Potent Charms

by Peggy Waide

  Between Dee's constant scrutiny, Stephen's incessant probing into the type of husband she wanted, Elizabeth's sudden indigestion and Winston's worrying about Elizabeth, the two-day trip had been long and tedious. The poor weather, the hour spent pulling their carriage from the mud, coupled with the fact that they had gotten lost twice, hadn't helped. They gained no comfort in the pitiful food served at the inn last night either. Now, to arrive here and discover this... well... a meal with Hildegard almost became appealing. Hoping to hide her disappointment, she said, "Perhaps the inside offers a different perspective."

  Winston stopped beside Stephen with Elizabeth in his arms. "Let us hope the roof repels water."

  "Come on," Dee ordered. "We're all getting soaking wet. We'd best go inside and see if n it's any better."

  Elizabeth struggled in Winston's arms. "For heaven's sake, put me down. My stomach hurts, not my feet."

  Stephen grasped Phoebe's elbow, following Winston and Elizabeth up the steps as they pecked at one another like two guinea hens. The massive double doors were patched with odd pieces of wood and the brass gargoyle knocker was missing its right hand. When no one responded to his pounding, Stephen turned the knob and crossed the threshold.

  The sinking feeling in the pit of Phoebe's stomach plummeted all the way to her knees. The inside wasn't a sight better than the outside. Cracks in the plaster stretched across the bare walls like veins in an aging hand. A worn Aubusson rug covered the wooden floor while a ricketylooking bannister, missing a quarter of its rungs, led upstairs. The house needed a good cleaning, better lighting, new furnishings, and then some. All of which required money. Something she lacked.

  Quicker than hell could scorch a feather, the formidable task of finding a suitable husband willing to keep her inheritance had become almost insurmountable. That is, if she couldn't convince Stephen to marry her.

  Stephen rubbed a finger through the dust on a small table in the entry way. "You did say you sent word of your visit?"

  "Yes." Her voice quivered slightly. "I wrote as soon as I received a note from my solicitor and gave our tentative date of arrival."

  "Perhaps they never received the missive," Elizabeth interjected. She pressed her hand over her mouth. "Oh, dear, I think I'm going to be sick again."

  Winston bolted toward the stairs, calling over his shoulder. "I'm going to try to find my wife a chamber pot and put her to bed."

  "Well, this ain't how things are going to be while I'm here," Dee pronounced as she set down her bag. She drew her damp cape from her shoulders, tossing it over the arm of a wooden chair which, due to a missing leg, was balanced on a brick. "I'm going to find the kitchen and make us all a pot of tea and try to find somethin' to settle that poor girl's stomach." Dee turned to Stephen. "And don't you, Mr. Duke, be getting any ideas. I won't be far." She muttered this and that as she wandered toward the end of the long, dim hallway.

  Phoebe watched Stephen scowl as he watched Dee disappear from sight. She ignored the desire to soothe his ducal sensibilities over her servant's brusque approach. She had enough to worry about. Freeing her head from her hood, she fought the urge to bury her face in her hands. Tears would accomplish nothing. "I don't understand any of this. However could this happen? Whoever would have allowed it to happen?"

  "We'll solve that puzzle in short order." He moved close enough to tug on a lock of hair curling about her face. "Best to think of something else right now. You seem to be rather wet. Again." Using the knuckle of his finger, he tipped her chin. "All last night while I tried to sleep, I kept remembering a mere wall separated us."

  The specks of gold in his dark eyes blazed with possibility. He obviously wasn't above coercion. She wanted nothing more than to curl into his arms and accept the solace and anything else he offered. Before temptation overwhelmed her good sense, she forced herself to step back and hang her cape on the lone peg of an oak coatrack, noting the trembling of her hand. "We had best find someplace other than this drafty hallway, else Dee will be wondering what we've being doing all this time."

  "Dare we venture further? Dee might never find us." He waggled his eyebrows. "Then again, that idea has definite possibilities"

  "Not likely. Nanny Dee is very resourceful."

  "Trust me, darling. I do not underestimate your companion. It's evident she takes her job as chaperone quite seriously." His expression grew fierce, his forehead furrowed with wrinkles and his chin lifted a notch. "She has no regard for my title or my preferences. Something to which I must say I'm not accustomed. What good is a dukedom if it earns you no respect? For two days, other than an occasional Mr. Duke,' she's done nothing but glare through me as though she's reading my very thoughts. Last night, before bed, she muttered strange words at my back. I thought I'd surely wake missing a toe or another essential part of my anatomy."

  "That's absurd. She always mutters."

  "Easy for you to say. She likes you."

  The twinkle in his eyes caught her attention. The fox was teasing her. She finally laughed. "You're trying to distract me."

  Grinning, the humor no longer concealed beneath an austere expression, he shrugged one shoulder. He crossed to the bannister, eyed it suspiciously, then placed his sodden garments on the post. "You had that wounded look in your eyes once again. It disturbs me. I promise, Phoebe, I will get to the bottom of this."

  "Thank you. You know, Dee actually likes you."

  "God forbid I should ever become her enemy. Come along." Grasping her hand, his thumb encircling her palm, he followed in Dee's path.

  They passed an arched doorway and peered inside to find a dusty mahogany table large enough to accommodate at least thirty people. Only four chairs surrounded it. After three additional rooms, all noticeably devoid of furniture, they found what they considered a haven: the library. Books lined the shelves and the room boasted three chairs, a chaise and a game table. A small desk stood in the corner. A massive hearth with a marble mantel occupied most of the opposite wall. Within minutes, two lamps glowed, a fire crackled and Phoebe and Stephen sipped what Phoebe considered a rather nice brandy. Stephen fiddled with the fire while Phoebe browsed through the papers littering the desk. Nothing gave any indication to the why or wherefore of the estate's dismal condition.

  Stephen brushed the dust from his knees and fingered the pages of a book left on the floor. "Do you expect your husband to be a literary man?"

  Growing accustomed to his game of question and answer, which usually served his own purpose in some way, Phoebe answered without thought. She was also learning a great deal about Stephen. "It would please me if he read, yes."

  "Hmmm. Many men prefer dim-witted, uneducated women, wives whose sole aim in life is to please their husbands, in all ways, Phoebe ways that have nothing to do with reading, embroidery or the running of a household. Would you like to know some of the manners in which a man expects to be indulged?"

  His voice had dropped to a provocative whisper, purposely slow and silky, laced with the promise of unspoken things she had yet to experience, she was sure. "I believe, sir, this topic is not at all appropriate."

  "But a woman such as yourself might benefit from knowing her husband's expectations," said Stephen. He knew Phoebe's passion firsthand. He hoped she was curious as well. She needed to realize the fire that lay between them, not yet fully explored, was missing in most relationships.

  Her mind needed to know what her body already recognized. She wanted him. He felt it in her response every time he took her into his arms, the manner in which her eyes turned a darker shade of green when she sensed his arousal, every time she pressed herself closer to absorb his heat. Damn if he'd share that with another man. He fixed his eyes on the book, which rested on his leg as he knelt by the fireplace.

  "Based on some silly notion that a true lady dislikes passion, some men prefer a quick tumble while practically fully clothed in the dark, their only purpose to gain an heir. Likely they have a mistress to satisfy their other needs." He paused for effect
. "But some men believe pleasure essential to lovemaking, whether married or with a mistress."

  "Like yourself, I imagine."

  "Absolutely. I believe immensely in giving pleasure as well as receiving. I like a room shadowed but not dark so touch can be seen as well as felt and sighs can be observed as well as heard." He noted the rosy color creeping up her neck and the tension in her hands as she gripped the stem of her glass. Her eyes flashed with an awakened awareness he knew he had taught her. His hands slid over the soft leather of the book, stroking the binding from end to end, and damn if his little game wasn't affecting him as well.

  However uncomfortable, he was compelled to continue. Crossing to her side, he turned her palm upside down and lightly traced the length of each of her fingers. "Did you know there are books that describe, in great detail, the methods for men and women to pleasure one another? Where to touch? How to touch?" Lifting her hand to his lips, he scraped his teeth across the soft pad of flesh near her thumb.

  "Really?" Phoebe's voice came out as a squeak, no small wonder considering the provocative images that leaped into her mind. They were a vivid combination of her own imagination, her newly awakened desire, her precious encounters with Stephen, and they were not at all appropriate. But she could not stop them. Judging from the jaunty tilt of his mustache, he knew exactly how this conversation was affecting her. The scamp.

  Well, she wasn't above such manipulations herself. Two could play at this game. She pulled her hand from his, balling it into a tight fist to stop the disturbing sensations. "May a wife demand pleasure? I mean, it seems only fair. If her husband neglects his duty to her then she should be free to tell him what she needs, where she likes to be touched, how she wants to be touched."

  "Such women are rare indeed," Stephen said, his voice heavy and a touch ragged.

  "Then she would be all the more appreciated by her husband."

  When she referred to a husband once again, he dragged his fingers across his mustache. "Or her protector."

  Before he could utter his next thought, a short, round man as old as dirt, dressed in brown woolen breeches and a long, dark coat, wobbled into the room. A large oilskin hat covered his head, water dripping from its brim. He'd obviously been outdoors. A black patch covered one eye.

  He gazed nervously from Phoebe to Stephen to the corners of the room, as if searching for someone or something. Wheezing, he said, "Pardon me, but might you be the American?"

  Before she nodded, Phoebe looked over her shoulder, half-expecting someone to be there. "Yes. I'm Miss Rafferty. You must be Mr. Hampson."

  "Wibolt, miss." He wheezed again then glanced nervously toward Stephen. "We wasn't expecting you today, nor did we expect company with you."

  "Let me introduce my acquaintance, the Duke of Badrick."

  Stephen stood, his ducal air sliding on like a second skin. "Remove your hat, for heaven's sake. Miss Rafferty also brought a companion and two friends. Is that a problem?"

  Wibolt's face turned a deeper shade of red. He removed his hat to reveal grey bushy eyebrows and a wild cap of matching curls. With his grip tight about his hat, he shuf fled his feet from side to side. In between puffs of air, he said, "No, sir. I'll have the other rooms prepared."

  "While you're at it, see to bathwater and rouse a cook." Stephen leaned forward, his hand outstretched. "Are you all right?"

  In between a hacking cough and another raspy bit of breathing, Wibolt managed to say, "I was running, you see. 'Twill be fine shortly, your grace, but I thank you for asking."

  Stephen didn't look convinced. In fact, Phoebe thought he was preparing himself to catch Wibolt should he collapse. Beneath Stephen's contrary facade lay a kind man. She said, "My chaperone is in the kitchen as we speak. I think we shall eat here since this seems to be the one room with suitable furnishings."

  "That'll be fine, miss. I can have Mary Potter come over to help, but..." He swayed to the side. "Well," he wheezed, a hollow hissing sound. "It's only..."

  Stephen clasped the man by his elbow and lowered him into the nearby chair. "Spit it out, man."

  "Hampson will be needing funds for pay and likely Mrs. Potter won't stay the night due..." Wibolt glanced between the doorway and Phoebe several times.

  "Due to?" she prompted, hoping he'd manage to finish his sentence before he fainted.

  "Due to the ghost," he whispered.

  Phoebe gasped, the brandy stinging her throat, which ignited a fit of coughing. She managed to sputter, "Ghost?"

  "Aye, milady." The poor man glanced to the doorway one last time, then to the tops of his sodden boots. He appeared as though he might tie his hat in knots while trying to decide something of great importance. He squeezed a deep breath of air into his lungs, looked up and blurted out, "Lord Marsden, your grandfather. We can't keep decent help. Augustus scares them all away."

  "Oh, for the love of Mary," Stephen snapped. "You don't expect us to believe that pile of rubbish, do you?"

  "Sir, it's the truth. If you stay here long enough, you'll see what I mean."

  "Enough. We'll discuss Miss Rafferty's ancestor another time."

  Phoebe finally managed to find her voice. "Are you telling me there is no money in the estate account?"

  "Well, " Wibolt cleared his throat, then muttered, "Thank heavens."

  Phoebe followed Wibolt's gaze to the doorway, afraid of what she'd see, and then she couldn't believe her eyes. If Wibolt seemed as old as dirt, then the man who'd just arrived was older still. Above the starched collar, wrinkles climbed up his neck to the top of his bald head. Although his shoulders stooped a bit, his upright posture exhibited years of service. His eyes seemed kind, alert and intelligent, assessing the situation quickly and thoroughly. He sent a searching look to Wibolt, who shook his head. This had to be Hampson.

  "In truth, your Lordship, Marsden Manor is extremely low on funds at the moment," the newcomer announced.

  Leaning his hip on the edge of the desk, Stephen surveyed the newcomer. "Hampson, I presume?"

  "At your service, sir." He nodded to Phoebe. "Welcome to Marsden Manor, Miss Rafferty."

  Speechless once again, she only nodded.

  Wibolt pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his brow. He inhaled deeply while his left eye twitched. The man looked about to faint.

  Stephen held up his hand. "Do not start wheezing again, Wibolt. In fact, you can see to our rooms. Lady Pay ley is a bit under the weather. She and her husband are upstairs somewhere. Please see them settled. Hampson, go to the kitchen and bring Miss Rafferty's companion here. We shall decide the sleeping arrangements for the night."

  "Aye, yer lordship." Hampson pivoted to leave. Wibolt, looking thoroughly relieved, quickly hobbled behind.

  Phoebe rose from her chair and moved to the front of the desk, taking a spot beside Stephen. Curiosity was gnawing away at her patience. "Wait a moment. Hampson, whatever happened here?"

  "I'll handle this." Stephen moved toward the servant. "We will explore the deplorable affairs of this estate in great detail and decide what has to be done, but tomorrow will be soon enough."

  "Excuse me," Phoebe interjected.

  "Hold a moment, Phoebe. Miss Rafferty will want to review all the ledgers first. I'd say you have a great deal to explain. For now, hire whatever help you need. I personally guarantee any wages."

  With his dismissal, Hampson looked one last time at Phoebe with such hope, such trust, that she wondered if she'd imagined it. Massaging the drumming in her head, she turned on Stephen and advanced like a rabid dog. She tapped his shirtfront with her finger. "If you've a mind to take my life over, you might ask first. I happened to be standing right here in this same little old room, or were you so busy running my affairs you simply forgot I existed? What right do you have to hire more staff? And what about Wibolt and Hampson? Aren't you a tad bit curious about my servants? And what if there is a ghost not that I believe my grandfather's eavesdropping or such, but obviously something peculiar is going on.
I might have had a question or two."

  Pressing on the bridge of his nose, he paced before the fire, then stopped and placed one hand in his pocket, the other on the mantle. "Is there any particular order in which you wish me to address your questions?"

  "It's late. I'm tired, wet, just a little bit disappointed and fresh out of patience. If you didn't happen to notice, Marsden Manor is my very own personal setting for a Shakespearean comedy of errors. I already have my ghost. All I need are three witches and a fairy or two."

  "Calm down. You're becoming hysterical."

  "Hysterical?" She finally allowed herself the laughter that had threatened for the last half-hour. "Perhaps I am, and if I am, it's my choice, and given the circumstances, I feel mighty justified. I don't appreciate your high-handedness right now."

  "Pardon me. I have no designs on managing your life for you, although I'd likely do a damn good job. I thought you might like a bit of time to think things through. Your house is tumbling down about your ears. You seem to be broke. Your staff is horrifically old, possibly incompetent, complete dolts or liars and thieves. I haven't decided which."

  She drummed her fingers on the desk. "I realize something is amiss."

  "Amiss? Hah! As to the wanderings of your dear departed relative, we'll deal with that issue if and when he arises. As to the staff, I desire a decent meal and a decent bed. I do not mind paying for them."

  "I don't have extra funds to be hiring people right now. I can cook, as can Nanny Dee, and I've certainly made my share of beds."

  Bracing his feet apart, he placed his hands on his hips. "You won't act as my servant. Do you understand?"

  "And I won't have you paying my bills."

  "Consider it a gift."

  "Making me indebted to you. Hah. Mistresses accept gifts."

  "Phoebe, you're beginning to upset me."

  She crossed her arms over her chest. "And I imagine-"

  Nanny Dee sailed into the room, effectively bringing an end to the dispute. A tantalizing aroma filled the library as she set a tray laden with warm tea and bread on the lone table. "There is something mighty strange going on in this household. I met this man too old to be breathing who told me I could leave the kitchen right this minute. I gave him a piece of my mind and I reckon he won't be bothering me no more. I thought he might fall over then and there. He was as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin' chairs. I don't trust that man. Not one little bit." She propelled onward, allowing no one a word. "Now, Miss Phoebe and I are going to see about our sleeping quarters. I hear they have a nice room in the west wing suitable for yer lordship. We'll be takin' a suite in the east side."