by Peggy Waide
Mercy, what had she done? Phoebe hoped she hadn't raised her voice. Glancing nervously over her shoulder to see if anyone had noticed her outburst, she crept through the nearest door into the night.
Darkness surrounded her like a shield. Noticing a light in the barn like a beacon, she sought comfort from the animals. She eased between the open doors and inhaled the familiar scent of horse and hay, a pleasant alternative to perfume. Closing her eyes, she could almost believe she stood in her barn back in Georgia, where she'd watched the birth of her very own horse; where Tobias had taught her to snap a whip and how to load a gun, both necessary means of defense for a woman running a plantation.
The image ebbed and shifted to more recent years. The stately plantation house of River Bend had finally gained a reputation for quality cotton, Phoebe's efforts finally paying the bills. She saw her tear-streaked face as she glimpsed Hercules one last time before the new owner hauled the horse away. She felt the stifling summer heat as she lay in the hayloft, crying over her father's death, his final betrayal.
She remembered the day she'd stood in a near-empty barn to say her good-byes to the people she had worked beside, laughed with and loved. The memories, good and bad, warred with one another as she sought to make sense of her current situation. One thing was certain, she never wanted to rely on the whims of a man or experience that feeling of helplessness again. The soft nicker of a horse followed by a small voice snapped her back to the present.
Stuff and nonsense. She wasn't alone after all. She pondered whether to stay or go when the tiny voice, a child's voice, spoke again. Phoebe crept forward until she reached the last stall. Inside, a little girl with wild blond curls hovered over a small black foal. The child wore a lovely red velvet robe that was now covered with straw.
Phoebe spoke softly. "She's quite lovely."
The young girl's gaze darted over Phoebe's shoulder and beyond.
Being a child that had tested her father's patience time and again, Phoebe recognized and understood the girl's wariness. She appeared to be about six or seven, likely Lord Tewksbury's daughter, and was probably supposed to be tucked in her room, asleep.
As though she shared a great secret, Phoebe whispered, "Please don't tell anyone you saw me. I simply had to leave the party for a bit of fresh air."
The child's blue eyes rounded, her worries now focused on Phoebe. "You don't like parties?"
Phoebe remembered her nasty exchange with Lady Ostlin and Lady Tipler. "Usually I do, but sometimes they give me a pain in the head. May I join you?"
The child nodded. "You talk funny. What's your name?"
"Phoebe Rafferty, and I'm from America so that is why I sound a bit different."
"My name is Meredith. You may call me Bliss. I live here. Do you like horses?"
"I love horses," Phoebe cooed, sitting beside Bliss without a care to her dress. "My father gave me my first pony when I was six."
"I'm seven," Bliss announced in a regal manner likely copied from her father. "This is my horse. Her mother died. I help take care of her."
"Your father must be very proud. Not all children are as responsible."
"That's what I tell my father. My mother died, so father thinks I need a new mother, too. That's why he's having this party. I heard him tell my grandmother. I told him if the new mother was for me, then I should be able to choose."
Phoebe wanted to laugh over Bliss's impertinence. "Did he also tell you that eavesdropping was poor manners?"
"No, but my nanny did. She grumbles over most everything I do."
This time Phoebe did laugh. What a wonderful child.
She imagined herself sitting like this, sharing secrets with a dark-haired, dark-eyed, child that resembled Stephen. She blinked the image away and straightened her shoulders.
Heavens! Now she was contemplating children, and not just any children, but hers and Stephen's children. Not a good thing, considering the man refused to marry her. It seemed a new rut lay in the path of her well-planned future. For all her protests that she wanted to marry and be left alone to run Marsden Manor, Phoebe knew it to be a false vow. Thunderation, she wanted it all: children of her own, a family and Marsden Manor. She wanted to keep Stephen as well.
"Good evening, ladies. I didn't realize the party had moved out of doors."
Startled from her woolgathering for a second time, Phoebe stood as Bliss hid behind her skirts. "Lord Badrick, may I introduce Lady Tewksbury."
When Bliss stepped forward, he kissed her hand and bowed. "Charmed, gentle lady."
Bliss giggled. Not a practiced artful twitter, but an honest-to-goodness giggle. Still grinning, she said, "Phoebe said the indoors sometimes made her head ache so she needed fresh air. Do you have a headache too?"
"No. I simply ache for the companionship of two lovely and intelligent women. Do you know where I might find any?"
A half-hour earlier, Phoebe had been ready to jump from a window and strangle two overbearing obnoxious women. A simple smile from Stephen and all seemed right with the world. She shared a conspiratorial look with Bliss. "I think we might be able to help you with that, kind sir."
"Splendid." He smiled.
Bliss nudged the straw with her right toe. "Actually I had best go. Nanny checks my bed. She turns grumpy when I'm not where I should be."
Phoebe said good-bye, then fidgeted with an iron loop on the door of the stall, waiting for Stephen to say something as he studied her intently.
"Phoebe, Phoebe, Phoebe." While shaking his head, he repeated her name like a chaperone preparing to discipline an unruly child. "Will you ever listen to what I say? Again you chose to wander off where you shouldn't. By yourself. After your adventure at Lord Wyman's and the park, I'd think you would have learned your lesson by now."
She couldn't believe her ears. The wretch had finally decided to talk with her and he had the audacity to offer a lecture. Mimicking his tone of voice, she said, "Stephen, Stephen, Stephen. Do you always ignore women in public, then seek them out in private? I mean, you've certainly managed to ignore me all evening without any difficulty."
Leaning against the frame of the stall door, he sighed. "We've been through this before. I am not your best choice of company when surrounded by my peers, especially considering our dual-appearance in The Times."
"I don't care about that silly old newspaper. How did you find me?"
"You left a wake equal to one left by a small ship. I started with Hildegard who remains as disagreeable as ever and ended with two very disgruntled matrons. You certainly set their bristles up. Whatever did you say to that pair of thatchgallows?"
She sailed past him, hoping to escape before he demanded to know all the sordid details. "You don't want to know."
He clasped her elbow, stopping her retreat. "Indeed I do, since according to them, you and I are suited to one another. It was not meant as a compliment."
"If you must know, I called them a couple of withered old busybodies. They said despicable things about you. I lost my temper. No wonder you avoid these people. And don't you dare get mad at me or I'll not speak to you again. Someone had to defend you."
With her words, the wall surrounding his emotions eased ever so slightly. She was so damned earnest. He warned himself to tread lightly, not to care overmuch. Nevertheless, her defense of him lanced his heart, a desire for closeness he thought long-buried rising like the Phoenix from the fire. She was a treasure, to be sure, one he needed to protect himself against at all costs. He bent his head to kiss her forehead. "Likely a foolish thing to do. I'm not in need of your defense. I'm not even sure I'm deserving of such."
"Shame on you, Stephen Lambert, for even thinking such a thing. You're a kind, intelligent man."
"There's much you don't know about me, Phoebe."
"And whose fault is that?" She shifted her weight from leg to leg, waiting for any insight he might offer. He refused to say a word. She muttered, "I can see you have no intention of answering my questions. We had best retur
n."
"I'd much rather kiss you." He moved forward. She stepped back. Stephen persisted until they lingered in the shadow of the tack room. "Why, Phoebe, m'dear? Are you afraid of me?"
"No. I just don't think this is a very good idea."
Slowly and seductively, he raked his gaze from one ivory shoulder to the other, over her breasts, down her torso, lower still and finally back up again. "I think you are afraid. Afraid of what might happen between us."
"Nonsense. I'd just rather go inside and discuss my matrimonial candidates. You are supposed to offer council and names."
His fingers toyed with the delicate gold necklace encircling her slender neck. "I'd rather make you mine."
Her nostrils flared and a gasp of air escaped her halfparted lips. "I'd rather you tell me about Lord Pennbright."
"The poor boy barely changes his trousers without his mother's approval. You marry him. You marry her.'" Stephen's hand drifted to the small cluster of pearls that rested between her breasts, his gaze focused on the shaded hollow. "Tell me, Phoebe, do you like my touch?"
Her shoulders rose and fell dramatically with each breath. "A true lady never enjoys a man's advances. What about Lord Hemsley?"
Stephen considered the St. Anne Orphanage near St. Giles, Hemsley's current philanthropic project. "He's a bloody bosky. Often drinks himself into oblivion and practically bleeds his money to make amends." Leaning forward, he traced the delicate curve of her ear with his tongue. "And you've been listening to Hildegard again. You didn't answer my question. Do you wonder what else lovers do?"
"I, um "She cocked her head to the side, allowing him greater access. "Tell me about Lord Tewksbury."
Annoyance crept up Stephen's neck. There was little he could say against Tewksbury. In fact, he respected the man. Nibbling his way from her ear to her lips, he murmured, "He's as dull as ditch water. He'd never make you bum."
"What?"
Her skin flushed a lovely shade of pink and to his great pleasure her pulse pounded beneath his fingertips. "The hell with Tewksbury," he said as his mouth devoured hers. All conversation ceased as rational thought fled on the fluttering wings of sensation.
He'd set out to seduce her with words and had seduced himself. Touch was not simply desired but necessary to erase all other men from her mind. Passion ruled supreme.
When she molded herself to him, he whispered sounds of encouragement, nonsensible sighs that brushed her ear and teased his mind. He nibbled his way to her shoulder. His hand inched upward to cover her breast. Her nipple strained to greet his caress. With no consideration to time or place, hearing only her ragged breathing and whimpers of pleasure, he inched Phoebe's dress from her shoulders, feathering gentle, wispy kisses over her heated skin. Each alabaster inch he discovered aroused him more.
The silky fabric caught on the tips of her engorged breasts. When Stephen leaned back to witness the stunning vision, Phoebe opened her eyes and met his gaze with the same intensity that surely burned in his. She followed his eyes to the tops of her breasts and lifted her hand to cover herself. Stephen shook his head, his voice a mere thread and said, "Let me."
Phoebe wasn't sure if she spoke or not, wasn't sure if he asked or told. The sight of her breasts nearly bared for his perusal embarrassed yet inflamed her, weakening any and all of her defenses. She raised her hands to his shoulders as his hands slipped her dress to her waist. His fingers, slender and tanned, plucked her swollen nipple, shooting an arrow of heat to her very core. The caress of his hand sent a river of desire to Phoebe's belly and spiraled outward, skittering over her skin and down her limbs. She arched her back, not caring whether the action was wanton or not. Her body craved his touch.
Both his hands cupped her breasts. "You are so damned beautiful."
His praise, spoken in a husky whisper, thrilled her feminine pride. When his mouth covered one taut peak, she fell into a pit so deep, so powerful, she cried out. The sounds she made were foreign to her, but she couldn't stop them. Tension built and expanded. Restlessness tortured her body, all seemingly centered in the place between her thighs. She strained closer to Stephen, tugged his head upward. Wanton or not, driven by an unknown need, she had to kiss him, wanted his body pressed fully against hers.
His arousal strained against his trousers, and through the fabric of their clothes, he pressed against her very core, her soft cries of surprise melting to shock, then into a lusty groan. He continued the torturous rocking motion, driving them both to madness. He wanted her naked beneath him, every stitch of clothing piled on the floor. Such irrational thoughts were not only dangerous, but impossible. That knowledge made his movements more desperate. He pressed his hardened length against her one last time, then ceased to move at all. Phoebe whimpered his name and clung to his shoulders, her head resting on his chest.
Seconds turned moments to minutes. The scent of passion filled the air. His body clamored for satisfaction. Likely Phoebe felt the same, although he doubted she understood the reasons why. The blasted female had no idea the extent of his restraint. He wasn't an untried youth incapable of controlling his baser urges, but surely this was the closest he'd ever come to taking a woman - a virgin, he reminded himself in a barn at a social function of more than a hundred people. Damn his honor.
He wanted a bed and candles and satin sheets when he made love to her the first time. He wanted her full acquiescence. If he lived that long. An extended state of arousal couldn't be healthy for his well being or his throbbing cock. Lifting his head, he reluctantly pulled Phoebe's dress to its proper place. She kept her face hidden from his. Lord, his passion had probably scared her to death. Still he waited, prepared to explain the ways of men and women. Damned if he'd apologize though. Not when she'd moaned his name as she experienced the first stirrings of a woman's pleasure.
When she finally gained the courage to look at him, he nearly finished what he'd begun. Her eyes held no recrimination, no embarrassment or shame, only surprise and something akin to awe. Lord, how she humbled him.
She started to speak and he pressed his finger to her lips. If she spoke one word, uttered what he saw reflected in her eyes, he wouldn't be responsible for his actions. She needed the safety of people. A multitude of people. "Shhh, sweetheart. Say nothing." Allowing her no opportunity for rebuttal, he grasped her hand and led her from the barn in silence.
The stars shone brighter, the air smelled fresher, Phoebe's senses more alive than she'd ever thought possible. The breeze teased her skin, reminding her of Stephen's caresses and her uninhibited response stimulated by pure explosive pleasure.
She certainly had a better understanding of why some women did the things they did and she imagined there was more, so much more, to experience. Had Stephen not stopped, likely she would never have asked him to. The man, his touches, his kisses, obliterated reason.
When they reached the door to the conservatory and peered through it, she immediately sensed his withdrawal. She remembered her earlier conversation with those horrible women. No wonder he avoided his own kind, erecting walls around his emotions and private life. She knew enough to know one didn't change someone else's way of thinking overnight.
Like a small cotton bush, a seed had to be planted before new roots took hold.
Also, with a little nudge from her, maybe, just maybe, people might judge Stephen differently. Of course, a little cooperation on his part would be useful.
"You look like the barmaid trying to pull a pint from an empty keg," Stephen said. "What are you thinking?"
She knew he wouldn't discuss his status in society. She refused to discuss their little interlude in the barn, and she doubted he wanted to discuss her matrimonial choices. She lied. "I was thinking about Marsden Manor."
Kissing the knuckles of her fingers, he said, "If you wish, I can continue your lessons while we venture to the coast tomorrow."
She tilted her head to one side and pursed her lips. "I assume you refer to your offer to help me find a husband?"
He leaned close to her ear. "Think again, my dear."
A soft whisp of air teased the nape of her neck, making her tremble through her limbs to her fingertips. She cleared her throat, pretending not to be affected. She was thinking all right, but it certainly wasn't anything she cared to share at the moment. She had her owns plans for the trip to Marsden Manor.
Phoebe tugged the hood of her cape about her head in a futile attempt to keep the rain off her face, her eyes riveted on the massive stone structure looming before her. "My inheritance seems to be falling apart."
"Lord, child," Nanny Dee muttered as she stood beside the carriage. "You sure this is the place?"
"According to the vicar. This is Marsden Manor."
Gravel crunched beneath Stephen's feet as he joined the two women. He stood silent for a moment, then cleared his throat. "Phoebe, my dear,, ,tis propitious this place is two days' ride from London. If a suitor managed to make it across those roads without losing his way, one look at this place and he would scuttle back to civilization with his betrothal ring tucked in his waistcoat pocket."
Regardless of the truth of the statement, Phoebe shot Stephen a quelling look. She certainly didn't need him to point out the shortcomings of her inheritance. They were as plain as day itself. Turning back to examine the build ing, she sighed. Marsden Manor was not what she had expected.
Four ornate spires, one on each corner, rose to varied heights above the three-storied mansion. Pointed arches set with leaded glass lined the entire front of the manor along with a score of gargoyles precariously balanced on crumbling stone ledges. Like battle-worn sentries who currently spit water through their mouths, each seemed to be missing an ear, a wing or some body part. She sighed again, this time her shoulders falling with the deep breath. Marsden Manor was an elaborate, poorly designed combination of a French chateau and a house of horrors that was tumbling to the ground, stone by gray stone. And it was all hers or soon would be. Once she married. Right now, at this very moment, she wished her inheritance had been a small brick cottage anyplace where dry weather prevailed.