The Seduction of Lady Phoebe (21 page)

Marcus studied her for a long time. Sensing the pain that loss caused her, he wanted more than anything to give her a home. But did he even have a home of his own to offer her? He made another vow. He’d find her a house to care for.

Phoebe slowly licked a bit of the honey from her lips, causing his body to spring into readiness. His breath seized and her gaze snapped to him as if she sensed his arousal. She leaned toward him, and he stood, forgetting she would see evidence of his desire.

Phoebe rose and twined her arms around his neck, pulling him close until her body touched his.

Tilting her head up, he asked, “Are you sure?” She met him in a kiss.

She tasted like honey and her own citrus nectar. Marcus breathed deeply, taking in her scent. At his urging, Phoebe opened her mouth, and he allowed his tongue to caress hers. His hands seemed to move of their own accord, stroking down her supple back over her derrière, then up to gently skate over her breasts. Her nipples hardened, and at her soft cry of wonder, he drew her closer.

To his amazement, Phoebe moaned, pushing her breasts into his hands and her body as close to his as possible. She must love him. If only she’d say the words.

Footsteps shuffled outside the door. Marcus and Phoebe sprang apart in concord, then Marcus stepped forward, trying to shield her from sight.

The door opened. That was close. He’d be happy to declare them betrothed, but what would Phoebe think about that. No, as tempting as it was to end his slow torment, he would wait for her to make a decision. That was the only honorable path to a life with her, not that his recent actions fell into that sphere.

Ferguson and a footman brought in ham, baked eggs, cheese, fruit, and croissants.

Phoebe selected a croissant and handed it to Marcus. “Have you ever had croissants?”

“Yes, in Paris.” Marcus’s mouth watered as he bit into the flaky French confection. “These remind me of them.”

Her eyes widened with surprise. “When were you in Paris?”

“Someday, I’ll tell you.” He fed a piece of croissant to Phoebe, who in turn fed him forkfuls of ham and cheese. Lost each in the other, breakfast became a sensuous meal where the only touching allowed was the nourishing of the other.

Much laughter ensued. Marcus had never had so much fun at breakfast. They had begun to move closer to each other when the door opened and they sprang apart.

St. Eth walked in. His gaze focused first on Phoebe then on Marcus, but he remained ominously silent.

Marcus eyed St. Eth warily, knowing that if he’d been a few minutes later, her uncle would have interrupted more than them eating breakfast. Marcus bowed. “Good morning, my lord.”

“Good morning, Uncle Henry,” Phoebe added.

St. Eth walked to the table and said, “Good morning, my dear, Lord Marcus. Did you take the mare out this morning?”

Phoebe picked up her cup and held it tightly. “Yes, Lord Marcus came by to take me riding.”

St. Eth moved his gaze to Marcus.

He opened his mouth, but Phoebe interrupted. “When we finished riding we were so hungry, and—and Lord Marcus said that breakfast wouldn’t be ready at Dunwood House so then I thought . . . perhaps . . .”

Phoebe stopped as a slow blush rose to her cheeks.

“Yes, well, it was fortunate François was able to take care of you.” Henry turned back toward the door. “Lord Marcus, if you’ve finished, I’ll walk you out.”

Marcus glanced at Phoebe. “I’ll see you this afternoon at five?”

“Yes.”

They all left the room together, and after a whispered, “Good luck,” Phoebe picked up the skirt of her habit, and swiftly climbed the stairs.

St. Eth said to Marcus, “Come with me.”

St. Eth requested that his butler bring coffee. When they reached his study, he sat behind his desk, motioning Marcus to the chair in front of it.

But Marcus decided to remain standing. He wondered what St. Eth would say.

Once the coffee had been served and the door closed, Marcus said, “I assume, Lord St. Eth, you wish to know my intentions.”

“Don’t, I beg you, get on your high ropes with me. Please sit. I have no intention of thrashing you.”

Marcus did as he was bade and waited. He had the distinct impression St. Eth was trying not to laugh.

After taking a sip of coffee, the marquis said, “I take it you have the same objectives toward Lady Phoebe you had when you spoke with Fairport.”

“Yes, my lord, exactly the same.”

“It looks to me as if progress is being made. I wanted to tell you that Lady Phoebe will be attending the Billingleys’ ball this evening. You may accompany us.”

Marcus stared in shock, unable to believe he wasn’t going to be raked down.

“This,” Henry continued, “is one of those occasions when we must decide whether it is better to take the carriage or walk, as it is just across the square. Lady Phoebe, I know, will wish to walk. She always does.”

St. Eth motioned to the coffee-pot and other cup. Marcus shook his head and the older man went on. “Lady St. Eth will not decide until the last moment. I recommend you offer to escort Lady Phoebe on foot. I shall do my best to bundle Lady St. Eth into the carriage.”

Marcus was stunned that St. Eth was still willing to help him.

St. Eth’s tone became serious. “On another note, I received a message from Caldecott this morning. Lady Hester is concerned that you and Lady Phoebe will be found in a compromising position. Her fears are well founded, if what I witnessed in the breakfast room is any indication.”

St. Eth waited, but Marcus remained silent. “Her main concern is if you are caught doing anything that would give rise to talk or, indeed, an immediate proposal of marriage, the
ton
will think you’ve offered for Lady Phoebe solely because you had no choice. That, as you must understand, would not be a comfortable position for either of you, or the families.”

Marcus nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“However,” Henry said, “if you keep to your plan, the gossips should begin to notice you are being very particular in your attentions to Phoebe. That will stop any talk if something should happen.”

St. Eth’s brows lowered. “I depend upon
you
to insure you are not caught. It clearly isn’t any good at all to rely on my niece to be discreet in this matter. She is, in general, a very sensible girl, quite up to snuff, but apparently not in this case.”

He poured another cup of coffee. “Despite some of Lady Phoebe’s independent starts, she has never set the gossips’ tongues wagging. But, she is a babe in the woods when it comes to your courtship, and her usual good sense has gone begging. Though that might be to your advantage.”

Henry fixed a stern gaze on Marcus. “Now as to your activities in my house . . . What the devil either of you thought you were doing in the breakfast room alone, not a servant in sight
, with the door closed,
is more than I can understand. You’re very lucky it was I, and not Lady St. Eth, who came upon you.”

Marcus had the grace to blush, something he had not done in years. Neither he nor Phoebe had thought about the propriety of being alone in the breakfast room.

“Phoebe has agreed to drive with me again this afternoon at five o’clock. What time would you like me to arrive this evening?”

St. Eth smiled slowly. “You should dine with us. Lady St. Eth has a very good opinion of you, and you would be wise to cultivate it. We shall expect to see you at eight o’clock.”

“My lord, there is something I wish to discuss with you,” Marcus said gravely. “A fellow, Lord Travenor, who is apparently new to Town, at least no one I know knows him, has been very aggressive toward Lady Phoebe. Lady Hester and Caldecott were present the other evening when he accosted her. His behavior is such that we—Caldecott, Rutherford, and I—felt called upon to stop him. I would like your permission to protect her should the need arise.”

St. Eth frowned. “If he does anything untoward when you are present, you have my permission.”

“Thank you, sir. I don’t think anyone recognizes how serious his threat may be to her.” Marcus wanted to take St. Eth into his confidence, but if Phoebe found out Marcus was putting her in danger, she’d never agree to marry him. And he was so close to achieving his dream now. He couldn’t allow anything or anyone to impede his progress.

Phoebe’s mind was full of Marcus as she soaked in her warm bath. What did she feel about him now? It had taken her a long time to forgive him. No—not him—to forgive the young man he’d been.

She remembered that weekend as if it had just happened. What a wasted man she’d thought him. If she were perfectly honest with herself, she would not have been so angry with him or remained so angry if she hadn’t felt something all those years ago. No other man had bothered her as he’d done.

Her thoughts were in a jumble. Why him? The question she had to answer, and soon, was did she want to marry him? She smiled as she remembered breakfast. They seemed to fit so well together. When she was with him riding or talking or in his arms, she had no doubts. He made her happy.

But if he came to make a formal offer . . . she sighed, still unsure.

Phoebe didn’t think he was trying to trap her into marriage, but his touches this morning were so much more intimate. She’d been on fire. Who knows where it would have ended, if they hadn’t been interrupted. Anyone could have walked in on them and then what? Why didn’t she stop him? She chastened herself.
You liked it, that’s why. You liked when he touched your breasts and put his hand on your derrière
. She’d never let any other man even kiss her before, and she was allowing Marcus to do as he pleased.

Her wanton body yearned for him, for his touch. What else would she permit him to do? The answer scared her. Anything. Then he could treat her as he wished, like he treated her before, because this time she would be a trollop.

He hadn’t mentioned marriage again. Had Marcus decided he didn’t need to wed her? That he could get everything he wanted without becoming a tenant for life? She put her head on her knees.
“What am I doing?”

Phoebe attended an afternoon tea with her aunt and sisters at the home of Mrs. Waxsted, a friend of her aunt’s and Phoebe’s late mother. Mrs. Waxsted was a plump lady of medium height and light brown hair. She reminded Phoebe of nothing so much as a hen bustling around the room from chick to chick.

Miss Marsh waved, and Phoebe started to weave her way through the company to her friend sitting on a window seat.

“Lady Phoebe, my dear.”

She turned to see Lady Worthington. Phoebe smiled. “Good day, my lady. How have you and your family been?”

“The girls are coming along nicely. I imagine you see more of my step-son than I do.”

“Well, I have seen him at the political parties. I’m glad to see him taking an interest.”

Lady Worthington’s lips formed a slight
moue.
“I hear you have been seen in the company of Lord Marcus quite a bit lately.”

Phoebe paused before answering. “Yes, I have been.”

Lady Worthington took a breath, and said, “I have heard he has changed for the better, but I cannot help but advise you not to trust too easily. Sometimes change is not permanent.”

Tension snaked up Phoebe’s spine, but she kept the smile on her face. That is exactly what she feared most about Marcus, that he had not truly changed. “Thank you, my lady, for your concern.”

Lady Worthington patted Phoebe’s arm before moving away to speak with friends. When Phoebe finally reached Anna, her friend grinned and pulled Phoebe down to sit on the window seat. “Phoebe, how are you faring after
that man
was so rude the other evening?”

Phoebe had been thinking so much about Marcus, she’d almost forgotten about Lord Travenor. “Oh, I am quite well. Isn’t it terrible of me to have so little sensibility? I’d forgotten all about the other gentleman—if one can, indeed, call him that. Thank you again for helping rescue me.”

“Entirely my pleasure.” Anna’s eyes twinkled. “It gave me an opportunity to dance without worrying who would partner me. I am the only lady to have danced with Lord Marcus other than you this Season.”

Phoebe chuckled. Anna Marsh was a very beautiful young lady of one and twenty years, with dark curling hair and a neat figure. Her manners were assured and her personality lively. She was never at a loss for a dance partner.

Anna’s face became serious. “What will you do if Lord Travenor is so importuning as to approach you again? If the other evening’s persistence is an example, it’s unlikely he will soon take himself back to his county.”

Phoebe closed her eyes briefly. “How I wish he would, yet if he doesn’t, I shall have to rely on my friends to help me avoid him.”

“What a bother for you.” Anna lowered her voice so none but Phoebe could hear. “Now, I shall be impertinent. People are starting to notice that Lord Marcus Finley has become
very
particular in his attentions. He spends entire evenings dancing attendance on you, and I’ve just heard, when you were driving in the Park, he refused to allow you to walk with another gentleman.”

If Phoebe had thought to prevaricate, the blush now infusing her cheeks would have told the truth.

“Aha, it is true,” Anna said in a satisfied voice. “What a downcome for all those other ladies setting their caps at him.”