Potent Charms (36 page)

"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 you 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?"