she had the same intention, lost her way and found the study by accident."
"No wonder you want to know more about the girl." Winston rubbed his hands in delight. "We must talk with Elizabeth."
Stephen grabbed his friend's arm before the entire situation spiraled out of control. "Listen well. I met this girl. We had a simple conversation. Nothing else happened. She made a rather odd statement and I wish to ascertain her true circumstance. Nothing else. Do you understand?"
Winston's laughter matched his size and he chose to use it now. Stephen frowned again as a group of lords standing nearby turned toward them. He nodded a good evening to them while snapping at Winston. "By God, Winston, I'm warning you. Your last attempt at matchmaking nearly killed me. I know you think I need another wife and a son or two. I don't. The title dies with me."