Miss Foxworth's Fate (3 page)

And they seemed to do that a
lot
.

As the first part of the lecture concluded, he stepped forward and smiled, and Abby blinked. His smile lightened his harsh features and made her want to smile back. And get very naked, very quickly.

Her nipples were hard against her bodice and she could feel them rubbing the fabric with every breath. She wondered if they’d actually pop out, just so that they could have a look at this man too. She wasn’t even sure if she’d mind. Perhaps he’d do something about it if they did.

Like cover them with his hands—or even better, with his mouth. Pulling her softness between those full, sensuous lips of his. She squirmed, surprised to note that there was now some laughter and conversation around her.

Apparently, Sir Philip was calling for a volunteer to help him in a little “demonstration” of mesmerism.

A gentleman from the back of the room called out. “If you can rid me of this plaguey gout, Sir Philip, I’ll be your biggest supporter...”

A general laugh rang across the room and Philip smiled once more, doing increasingly dreadful things to Abby’s pulse rate.

“Well, step up Sir, and let’s see what can be done for you,” he replied.

A portly gentleman limped and lumbered his way onto the dais, and Philip Ashton arranged a comfortable chair for him, seating him so that he was half-facing the audience.

Silence fell, as Philip produced a fob from his pocket and let it dangle freely from his fingers. “Now, Sir,” he said calmly. “Simply allow your eyes to follow the movement of this fob, and listen to my voice.”

Philip spoke smoothly and softly and the man’s eyes glazed over slightly as the fob swung in a rhythmic pattern before his face.

Abby found herself watching closely too. Taking in Philip’s movements, his quiet tones, the way he relaxed his patient and allowed the man’s focus to center on the fob and Philip’s voice, nothing else. It was fascinating, especially to one whose mind was always open to new ideas and thoughts.

So why on earth was she wondering about what hid behind his breeches? She snorted mentally at herself, and followed that with a good swift kick to the brain. She needed to get back into herself, and fast. She
must
stop being some silly ninny who had been struck dumb by a pair of fine eyes.

“You are feeling relaxed, Sir Arthur,” murmured Philip, and indeed the man seemed to unroll his erect spine and lean back into the chair. “Any pain you have been experiencing will ease, and your foot will begin to feel warm as the discomfort departs.”

He glanced around at the audience, as if asking them to share in this moment. “Do you feel the warmth?”

“I do, lad. ‘Tis incredible,” answered the man, smiling slightly.

“Excellent.” Philip paused for a moment and addressed the crowd. “As you can see, ladies and gentlemen, Sir Arthur is quite conscious, and able to respond to all my questions. I have simply suggested to him that his pain is lessening. I have not cured his condition, but focused his thoughts away from it, and onto my voice.”

Abby found herself nodding in agreement. Once more she felt that strange thrill as his eyes glanced over at her.

A small smile crossed his face, then was gone in an instant as he turned back to Sir Arthur. “Now, Sir, I am going to ask you to promise that you’ll forgo your after-dinner port, and stick with wine from now on. In fact, the mere smell of port will make you feel nauseous. In addition, you will feel more like getting out into the fresh air, perhaps a carriage ride at first, and then a stroll, and then maybe a nice ride on some of those fine horses I understand are eating themselves to death in your stables from lack of exercise.”

Another laugh rippled through the crowd.

Sir Arthur merely smiled. “What a good idea,” he said.

“If Sir Philip can make him do that, it will be a God-given miracle,” came a woman’s voice from the back of the room. Clearly it was Sir Arthur’s long-suffering wife.

Philip merely nodded in her direction and returned his attention once again to his patient. “Now, Sir Arthur, I am going to ask you to count backwards from ten. When you reach one, you will no longer be focused on me, but will feel refreshed, comfortable, and ready to proceed with your life—your
healthier
life, and ready to follow my suggestions.”

“If Sir Philip can get him to make it all the way to one, backwards,
that
will be a God-given miracle,” called a wag from the crowd, to everyone’s enormous amusement.

But sure enough, Sir Arthur made it, hesitating slightly between five and four, but eventually reaching one, and blinking around him, a slow smile spreading across his chubby features. “Demmed if the pain ain’t gone.”

He rose and shook Philip’s hand boisterously. “Thank you, Sir Philip, thank you,” he said effusively, grinning now.

Philip smiled and helped him off the dais.

“How about a glass of port, Sir Arthur?” Someone called out a challenge from the crowd.

Sir Arthur blanched. “For some reason, can’t stomach the thought of that right now,” he called back.

Applause broke out, and Abby’s mind jerked back into itself at the noise.

Sir Philip stood, looking smug, on the dais, and once again running his eyes over her.

Damn him. Couldn’t he look at
anyone
else? She was suddenly struck with the unusual urge to slaughter any other woman who might receive that look, and she shook her head at herself.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, you’ve seen the serious side of mesmerism, and how it can help overcome some instances of discomfort, and even help people on the road to their recovery from an ailment. Perhaps we should conclude with another small demonstration, but this time, just a simple re-shifting of the thought processes.”

He strolled around the stage, stroking his chin, apparently deep in thought.

The audience was still now, waiting for his next move. He snapped his fingers, and at least twelve people jumped. “I have it. The very thing. But I will require an assistant. A volunteer. Perhaps...perhaps
you
, Ma’am?”

Abby’s jaw dropped.

He was holding out his hand and beckoning—
her
.

Chapter 3

Philip had no idea how he kept his hand steady as he held it outstretched to the golden goddess in the front row.

She’d watched him like a hawk the entire time, and yet it had not discomforted him. Well, it had discomforted his cock, true, but her close observation had simply told him that she was interested.
Very
interested. And so, it seemed, was he.
And
his damn cock, which was thankfully hidden by his rather unstylish jacket.

She rose slowly, after some nudging from the older woman at her side, and extended her hand to his.

Their skin touched, and a flash of awareness shot through Philip like a bolt from one of his electricity machines. He hid the gasp that the feel of her hand brought to his lungs with difficulty, and helped her step up onto the dais. “Your name, Ma’am?”

She blinked for a second, then answered. “Abigail Foxworth.
Miss
Abigail Foxworth.”

Her green eyes were telling him thousands of things, and his body was responding to every single one. She was tall, the perfect height for him. Her head would nestle comfortably onto his shoulder, and his balls would nestle equally comfortably between those long soft thighs of hers that her dress was so softly delineating.

He jerked his mind back into place, stunned anew by his intense reaction to this woman. “Very well. Thank you for agreeing to assist me, Miss Abigail Foxworth. If you’d be seated?”

He helped her to the chair, allowing himself the pleasure of brushing her shoulders with his hand as he led her across the dais, and smiling as he noticed the hard nipples pushing at the soft silk of her bodice. It was an effort to refocus on what he was supposed to be doing and not her breasts. Very fine breasts though they were.

Just perfect breasts, actually. He allowed himself the brief thought of what they’d look like—taste like...

She was staring at him now, a slight frown wrinkling her brow. “What shall I do, Sir Philip?”

Get naked. Now
.

Philip recalled himself and bit down hard on his lip, allowing the small pain to remind him of where he was and what he was supposed to be doing. Lusting after Abigail Foxworth hadn’t been part of the evening’s scheduled program.

He pulled his shredded wits back into some kind of order.

“Well, Miss Foxworth, please keep your attention focused on my fob here, and my voice. Just as Sir Arthur did.”

He produced his fob, and again swung it slowly to and fro.

She seemed to have difficulty removing her gaze from his eyes, but eventually she turned her head to the fob and he launched into his routine that would relax her and allow him entrance into her mind.

And perhaps her body too
, whispered an irrepressible urge. He ignored it. “Now, Miss Foxworth. Are you quite comfortable?”

She smiled a little, bringing beads of sweat to his brow, and nodded. “Yes thank you, Sir Philip,” she answered coolly.

“Good. I think for the purposes of our little demonstration, we’ll travel back in time a bit.”

A mutter traversed the audience which leaned forward to a man, entranced at the sight of the tall man and the lovely golden-clad woman, now apparently under his spell.

“It is the great age of Elizabeth,” said Philip, “and
you
are the Virgin Queen herself.” His words dropped into the silence, softly, seductively, bringing a sigh to many of the women present.

“I am Walter Raleigh, your devoted subject, and I have just returned from a successful voyage to lay its spoils at your feet.” He risked a quick grin at the crowd. They were nodding and murmuring their approval. “What say you, Your Majesty?”

Abigail straightened in her chair and quirked an eyebrow at him. “So Walter Raleigh. I’m informed that you bring treasures to your Sovereign.”

The crowd sighed, a hushed and fascinated sound.

“I do indeed, Your Majesty. All that I have is yours.”

“And England’s, of course.” Abby’s voice firmed in a small reprimand.

“Of course, my Queen.”

“Well now, Walter Raleigh. We are most pleased at your tribute, but distressed at your apparent habit of ‘finding’ such treasures deep in the holds of certain galleons. Ones that belong to our noble friend, King Philip of Spain.”

Philip allowed a grin to cross his features. Damn, this woman was good.

“Thoughts of pleasing Your Majesty must outweigh our natural caution,” he bowed elegantly. “It was our hope that King Philip might not miss such a paltry sum, especially since he woos our own fair Queen. And our little tribute pales in comparison to
that
particular treasure.”

Abigail smiled royally, every inch the willful monarch she was supposed to be. “Well, I must needs take counsel on this matter. My Lord Burleigh...” She beckoned to the space at her side, and bent her head as if listening to an invisible conversation.

Then she snapped her head back up and fixed Philip with a firm look. “Burleigh has the right of it. I cannot reward you for theft and piracy. I
can
, however, reward you for your pretty phrases to our person. Kneel, Walter Raleigh.”

And Philip knelt close, swimming in her fragrance and praying he didn’t topple over into a pile of screaming lust, as she knighted him with an imaginary sword.

“Rise, Sir Walter Raleigh. Do your best for England. And your Queen, of course.”

Applause rang out across the room, as “Sir Walter” rose from his knees and gently raised Abby’s hand to his lips in homage.

He could no more have stopped himself from pressing a hot kiss to her skin than he could have stopped breathing. He wondered if his lips were singed.

He recalled himself with difficulty. “Now, Miss Foxworth, please count backwards from ten. When you reach one, you will rise, curtsey to the audience, and feel relaxed and refreshed.”

He moved behind her chair, momentarily out of sight of the audience, as he settled her once again. “And you will find some excuse to stay after this lecture is concluded. Seek me out, Abigail. Come to me.”

The instruction was low, whispered so that none but she could hear it.

For once, Philip Ashton found himself praying that he did, in fact, possess the power of mesmerism. Because
never
had he needed to be alone with a woman more than he did right this second.

*~~*~~*

Abigail and Eugenia circulated as the guests chattered amongst themselves and enjoyed the ample refreshments set out by Lady Rachel Greenhough.

A casual word here, a laugh there, a compliment to “Her Majesty”, all handled with Abigail’s usual grace, elegance and wit.

While her mind boiled.

Philip Ashton. She rolled his name over and over, silently, as she bit into a lobster patty. His eyes, his body, his height, and above all, his mind, had called to her on some primitive level, and awoken a desire within her that would have made her faint if she’d been the sort of woman who did such a thing.

But she wasn’t, and she managed to keep her end of several conversations going even while her agile thoughts darted this way and that, turning over the evening, dissecting it, and coming to the one inevitable conclusion.

She wanted that time alone with him.

Did he know she’d not succumbed to his powers? Had he guessed she’d faked the whole thing, and blessed her lucky stars she was well read enough to carry off the role of Good Queen Bess without a falter?

Part of her hoped so, and another part hoped not.
That
part was about to become a dissembling, dishonest creature and lie through its even white teeth to her aunt. It was a part that was going to use her apparent “trance” as an excuse to seek him out. To be with him.

To see if what she’d felt from a distance was better close up.
Very
close up.