me what is so funny?"
"You just admitted we shall have a relationship. I see
that as a direct step into my arms."
The infernal man had a way of dulling her wits and
twisting everything she said all willy-nilly. "That is not
what I meant."
"An individual is entitled to his or her interpretation."
With that wicked grin on his face, the one that sent a ripple
of excitement flowing through her, he draped her hand
across his forearm and headed toward Elizabeth. "All right,
you can turn around now. Winston seems trapped by the
crowds. Let us go."
Phoebe stewed for all of a minute, finally admitting to
herself that Stephen was right. Somewhere along the line,
her heart and body had convinced her mind to take a
chance on him, regardless of the unanswered questions
about his past. It was no small wonder, considering all the men she had met over the last week, none of whom
appealed to her in the slightest way. She nibbled her lower
lip as she walked amongst carriages lining the dirt track
where passengers stopped to watch the race. Peddlers
hawked their wares at every opportunity while young boys
dashed around the large field, which was covered with
blankets and groups of revelers. She needed a plan. And a
good one, if indeed she intended to marry him. She shook
her head. Imagine, people believing a man like him capable of murder. And a curse? Poppycock. Pure nonsense. If
the only thing standing between her and marriage to this
man was a silly old curse, then she would simply have to
convince him otherwise.
Winston stood beside a woolen blanket near the river's
edge and waved. A bottle of red wine and four crystal
glasses were neatly tucked in a large wicker basket, along
with some fruit and a small wooden box of bread and
cheese. Forcing her thoughts to the back of her mind,
Phoebe sat opposite Elizabeth and asked, "When will the
race begin?"
Sitting beside Phoebe, leaning on one elbow, Stephen
stretched his long legs before him. He poured the wine and
said, "Soon. We shall actually witness the end of the race.
They start at London Bridge, roughly four and a half grueling miles of heavy rowing to win the opportunity to wear
the symbol of the Hanoverians."
"Whoever are they?" asked Phoebe as she sipped from
her glass.
Winston, his body practically a mirror to Stephen's,
placed his hand across his heart in mock astonishment.
"My Henry, girl, if you intend to marry a Brit, we'd best
educate you. In 1715, the Hanover line succeeded to the
throne. In honor of that miraculous event, Thomas
Doggett, a common actor, started this race."
"Today, you shall witness a - historical event as well
as a very masculine tradition," Stephen added. "Grown
men wagering wildly amongst themselves and sailors with
their hearts and wills clearly shown in their muscles and
backs."
"Then I'll try to give my full attention."
"Excuse me, Stephen," Elizabeth said, smiling sweetly.
"Isn't that Lord Tewksbury and Lord Hathaway?"
"Yes."
"Phoebe, this is perfect." Elizabeth practically clapped
her hands together, her eyes fixed on Stephen all the while.
"I understand Tewksbury is looking for a wife. Although
he's not a second son or such, he still has marvelous potential as a husband. Lord Hathaway is certainly eligible and a
younger son with two older brothers, but I'd have to think
on that. He's rumored to be a bit of a rake."
The group of men stood nearby. They cheered boisterously as two men shook each another's hands. "Which is
which?" Phoebe asked, surprised at Elizabeth's sudden
interest in her matrimonial candidates.
"The blond gentleman is Lord Hathaway. The fellow
shaking his hand is Lord Ricland, Earl of Tewksbury. A
widower. Stephen, you simply must wrest us an introduction."
"No, I must not."
Elizabeth frowned. Stephen, being his normal autocratic
self, lifted a brow, silently challenging her to argue his
decision. Fighting a grin, Phoebe turned to study the two
men. Both were
"You just admitted we shall have a relationship. I see
that as a direct step into my arms."
The infernal man had a way of dulling her wits and
twisting everything she said all willy-nilly. "That is not
what I meant."
"An individual is entitled to his or her interpretation."
With that wicked grin on his face, the one that sent a ripple
of excitement flowing through her, he draped her hand
across his forearm and headed toward Elizabeth. "All right,
you can turn around now. Winston seems trapped by the
crowds. Let us go."
Phoebe stewed for all of a minute, finally admitting to
herself that Stephen was right. Somewhere along the line,
her heart and body had convinced her mind to take a
chance on him, regardless of the unanswered questions
about his past. It was no small wonder, considering all the men she had met over the last week, none of whom
appealed to her in the slightest way. She nibbled her lower
lip as she walked amongst carriages lining the dirt track
where passengers stopped to watch the race. Peddlers
hawked their wares at every opportunity while young boys
dashed around the large field, which was covered with
blankets and groups of revelers. She needed a plan. And a
good one, if indeed she intended to marry him. She shook
her head. Imagine, people believing a man like him capable of murder. And a curse? Poppycock. Pure nonsense. If
the only thing standing between her and marriage to this
man was a silly old curse, then she would simply have to
convince him otherwise.
Winston stood beside a woolen blanket near the river's
edge and waved. A bottle of red wine and four crystal
glasses were neatly tucked in a large wicker basket, along
with some fruit and a small wooden box of bread and
cheese. Forcing her thoughts to the back of her mind,
Phoebe sat opposite Elizabeth and asked, "When will the
race begin?"
Sitting beside Phoebe, leaning on one elbow, Stephen
stretched his long legs before him. He poured the wine and
said, "Soon. We shall actually witness the end of the race.
They start at London Bridge, roughly four and a half grueling miles of heavy rowing to win the opportunity to wear
the symbol of the Hanoverians."
"Whoever are they?" asked Phoebe as she sipped from
her glass.
Winston, his body practically a mirror to Stephen's,
placed his hand across his heart in mock astonishment.
"My Henry, girl, if you intend to marry a Brit, we'd best
educate you. In 1715, the Hanover line succeeded to the
throne. In honor of that miraculous event, Thomas
Doggett, a common actor, started this race."
"Today, you shall witness a - historical event as well
as a very masculine tradition," Stephen added. "Grown
men wagering wildly amongst themselves and sailors with
their hearts and wills clearly shown in their muscles and
backs."
"Then I'll try to give my full attention."
"Excuse me, Stephen," Elizabeth said, smiling sweetly.
"Isn't that Lord Tewksbury and Lord Hathaway?"
"Yes."
"Phoebe, this is perfect." Elizabeth practically clapped
her hands together, her eyes fixed on Stephen all the while.
"I understand Tewksbury is looking for a wife. Although
he's not a second son or such, he still has marvelous potential as a husband. Lord Hathaway is certainly eligible and a
younger son with two older brothers, but I'd have to think
on that. He's rumored to be a bit of a rake."
The group of men stood nearby. They cheered boisterously as two men shook each another's hands. "Which is
which?" Phoebe asked, surprised at Elizabeth's sudden
interest in her matrimonial candidates.
"The blond gentleman is Lord Hathaway. The fellow
shaking his hand is Lord Ricland, Earl of Tewksbury. A
widower. Stephen, you simply must wrest us an introduction."
"No, I must not."
Elizabeth frowned. Stephen, being his normal autocratic
self, lifted a brow, silently challenging her to argue his
decision. Fighting a grin, Phoebe turned to study the two
men. Both were
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