by Peggy Waide
Suddenly the mule shifted his weight, jostling Phoebe and the boy. With the urchin tangled in her skirts, she stumbled to her knees. The peddler lunged forward, his muscled arm outstretched. A hush fell over the crowd. Stephen charged, ready to protect Phoebe at all cost.
With agility uncommon to most women and enviable by most men, Phoebe pressed to her feet, snapping the whip near the peddler's left ear at the same time. Stunned, Stephen stopped dead in his tracks. Surely his mouth hung open. The whoops and hollers from the audience jarred him into action.
Three long strides placed him behind Phoebe. He said, a distinct chill to his words, "I don't believe the lady wishes the boy, or the mule, to be whipped."
Phoebe whirled about, the anger lining her face diminished by her astonishment. "Lord Badrick."
He even detected a bit of relief. Not for long, he thought. "Miss Rafferty." He nodded coolly yet said nothing else, knowing this was not the time to offer the lecture scalding the tip of his tongue. "Move to the carriage."
"I must see to the boy first." She bent to check the wounds on the lad's arm, clucking and cooing like a nursery nanny.
The peddler cleared his throat. His barrel chest puffed with indignation. "Hold on a minute. That lady owes me an apology and some blunt. She done ruined me animal and me wares."
If humanly possible, darts could have flown from Phoebe's eyes as she stood to face the man, her hands fisted at her waist, her right toe tapping at a rapid pace. "Why you good-for-nothing-bully. If I weren't a lady, I would"
"Give 'em hell, miss," yelled a man from a nearby carriage.
"Five pounds says he plants a facer on the lady," cried another voice.
Another fellow held a note high in the air and announced, "Five pounds says Lord Badrick plants a facer on the chap, then plants a facer on the lady."
A flurry of renewed betting consumed the audience as Phoebe searched for the men who uttered the offensive suggestions. Stephen glowered at one of them, who had the good sense to close his mouth and sit down. Satisfied by that reaction, he leaned within an inch of Phoebe's face and whispered, "I suggest, most adamantly, that you hie yourself away from here and climb into that bloody carriage before I do something we both regret." He waited as she gasped, her eyes rounded, her face flushed.
Evidently feeling safe enough to step forward, Elizabeth tugged on Phoebe's arm. "Come along. I recognize that tone of voice. This is not the time to discuss anything. He's quite angry with us."
"Not just angry, Elizabeth," Stephen snapped. "I'm bloody furious."
"Well, I never," grumbled Phoebe. "What of the boy?"
"I will see to him."
She seemed to consider something of great import, then nodded. Proudly squaring her shoulders, wearing her dignity like a cloak, she mumbled and sputtered as she followed Elizabeth to the carriage. A portion of the assembled group groaned, disappointed the show had ended without additional violence. They'd likely lost their wagers. Others cheered as she passed. Every now and then, when someone spoke directly to her, she stopped, smiled cordially then moved on. Some bloody gent, pleased with the outcome of the fiasco, even kissed her hand. Money was quickly exchanged between those perverse enough to have placed bets on the incident, and men righted the cart, moving it from the center of the road, allowing traffic to disperse.
When Stephen deemed Phoebe to be a safe distance away, he turned his attention back to the peddler. "Are you of the habit of beating women and boys?"
"She interfered where she had no business."
Stephen's blood still boiled. He wanted nothing more than to pummel this churl for placing the blame on Phoebe. However, this particular play needed no additional scenes. Gritting his teeth, he turned to the lad. "What's your name?"
"Niles, sir."
Kneeling on one leg, Stephen softened his voice so as not to scare the young boy who shifted his weight nervously from leg to leg. "What happened, Niles?"
"Me and me mum helps Jakes from time to time when we needs the money. We need it real bad now. Me sister is sickly. Me mum cooks and Jakes peddles what she makes, but it's me mule. Angus got tired and Jakes beat 'im. That lady stopped him from urting us. She's an angel, she is."
"Yes, she is. Now, listen well. Go to Number Twelve Park Lane. Ask for Davelman. Tell him Lord Badrick sent you. Send for your mother and sister. Stay there until I return. Do you understand?"
"Aye, sir," Niles said. "But what of me mule?"
Stephen ruffled the boy's hair as he stood. "I'd say you'd best take him with you."
"Yes, sir," cried the boy, beaming.
The peddler tapped Stephen on his shoulder. "Hey gov, you can't do that."
Stephen reacted instantly. He grabbed the man by the collar of his threadbare jacket, twisting the fabric tightly to effectively cut off the flow of oxygen. "It seems I just did. Now listen well, my misguided chap. I would like nothing better than to knock a tooth or two from your mouth. However, I shall refrain. In the future, I recommend you pick on someone your own size rather than women, young boys or neglected animals."
With that, Stephen discarded the peddler like a piece of rubbish and gathered his horse. Looking at the peddler, who lay on the ground gasping for air, Stephen wished the man had lashed out. He wanted desperately to punch someone. After tying his horse to the rear of Elizabeth and Phoebe's carriage, he climbed aboard, sitting opposite the two women. He leaned back in the seat and crossed his arms, silently demanding an explanation.
Phoebe matched his glare with one of her own. "What have you done with the boy?"
"I sent him to my home."
"Whatever for?"
He watched her eyes narrow suspiciously, her expression certainly more wary than a moment ago. What the devil was she thinking now? "The boy will send for his mother and sister, then I shall move them all to one of my estates to work. Satisfied?"
"Yes, actually. Now, am I to thank you for publicly humiliating me?"
Lord, he wanted to strangle the woman. One moment she endangered herself while making a public spectacle, next she blamed him for her behavior. "Of course not. You managed to do that all by yourself. I should be pleased. Your behavior today likely weighted my suit by at least a stone. I think an apology on your part might be appropriate."
"Fiddle-faddle, you arrogant--"
"Phoebe," cried a startled Elizabeth.
Stephen's voice remained aloof, distant. "It's quite all right, Elizabeth. I'm curious to hear what she has to say."
Leaning forward, her face a lovely rosy pink, Phoebe asked, "Would you have me sit and watch a boy be whipped?"
Stephen leaned forward as well, his nose a mere fraction from hers. "I would have you use that lovely head of yours for something other than sporting a hat. I would have you remain safe."
"Like all the other cowards who sat in their carriages and watched a man as big as a bale of cotton beat a young boy?"
"Truly, Stephen," Elizabeth added, her gloved hand softly nudging his arm. "No one seemed overly concerned with the boy's predicament other than the fact that he delayed their arrival at the race."
"Save your explanation for Winston. I'm sure he'll have an opinion or two on the matter."
Phoebe lifted her chin toward the sky. "Good heavens, leave Elizabeth out of this." She turned back toward Stephen, her eyes closed, obviously struggling to maintain a handle on her emotions. "I know the feeling of unjust punishment, being alone to face it. That boy did not deserve to be whipped. Neither did that poor animal. I've felt the sting of a lash, felt the pain. I know the brand it leaves."
That last bit of news spawned an unexpected wave of tenderness, dwarfing Stephen's anger. The desire to lecture vanished. Instead, he wanted to relieve her of her clothes, discover the heinous mark and kiss any lingering memories away. He rubbed his hand over his face. "I understand your reason for interfering. I even admire your fortitude. God knows few people are willing to stand up for what is right, but you must think before you plunge into something
such as this. You could have been injured. And what do you propose to tell your aunt when word of this rumpus spreads? I assure you, gossip will fly from mouth to mouth faster than a plague on an infected ship."
Before she turned away to watch the activity surrounding them, a sigh heavy with acceptance slid from Phoebe's mouth. "I know."
Everyone fell silent. Stephen realized further argument would prove pointless. Phoebe understood the consequences but had acted anyway. She possessed a generous heart and a moral conscience, but damn it, unless coupled with a sizeable dollop of common sense, she would repeatedly find herself in unsuitable, potentially dangerous situations. Well, he would simply make it his personal responsibility to ensure that she exercised caution, which veered him back to his original thought. She needed a keeper. Him.
"Here we are." Stephen jumped to the ground and helped Elizabeth from the carriage into a large open field. "I recommend we banish the last half-hour from our memory and enjoy our day. Of course you, Elizabeth, can decide to tell Winston now or later, for surely he shall hear of your antics."
Lifting Phoebe down, he slid the length of her body against his. He whispered in her ear. "Is all forgiven?"
"I'm not sure. And you, sir, are too bold."
Stephen's hands still gripped her arms. "Because I want you?"
With both feet firmly planted on the ground, she cocked her head to one side. "Wanting does not guarantee a thing, my lord."
He glanced over his shoulder to determine Elizabeth's whereabouts. She stood a good five feet away, her back turned in an attempt to offer him and Phoebe a moment's privacy that was blatant yet greatly appreciated. Grinning, he tilted Phoebe's face toward his. "Darling, I guarantee you pleasure and more, but do not keep me waiting too long."
"Keep you waiting? I haven't even decided to give you a chance."
Her mouth formed a delightful pout, the kind that made men like him appreciate all things female. Lord, he wished the woman would agree to his terms. And soon. He couldn't resist the temptation to stroke the delicate skin of her throat. To his male satisfaction, he watched her eyes flash, felt her tremble. He rubbed his thumb across her lower lip, slowly, finally caressing her chin. "I think you have. Otherwise you wouldn't be here."
Licking the lip his touch had abandoned, she swallowed and stepped to what she deemed a safe distance from him. "Elizabeth invited me. Remember? And I must say, we had a delightful and somewhat enlightening conversation."
Speculating on the subtle innuendo in Phoebe's voice, Stephen dropped his hand to his side. He'd never expected to keep his past concealed, but after years of censure and gossip, and unsure of Phoebe's reaction, he automatically felt the walls erect themselves around his pride. Why did Phoebe's opinion even matter? Placing his left hand in his coat pocket, his other on the wheel of the carriage, he assumed a casual stance. "Really."
"Yes, indeed. She willingly provided facts a particular gentleman I know deems unimportant. Minor little things like previous marriages, gypsy curses and all."
Just as he'd suspected. Elizabeth possessed a loose tongue when she felt her motives justified, and in her mind, finding a wife for him was a good reason to interfere. She knew little, but he could only guess what she had revealed. "Elizabeth needs to learn restraint," he muttered.
Tentatively, Phoebe placed her fingers on his hand. "You can no more flee your past than I can. Nor can you predict your future."
"But I can control my actions."
"Precisely. And, I expect honesty."
"I have not been otherwise."
"No, simply closemouthed." He clenched his teeth moments before his expression turned flat, void of emotion. How she hated his ability to do that. Clearly, he disliked this topic. Well, that was just too bad. She had no intention of spending time with the man if dishonesty lay between them. "I am not accustomed to secrets and guessing games. If we're to have any relationship at all, I expect us to be honest with one another."
Like a summer storm on the river, his mood changed quickly and unexpectedly. His mouth softened and even twitched with amusement as a devilish sparkle lit his eyes. "By all means."
"Do you mind telling me what is so funny?"
"You just admitted we shall have a relationship. I see that as a direct step into my arms."
The infernal man had a way of dulling her wits and twisting everything she said all willy-nilly. "That is not what I meant."
"An individual is entitled to his or her interpretation." With that wicked grin on his face, the one that sent a ripple of excitement flowing through her, he draped her hand across his forearm and headed toward Elizabeth. "All right, you can turn around now. Winston seems trapped by the crowds. Let us go."
Phoebe stewed for all of a minute, finally admitting to herself that Stephen was right. Somewhere along the line, her heart and body had convinced her mind to take a chance on him, regardless of the unanswered questions about his past. It was no small wonder, considering all the men she had met over the last week, none of whom appealed to her in the slightest way. She nibbled her lower lip as she walked amongst carriages lining the dirt track where passengers stopped to watch the race. Peddlers hawked their wares at every opportunity while young boys dashed around the large field, which was covered with blankets and groups of revelers. She needed a plan. And a good one, if indeed she intended to marry him. She shook her head. Imagine, people believing a man like him capable of murder. And a curse? Poppycock. Pure nonsense. If the only thing standing between her and marriage to this man was a silly old curse, then she would simply have to convince him otherwise.
Winston stood beside a woolen blanket near the river's edge and waved. A bottle of red wine and four crystal glasses were neatly tucked in a large wicker basket, along with some fruit and a small wooden box of bread and cheese. Forcing her thoughts to the back of her mind, Phoebe sat opposite Elizabeth and asked, "When will the race begin?"
Sitting beside Phoebe, leaning on one elbow, Stephen stretched his long legs before him. He poured the wine and said, "Soon. We shall actually witness the end of the race. They start at London Bridge, roughly four and a half grueling miles of heavy rowing to win the opportunity to wear the symbol of the Hanoverians."
"Whoever are they?" asked Phoebe as she sipped from her glass.
Winston, his body practically a mirror to Stephen's, placed his hand across his heart in mock astonishment. "My Henry, girl, if you intend to marry a Brit, we'd best educate you. In 1715, the Hanover line succeeded to the throne. In honor of that miraculous event, Thomas Doggett, a common actor, started this race."
"Today, you shall witness a - historical event as well as a very masculine tradition," Stephen added. "Grown men wagering wildly amongst themselves and sailors with their hearts and wills clearly shown in their muscles and backs."
"Then I'll try to give my full attention."
"Excuse me, Stephen," Elizabeth said, smiling sweetly. "Isn't that Lord Tewksbury and Lord Hathaway?"
"Yes."
"Phoebe, this is perfect." Elizabeth practically clapped her hands together, her eyes fixed on Stephen all the while. "I understand Tewksbury is looking for a wife. Although he's not a second son or such, he still has marvelous potential as a husband. Lord Hathaway is certainly eligible and a younger son with two older brothers, but I'd have to think on that. He's rumored to be a bit of a rake."
The group of men stood nearby. They cheered boisterously as two men shook each another's hands. "Which is which?" Phoebe asked, surprised at Elizabeth's sudden interest in her matrimonial candidates.
"The blond gentleman is Lord Hathaway. The fellow shaking his hand is Lord Ricland, Earl of Tewksbury. A widower. Stephen, you simply must wrest us an introduction."
"No, I must not."
Elizabeth frowned. Stephen, being his normal autocratic self, lifted a brow, silently challenging her to argue his decision. Fighting a grin, Phoebe turned to study the two men. Both were handsome, but unfortunately, unlike a mere smile from Stephen, nei
ther made her body heat or her pulse race. Lord Hathaway, leaner than Tewksbury, appeared to be the same height. Lord Tewksbury wore a navy jacket and dark trousers that accented broad shoulders and long, muscular legs.
"Winston, wave to the man."
"Elizabeth," Stephen said, his irritation clear. "Leave Tewksbury alone."
"Whatever are they doing?" Phoebe asked.
Winston, silent up until now, answered, "I understand Tewksbury and Hathaway personally wagered one of their ships on the apprentices they sponsored. I imagine they're finalizing the negotiations."
Surely she'd heard incorrectly. What manner of man would make such an expensive wager? "I declare. A ship?"
Winston dug through the wicker basket, found an apple and polished it on the sleeve of his jacket. "Yes. Such behavior is common for Hathaway. I am surprised Tewksbury accepted the bet. He's normally rather prickly about propriety."
"How exciting," Phoebe said.
Stephen sat abruptly. He snatched the bread from the basket, waving it in the air as an extension of his arm. "I'd say its bloody stupid."
Why, if she didn't know better, Phoebe would swear Stephen was jealous. She pursed her lips. "Hmmm. His hair certainly is a fascinating color."
"I believe it's called red," said Stephen, his voice sounding more wonderfully annoyed by the minute.
"Lands alive, no," Phoebe said, pouring every bit of her Southern sweetness into her words. "More like sable with just a touch of cinnamon. I wonder what color his eyes are?"
"I believe they are blue," remarked Winston.
Stephen ripped a chunk of bread from the loaf. "Winston, must you foster this ridiculousness?"
Shrugging his shoulders, a mannerism Phoebe decided he used frequently, Winston proceeded to eat his apple. She crooned, "I just love blue eyes."
"Enough," snorted Stephen. "I did not come here today to discuss the color of another man's eyes. Change the bloody topic."