“Shall I give you another?” he asked, a deeply unpleasant smile flickering over his mouth. He might have been considered a handsome man by some but Phoebe found his features too feminine and there was a slightly febrile look in his eyes that made her wonder about his sanity. “Though I suspect a dashing sort like you isn’t easily frightened.”
He lunged for her as Phoebe screamed and tried to push him away. He may have been built on far more slender lines than Benedict but he was strong none the less. Phoebe found herself trapped in his embrace, her arms crushed in front of her against his chest.
“Let me go, Harold. Let me go and I won’t tell Sylvester ...” The threat fell on deaf ears and her words were cut off by Harold forcing his mouth against hers.
Phoebe struggled and tried to get her hands free to no avail. Stamping on his foot with the heel of her shoe made him curse for a moment but she was just forced harder against the bookshelves. With revulsion she felt his excitement as his hips pressed against her and she tried to get her knee into a position where it could do the most damage.
As it happened this wasn’t necessary as Harold was almost lifted from his feet by a hand grasping the back of his coat, and he flew unceremoniously to the ground.
“Get up, you damned snake,” Benedict roared as Harold looked up at him in horror.
“B-but, Ben,” Harold stammered, holding his hands out in front of him. “It was just a misunderstanding, that’s all ...”
“Oh!” Phoebe stalked forward and delivered him a kick in the side. “You appalling, odious, little toad,” she cried. “You attacked me!”
“What is going on here?”
Everyone looked up as Wilfred Spalding strode into the room and Phoebe noted that Harold looked even more afraid.
“Harold, you’ve been drinking,” Mr Spalding said in disgust as Harold scrambled to his feet. He looked around at Phoebe and Benedict. “I don’t know what he did but I’m sure he’ll apologise, when he’s sober. Come along, Harold.”
Harold appeared to be only too keen to comply with this order but found himself suddenly hampered by Benedict’s large hand closing around his throat and ramming him against the book shelves.
“Not so fast, you little weasel. I’ve had just about enough of you and your insinuating ways, and your appalling manners, so I give you fair warning. You look at this or any other young lady with malice again, and you’ll have me to answer to. Do I make myself clear?”
“P-perfectly,” Harold replied, though his words were constricted by the iron grip of the huge man holding his throat.
Benedict let him go, his expression one of utter disgust, and with the deepest relief Phoebe watched the two men leave the room.
Chapter 8
The serpent of the field, by art
And spells, is won from harming;
But that which coils around the heart,
Oh! who hath power of charming? - Lord Byron
Benedict took a breath to try and dispel the murderous rage than was still thrumming in his blood. It wasn’t helped when he turned back to look at Phoebe. She held her arms about herself and he could see she was trembling.
“S-sorry,” she said, giving him a tremulous smile. “I ...”Whatever she’d been about to say seemed to escape her as she gave a faint sob and covered her mouth with her hand.
“Phoebe!” It seemed the most natural thing in the world to cross the room and take her in his arms. “It’s alright now,” he crooned, smoothing his hand over her hair and finding it just as soft and silky as he had imagined it might be. She wrapped her arms around him, clinging tightly and he took another deep breath, though the reasoning behind it seemed to have changed. His breath caught entirely as she looked up at him, her blue eyes wide and glittering.
“I’m sorry,” she said, trying to smile again. “I’m not usually such ... such a wet g-goose,” she stammered.
“You had a dreadful fright,” he replied, gazing down at her and fighting the longing to kiss her lovely mouth. He pulled his gaze away in horror as he reminded himself of the ordeal she had just suffered. “Come and sit down,” he said, his voice sounding a little too loud suddenly. She seemed just as unwilling to release her hold on him as he was to force her to move away but he made himself remember his position.
He sat her down and went to fetch her a small glass of brandy which he pressed into her hand.
“Drink it slowly,” he advised. “It’s very strong.”
To his chagrin, she drank it down in two large swallows and handed him the glass back with a trembling hand. “May I have another please,” she said, her voice quiet as she looked up at him with a rather sheepish expression.
He nodded and took the glass from her. Once he’d given her another, smaller measure he sat down in the chair opposite her.
“Are you alright?”
She had curled herself into the big armchair she was sat in, her pretty muslin skirts tucked around her ankles. Her hair had tumbled loose during her struggle with Harold and fell about her shoulders. She looked very young, and very vulnerable. He felt a strange sensation ripple through his chest which was swiftly followed by feelings of such protectiveness that he wanted to go and rip Harold limb from limb.
“I’m fine,” she said, nodding and looking anything but. “I’ll just finish this and I’ll be more the thing, I’m sure,” she added.
The urge to cross the small space between them and take her in his arms again was so fierce he could almost taste it. Damn it. He had no right to such emotions. He was engaged to Theodora. With a burst of annoyance he thought that his fiancée would never have found herself in such a position. She would never make him feel this ... this ... out of control. He was angry all at once, and not just at Harold.
“You need to stay away from Harold,” he said, his voice rather harsher than he intended. “He’s weak and volatile and you ...” he waved his hand at her feeling unable to describe just what it was he was looking at. “You present a great ... temptation to him.”
Phoebe stared back at him and the temperature in the room seemed to plummet in the light of her expression.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, her voice very quiet. “Are you ... are you saying this is my fault?”
Benedict opened his mouth and closed it again. “I ... No ... I didn’t ...”
“Because,” she said, getting to her feet. “That is very much what it sounded like.”
She glared down at him and he could see she was trembling still, but he didn’t think it was fear this time.
“So should I perhaps keep to my room and not come out while he’s allowed to wander at will?” she demanded, her voice growing rather strident. “Oh perhaps I can come out as long as I make no effort to look attractive in case he happens to catch a glimpse of me?”
“Phoebe,” he began, wondering how this had gone so horribly wrong. “I didn’t mean it like that but ... but you’re very beautiful. You’d be a temptation to any man and ... and you shouldn’t allow yourself to be in a situation where you’re alone with one.”
Her face grew white with rage. “You’ve been speaking to Miss Pinchbeck. That ... that ...”
Benedict stood and caught hold of her hands. “She said you’d been walking with Oliver alone, yes. She only meant to help you, to guide you, you see. I think perhaps your father has not told you about the dangers of such behaviour. Of course there is no harm in it most of the time, though your reputation might suffer, but Harold is another matter. He’s not right, Phoebe, he’s dangerous.”
She pulled her hands from his grasp, looking at him in disgust. “I have been avoiding him,” she shouted. “I came in here to get a book and I didn’t know he was already in the room. He crept up on me, Benedict. I was just looking for a book and he attacked me!” she cried and his heart felt bruised at the look in her eyes. “But I’m alone with you aren’t I. Am I doing wrong now? Should I not be here? Will you hurt me now because I’ve given you the opportunity?”
“No!�
� he shouted, appalled that she could think it. “No, of course not. I could never ... I would never hurt you. No sane, decent man would.” He reached out and put his hand to her face, looking down at her with his heart in his throat. “Forgive me. I ... I’ve made a mess of this I know. I didn’t mean ...” He swallowed, wanting so badly to kiss her that it was an ache beneath his skin. “I don’t seem to be able to say the right thing when I’m with you.”
“No,” she said, the bitterness in her tone unmistakable. “You don’t.”
He dropped his hand and she stepped away from him. “If you’ll excuse me I would like to go to my room.”
He nodded, unsure if he felt relief or desperation that he hadn’t acted upon his feelings.
“I’ll escort you.”
She gave a snort of disgust but didn’t forbid him to follow her so he walked along the corridor at her side and up the stairs. As they passed Harold’s room their gazes met as a furious argument could be heard on the other side. The words were muffled but it sounded like Mr Spalding was very angry indeed. Not being the kind to listen at keyholes Benedict didn’t pause until he had seen Phoebe safely to her door.
“I’m sorry if I upset you,” he said, avoiding her gaze. “It was far from my intention.”
Phoebe said nothing in reply but walked into her room and closed the door behind her.
Benedict stood staring at it for moment not knowing what it was he was feeling. It was as though he’d been turned inside out and put together in a haphazard fashion. Things that had seemed so black and white just days ago no longer had the same clarity. His emotions were blurring the lines and that he could not allow.
He stalked away from her door feeling that somehow Phoebe was to blame. Everything had been fine before she’d turned up. His life was comfortable and well-ordered, his younger siblings all financially secure. It had taken him a decade to do it but they were safe and he was a wealthy man. His personal life was satisfactory. Except suddenly it wasn’t. The overwhelming desire he’d just experienced for Phoebe had unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
Desire had never played a part in his courtship of Theodora. In fact he wondered what she would do if he displayed such behaviour to her. Regrettably his thoughts then wandered to what Phoebe might have done if he’d acted on those feelings and kissed her. Would she have been shocked? Would she perhaps have encouraged him? The thought made him catch his breath.
Footsteps ahead of him brought him back to his senses as he noticed Mr Spalding hurrying down the stairs ahead of him.
“Wait there,” he demanded, quickening his step.
Spalding looked up at him from the floor below, his expression impatient.
“Lord Rothay?” he replied. “What can I do for you?”
“I’d like a word please,” Benedict said, the tone of his voice brooking no argument as he gestured for Mr Spalding to go into the drawing room.
Spalding did not look like he welcomed the interview but neither did he prevaricate.
“What can I do for you, my Lord,” he asked as Benedict closed the door behind them.
Relieved to find the room empty, Benedict went and poured himself a large brandy, offering one to Mr Spalding who shook his head. Taking a large sip of his drink, he observed the man with a critical air. He was dressed in the height of fashion but with none of the excesses or frills or nauseating patterns which made Harold look so foolish. But there was a sly look in his eyes, a considering look as if bets were being taken that Benedict dislike intensely.
“I see no point in beating about the bush, Spalding, so I’ll come to the point,” he said, watching the man to see his reaction. “Harold is in debt, serious debt. It’s been my opinion that he’s being blackmailed, and has been for some months now.”
“Is that right?” Spalding said, his facial expressions making all the exclamations of surprise that simply didn’t reach his eyes.
“It is,” Benedict replied, his tone dark. “I have bailed him out on two separate occasions now but enough is enough. So I am telling you, as I have told him. There will not be a third time. So if that is your intention I suggest you go and find another fat pigeon to pluck. My uncle may be elderly but he is in good health and fine spirits. He may easily, and I sincerely hope he does, live another ten years, perhaps more. So any thoughts that Harold may have of coming into his inheritance in the near future are far and wide of the mark. Have I made myself plain?”
“Abundantly,” Spalding said, his eyes full of rage. “Though I am at a loss as to why you are speaking to me about such matters.”
“Are you?” Benedict said, knowing his expression was as grim as his words sounded. “Well I don’t think I am far from the mark. So I tell you now, you’ll not get another penny, do you hear?”
Both men started as the doors that led out onto the terrace opened and Oliver walked in. He looked surprised to see them.
“Oh, I do beg your pardon,” he said with a smooth smile. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re not,” Benedict replied, wondering how long he’d been standing on the terrace and what he’d heard.
He walked out and closed the door on the two men and headed into the gardens. Deciding the only thing that could undo the knots of tension in his shoulders was a long walk he set out at a brisk pace and wondered just how far he would need to go before Phoebe’s lovely face faded from his mind.
***
The next morning Phoebe sat in the sunshine, the scent of roses on the warm air of the summer’s morning soothing to her jangled nerves. She had been so desperately angry with Benedict yesterday, and even knowing that he hadn’t really meant the words the way they had sounded did not make her feel better.
Harold’s actions had been appalling and frightening and she would take great care not to be in his company alone again. Frankly she never, ever, wanted to see him again. But Benedict had frustrated her. She had seen the anger in his eyes, he’d looked very much like he wanted to kill Harold and was more than prepared to do it. The passionate nature she had suspected dwelt within him had been only too apparent. But then he had retreated into his usual demeanour and become the priggish Earl all over again and she’d wanted to slap his smug face.
“Hello there,” called a cheerful voice, and Phoebe looked up to see Oliver strolling towards her. “I wondered if I’d find you outside and here you are.” He stood and put his hands up, as though framing her for a painting. “And what a lovely picture you make, like the goddess of summer, surrounded by roses.”
Phoebe sighed inwardly, she wasn’t sure she was in the mood for Oliver’s particular brand of charm but she wasn’t enjoying her own company much either.
“That didn’t impress you one bit did it?” Oliver said with a frown of consternation.
She laughed despite herself. “Oh, dear. I am sorry. You see I’m not in the mood to be flirted with so I’m going to be very bad company I’m afraid.”
“Oh, well that’s put a spoke in my wheel hasn’t it.” He stood grinning at her and then moved closer so she made room for him to sit down. “Now then, my unhappy rose, what has happened to make you mope about the gardens? You don’t strike me as a girl who has fits of the sullens so someone has upset you.”
Phoebe cast him a grateful look and then sat back against the bench with a sigh of frustration. “Yes they have,” she admitted. “More than one person truth be told.”
“Who is he?” he demanded with a theatrical tone. “Tell me now and I shall vanquish the dastardly villain.”
Laughing at his ridiculous posturing Phoebe shook her head. “Oh don’t be so absurd,” she said in great amusement. “But thank you, I feel much better now.”
“Good,” he said, nodding and giving her a sideways glance. “But you still haven’t told me who upset you.”
She gave a sigh and shook her head. “I shouldn’t be sitting here alone with you, you know,” she said, instead of expanding on the other events of the day before. “I am putting myself
and my reputation in the gravest danger.” She looked back at him with a solemn expression which he returned with one of comical shock.
“No!” he exclaimed. “With me?”
Phoebe nodded, her eyebrows raised. “Oh, yes. Miss Pinchbeck gave me a thundering scold for it, I assure you. Apparently no decent man would have me.”
Oliver snorted and gave a loud bark of laughter. “Shouldn’t think you’d give a decent fellow the time of day, myself,” he chuckled.
Phoebe gave him a rueful glance and sighed. “No,” she said, sounding a touch despairing. “You may well be right.”
The two of them laughed and then stopped abruptly as Benedict’s glowering figure cast a shadow over them. Standing against the sun as he was, it was impossible to see the expression on his face but Phoebe was quite certain he was scowling.
“Right, well, things to do,” Oliver said brightly.
Phoebe glared at him. “Coward,” she hissed as he leapt to his feet, leaving her with a mischievous wink.
“Checking up on me, my Lord?” Phoebe demanded as Benedict moved around to sit beside her. She discovered his expression to be every bit as annoyed as she had imagined it to be.
“Of course not,” he said, snapping at her. “I merely wanted to assure myself that you were quite well and had suffered no ill effects from yesterday’s fright.” His green eyes were full of irritation which somehow gave her great satisfaction. “But as I see you are in spirits as ever, I shall leave you alone.”
He said this, but still made no move to leave her.
“Please don’t let me detain you, my Lord,” she said, her voice cool. “I wouldn’t want Miss Pinchbeck to be concerned about you spending time alone with such a scandalous woman.”
“Phoebe, stop it!” he said, and his voice had an altogether different tone now.
She turned and looked at him but he’d turned his head away from her.
“Stop what?” she asked, intrigued as to what was bothering him.
“Stop, my Lording me for starters,” he replied in frustration. “You forced your way into possession of my given name despite offending every expression of good manners so don’t give it up now!”
Dying For A Duke Page 7