by Peggy Waide
"Why Stephen, look who's here. Miss Rafferty and Lord Tewksbury." She shifted to the side of the little group, extended her arms in greeting, and kissed Phoebe on the cheek as all three heads swiveled about. "We were just talking about you."
Elizabeth was practically crowing. She would dangle by her slipper strings before the end of the day if Stephen had any say about her interference. Winston wasn't helping matters, either. The least he could do was offer a reprimand or two, but no, he participated in the innocuous greetings. Rhys simply grinned like a court jester. He was pleased to see Phoebe again after their last encounter, and he was eagerly telling her so. Stephen pasted a bored expression on his face and nodded, valiantly trying yet unable to ignore the scent of lilacs clinging to Phoebe's skin, the rosy blush that adorned her cheeks, the fullness of the same lips that had welcomed his kisses. He also noted the wariness in her vibrant green eyes.
She had reason to wonder what he might do. He'd sent her flowers. She'd returned them. He'd sent her a pearl necklace. She'd returned it. She'd never bothered with the simple courtesy of a note. Now he knew why. She was too busy fawning over Tewksbury to respond. Fine!
She had five days left before she needed a wedding band on her finger. Stephen would not relent, could not relent. She'd said she loved him. Didn't that mean she belonged to him? Perhaps she needed a reminder. "It appears, Miss Rafferty, that you have a fondness for antiquities. I remember your appreciation of old Roman fortresses. Our discussion was illuminating. In fact, quite stimulating."
"Hmmm." Phoebe sighed as she watched the predatory gleam flare in his eyes. She had hoped to avoid Stephen tonight. Elizabeth had other ideas. And now the wretch wanted to play word games. Phoebe's wariness quickly shifted to discomfort as she remembered that particular discussion, one that had shown her the stars.
During the past week, she'd thought of little else but his gentle caresses and magical kisses, the way her body had sung at his touch. Shaking her head as though confused, she said, "I do recollect that event, sir, and regard the moment with fondness... and regret."
"Regret?" snapped Stephen, his expression fierce, his brows knitted together.
Yes, she wanted to shout. She regretted that private moment and all the others they had shared, for now his touch haunted her. "Indeed. It's a pity your opinion on the subject and mine differ so greatly. If you'll excuse us now, Lord Tewksbury and I are playing whist with friends this afternoon."
"Really? Then I offer my congratulations. I'd thought you inclined to games. Now I know it's the truth. It appears you have learned to play and continue to play exceedingly well, if Lord Tewksbury intends to join the game. I imagine the stakes are quite high."
"As Nanny Dee always says, necessity forces one to learn what one must." Unsure of how far she could go, yet unwilling to allow Stephen the last word, Phoebe asked, "Given a high-stakes game, what would you do, Lord Badrick? Play? Or avoid the match for fear of the consequences? I wager you would chose the latter."
"Do you bait me intentionally, Miss Rafferty? Or do you strike out like a spoiled child deprived her toy?"
Elizabeth squeaked and Phoebe thought she heard Winston groan. Rhys actually chuckled. Tewksbury, evidently curious enough to let the two combatants have at their verbal swordplay, stood silently watching. If Stephen's voice chilled any further, icicles would soon hang from the noses of the small group.
The pain that swelled in Phoebe's heart was beyond release through tears. She tried to ignore the misery she felt. What right did he have to be angry? He was the one who ill-accused her, had callously disregarding her declaration of love. Then the scoundrel had plied her with gifts in a futile attempt to buy her consent; that hurt all the more.
She had spent the week waiting, hoping that each time she returned his gifts without so much as a simple note, he would realize his stupidity, change his mind and come to her. As each day dawned and set, the possibility of a future with Stephen faded, her hopes replaced by disillusionment and resignation.
Choosing between her needs and her love for this man, she felt torn in half. "Me? Childish? Someone I know recently accused me of the very same thing. I, of course, consider the accusation pure nonsense. I believe that person cares only for himself."
Stephen's mouth curled into an insolent expression. "As you said a moment ago, necessity forces one to learn what one must."
Tewksbury, who had watched the debate with great interest, slipped closer to Phoebe's side. "As intriguing as this discussion is, I think we had best take our leave. I wish to speak with Lord Milton first."
Whether Lord Tewksbury feared she might cause a scene or say something she'd regret, Phoebe didn't care. She was suddenly eager to escape Stephen's probing eyes, his inflexible point of view.
Stephen watched Phoebe's retreating back, unaccustomed to the long-dormant emotions swirling throughout his body. What right did she have to spin into his life like a damned whirlwind and make him feel the things he did, inspire him to dream impossible dreams? He had been content.
Someone behind him cleared his throat. Whipping about on his heels, Stephen turned a searing gaze on his friends. "Do not ask."
"Ask what?" Winston said, his hands held up in submission.
"I already gave up trying to understand, my friend," Rhys added.
"I haven't," snorted Elizabeth. "What if Tewksbury gives serious suit, which, if you ask my opinion, he is doing at this very moment?"
"Phoebe is a grown woman, capable of making her own decisions. She knows what I offer."
"And pray tell what is that?" asked Elizabeth. When Stephen offered no explanation, Elizabeth turned her attention to Winston.
Winston vigorously rubbed the back of his neck. "I have no intention of telling you his proposal. Let the man hang by himself if he wishes, but trust me, my dear, you're better off not knowing."
"According to whom?" Crossing her arms beneath her breasts, she scowled at all three men.
In self-defense, Rhys held his hands in the air, mimicking Winston's earlier surrender. "Remember I just arrived. I know nothing."
She snorted. "Stephen Roland Lambert, if you value your sanity or your privacy, you will tell me what I ask. Otherwise, I vow to make your life miserable."
This was not the first time he'd gone toe to toe with Elizabeth, and Stephen doubted it would be the last. Leaning his nose within inches of hers, he enunciated each word quite clearly so there'd be no misunderstanding. "I offered Phoebe a logical solution to her problem: become my mistress. Her alternative is to marry some insufferable coxcomb whose company she'll barely tolerate."
Heedless of the nearby couples, Elizabeth let loose a stream of incredulous remarks. Then, she sighed, her shoulders heaving. Clasping Stephen's cheeks between her hands, she said, "My dear friend, you have more hair than wit. You gave Phoebe no choice at all. And if you choose to let her go with Tewksbury, you might as well turn down the covers of his marital bed." She offered no chance for rebuttal, simply let him standing beside Winston and Rhys.
"She never was one to hold back her opinion," Winston said. "I spoke my mind the other day. The decision is yours."
Winston followed in Elizabeth's wake, leaving Stephen with their words and his private demons.
"Will you listen to what I say?" Rhys asked quietly.
"Why is it everyone finds such pleasure in offering their opinion?"
Rhys grinned. "My friend, we seem far wiser that way. Why would we examine our own problems? Others' are more easily solved. Or so we think."
"Say your piece."
"Do you remember when you came to the gypsy camp for the first time, searching for answers? As a child?"
"Yes, I beat you to a bloody pulp."
"Hah," he chortled. "I remember it the other way. But who am Ito quibble over minor details? You came to find a devil in gypsy clothing, the one responsible for all your misery. Finding no real answers, you swore your greatgrandfather's indiscretion would not stop you from living your life as y
ou saw fit. You claimed each man was responsible for his own actions. What has happened to that man? You seem to have forgotten your vow."
"Yes. I paraded 'round London like a neck-or-nothing young blood, intent on only my desires. I was going to prove to the world that the Badrick curse was nothing more than a silly superstition. I set my sights on the sweetest, most innocent female I could, a rose amongst the snapdragons of our society. My actions produced disastrous results."
"It is not uncommon for men to lose their wives."
"Other men have no legacy of death preceding them." Stephen shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and stared at the distant corner of the room, seeing nothing but a gravestone bearing Phoebe's name. "Rhys, I don't think I'd survive if anything happened to Phoebe."
"Do you love her?"
Stephen clamped his mouth shut.
"Refusing to acknowledge your heart does not eliminate the emotion or its truth. Ask yourself these questions before you decide your future. Would you be better off without Phoebe? Can you return to a life alone and be content? Could you bear to see her on the arm of another man, heavy with his child? Or would you rather grasp whatever time you have, long or short, and love her, to be together and be happy? Put your past behind you. Believe in the man you've become. Once you do, anything is possible. Now, if you will excuse me, there is a lovely brunette widow I have wanted to meet all evening. Send me a note if you need my assistance."
Rhys's questions were identical to those that Stephen had asked himself. As he stood alone, he reflected that he had spent most of his life in solitude. He'd seen to that. He'd purposely alienated himself from people and society. He'd shielded himself from the constant temptation to take what he wanted, what he couldn't have.
Since Phoebe waltzed into Wyman's study, he'd begun to live again. To feel. And he liked the change. The implication of that thought was frightening. Suddenly the room seemed unbearably crowded. Circling the perimeter of the gallery, he veered into a small antechamber with three solitary statues. Ironically, seeking escape, he'd come face-toface with her.
Phoebe leaned against a wall, her head drooped. He spoke before he realized he'd said a word.
Her head jerked up. Pressing herself from the wall, she squared her shoulders like a sentry caught lagging at his post. "What do you want?"
She seemed reticent to talk, to remain with him alone, which bothered him more than he cared to admit. The anguish in her voice, the acceptance of defeat, chilled his blood. He scanned the room to ensure their privacy. Satisfied, he said, "We need to talk."
"I thought you made your feelings perfectly clear."
"Are you going to marry Tewksbury?"
"He hasn't asked me yet. I have four days left."
Damn, but he wanted to hold her. He inched closer. When she distanced herself from him, he raised his arm midway in the air in a helpless gesture. "You told me you loved me."
"I'm beginning to think love's an illusion after all."
"The hell it is."
"As you've said many times, we've shared passion and certainly lust. I've discovered those emotions bum fast and furiously, leaving only ashes."
"Damn it, you know I care."
"But not enough to chance what we might find together," she blurted out. Suddenly overwhelmed by the torment of the last few weeks, she wrapped her arms protectively about her stomach as if the action might ease her sorrow. "Unless you have something else to say, please leave me alone."
"I never meant to hurt you."
Yet he had. He'd been brutally honest from the very beginning. In all fairness, she couldn't blame him for her current situation. That fact did nothing to ease her heartbreak. Stephen was a mere two feet from her, yet he might as well have stood on the moon. No longer content to remain still, she circled one of the three statues. "I don't blame you for any of this. I understand your fear. I think I even accept it now. It's not your fault. It's mine. You are who you are. I tried to make you different." Once she accepted the truth, that her future lay elsewhere than with this man, the words came more easily.
"From the very beginning I refused to listen to you. In my naivete, I believed that if I wanted it badly enough,.I could charm you into marriage. The truth is that no one can force another to do his bidding. I would live every day trying to make you love me. Day after day you would withhold yourself from me for fear I might die. If you married me with any reservation, you would hate your life and eventually me. I couldn't live like that."
"You could be happy with another man?"
After a long pause, during which she struggled to maintain control of her emotions, she answered. "I hope to be content." He looked as though she'd struck him. How could he be shocked? She'd been honest with him as well. Tears threatened to spill. She refused to give him the satis faction of witnessing her pain, and she escaped to the doorway. "I wish you well, Stephen Lambert. Thank you for the time we shared. I shall it cherish forever."
Tears glistened on her pale cheeks. He felt the pang of guilt and his greatest fear yet. For the first time, he truly considered that he might be wrong. That Phoebe might, just possibly, marry someone else. Could he change a lifetime of thinking, of believing? That vexing question was not quickly answered. And time was running out.
Together, Phoebe and Lord Tewksbury wandered the pebbled path of Hildegard's garden, the air heavy with the scent of freshly tilled dirt and the promise of rain. Although the weather had blessed them with a lovely spring day, like Phoebe's recent moods, it could change from moment to moment.
Birds chirped in the trees and bees busied themselves collecting nectar from the budding flowers. A slight breeze teased Phoebe's curls, reminding her of Stephen's featherlike caresses.
She quickly scolded herself for her foolishness. Now was not the time to be thinking about that man. Lord Tewksbury was here with a matter of great importance. She feared the decision she might have to make. She circled toward a large trellis covered with wisteria and lowered herself to the small bench beneath.
"Woolgathering?" Lord Tewksbury asked as his shadow fell across the bench.
Her heart devoid of any real joy, Phoebe smiled. "You caught me. Please sit?"
Lord Tewksbury did so, angling his body to face hers. "I believe you know why I came today. The past week has been delightful and unless my powers of deduction are greatly impaired, I think you enjoyed my company as well." He plucked a purple flower from the nearby bush and extended the gift to Phoebe. As their fingers brushed, he entwined her hand with his. "Phoebe, I would be honored if you would be my wife."
She fought the impulse to free her hand and conceal it in her skirts. The tremble that shook her body was something else altogether. It was as plain as the concern on Lord Tewksbury's face.
He said, "I thought I made my intentions perfectly clear. Was I wrong? Did I misinterpret your need to marry?"
"No, sir, you did not."
"Splendid." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "By my calculation, you must wed in three days. I see no reason to wait. I took the liberty of procuring a special license. I would like to marry tomorrow with my daughter in attendance."
"You've been quite thorough, haven't you?"
"I apologize that I cannot offer more than this."
"You offer more than I expected."
"Best to understand now, Phoebe. I leave very little to chance. I want a wife and a mother and someone to bear an heir. My proposal likely seems cold-hearted, but I would not make it if I didn't think we could be happy. Are you willing to take the risk?"
"I appreciate your honesty and you deserve mine before this discussion goes any further. I still care a great deal for Lord Badrick."
"I gathered as much from the other night at the museum. Will you be faithful to me?"
She wanted to be insulted, but he had every right to ask such a question. "Be assured that if I accept your proposal, I would never do anything to embarrass or shame you."
"You're an honorable young woman. If I truly
considered your infidelity a possibility, we would not be having this discussion. I think you needed to hear yourself say the words." He grinned, a warm boyish smile. "Perhaps I needed to hear the words as well."
Her mood had improved with the conversation. His quiet acceptance made her next request easier to ask. "In all fairness to both you and myself, there is something I must do."
His expression filled with understanding. "You wish to contact Lord Badrick."
"I must."
"Is that wise?"
"I owe him the truth. He will come to see me or not. Either way, I shall have my answer. I will send you a note tomorrow morning. If need be, I can be ready to travel by the afternoon."
He clasped her chin in his fingertips. Knowing he intended to kiss her, she allowed her eyes to drift shut. His lips met hers in a sweet, soothing kiss. She felt no fire, but neither did she experience any disgust. He collected his hat and stood. "I shan't wish you luck, for his good fortune would be my loss. Whatever you choose, I will understand."
She watched his retreating back. Theirs would never be a passionate marriage, rather one forged of friendship and respect. She could be content.
Stephen's dart sailed through the smoky haze of the Lusty Dog and landed in the cutout bottom of a whiskey barrel that served as a target. Although his opponent, a sailor with arms the size of tree limbs, grumbled and added another coin to Stephen's growing pile, the bull's-eye did nothing to ease the suffocating anxiety he felt. Ever since his conversation with Phoebe, he had tried to come to terms with losing her to Tewksbury.
This morning Stephen had escaped his house to come to terms with his recent decision. Phoebe needed him. He wanted her. And God help him, he loved her. Nothing or no one, not a curse, a vindictive Gypsy, bitter relative or even his own fears would keep him from Phoebe. It was time to bury his ghosts once and for all. Though he had made his mind up, he still needed a bit of time to accept his decision. Yanking the wooden points from the target, Stephen decided he had time for another game or two. Perhaps his mood would improve. After all, wasn't a man supposed to be happy when he proposed to his bride-to-be?