Rexanne Becnel (22 page)

When he leaned down to kiss her, she turned her head to the side. “I mean it, James. I don’t want to do this. I want you to leave.”

“Why?” He caught her chin in one hand and turned her to face him. “Are you saying you’re not excited? That you’re not hot and melting for me deep down inside?”

She could hardly speak, so she shook her head. “Not…tonight,” she barely managed to say.

For a moment she wasn’t certain what he would do. She didn’t think he would force her. Not that he would really have to. One kiss, one fingertip stroking down the slope of her breast, and she would be lost. She closed her eyes, and abruptly he pulled back.

She heard as he gathered up his clothes and dressed himself, but all she could do was lie there, gasping for breath. The kitchen table was no place for her to sprawl with a naked man in her house, but she just couldn’t move. Only when she heard his heavy footsteps returning to the kitchen did she push herself upright. He stood in the doorway, dressed but disheveled. She’d never been the target of his anger, and she didn’t like the way that he frowned at her.

“I don’t know what game you’re playing, Phoebe, but I don’t like it.”

She met him frown for frown. Was ever a man so dense? “I’m not the one who’s the expert in games of this sort, Lord Farley. All I know is that tomorrow is my day off and I plan to do exactly what I want to do. Whether you like it or not.”

He took that in for a moment, then said, “What should I tell the girls?”

“Tell them…I’ll see them on Monday.” It was awkward speaking of the children when she was so scantily clad. She tugged her chemise down to cover her bare knees, and felt it gap in the back where he’d torn it. “And tell them I love them.”

He gave a curt nod, then he left.

Phoebe listened to the thunder of horse hooves carrying him away from her. She wanted to cry out for him to come back, but she didn’t.

Instead she climbed off the table that had served nearly two hundred years of Churchill meals, and on stiff legs trudged up to her lonely bedroom. She’d sent him away tonight. But what about tomorrow night, and the next? And the next? She couldn’t hold him off forever, even if for a few moments it had felt like a victory.

She’d thought that lust had infected her. But the truth was, love was far more powerful and debilitating than mere lust. She was in love, and only marriage could save her.

But not marriage to just anyone. Most certainly not to whomever Mrs. Leake imagined might be suitable for a girl like her. She was aiming higher than that. Much higher.

If she could not have James Lindford, she didn’t want anyone.

She crawled beneath her bedcovers and closed her eyes, but that only made everything worse. She was aroused and frustrated, and though she tried not to, all she could think about was the night he’d made love to her here in her own bed. Every perverse moment was as alive to her as it had been then.

Unbidden, her hand crept down to her unsated sex and once more she imagined James there, touching her and kissing her. James, with his magnificent arousal at the ready to ease her every need…

The return ride to Farley Park was a nightmare for James. It was too dark to spur his horse to a wild gallop, as his anger urged him to do. But riding slowly allowed him to think, and when he thought, it was of Phoebe, which aroused his unruly cock and made it painful to sit astride.

He should have stayed. No matter what she said, she’d been aroused and she’d wanted him inside her. He could feel it in the air between them, taste it, smell it, see it in her eyes.

But she’d told him to leave, and in a moment of fury and disbelief, he’d stormed away. Now he wasn’t sure if that had been the right choice. He wasn’t sure about anything, least of all Phoebe.

Bloody hell, but the woman was driving him mad!

The day that followed wasn’t much better. With Phoebe absent, Izzy returned to her old, belligerent self. She hadn’t behaved so badly in weeks. Meanwhile, Helen huddled in a corner, silently weeping into her handkerchief, and Kerry glowered at him—as if the girls’ bad moods were
his
fault. To add insult to injury, it rained.

Even Catherine, who had perfected the art of never noticing any of the upsets in her world, was beginning to show signs of strain. Her irritating friend had long since lost her temper.

“Don’t you know what happens to girls who pout and frown?” Mrs. Donahue glared at Izzy as the carriage delivered them home from Sunday services. “Their faces get stuck in that ugly expression and nobody will marry them.”

“You mean like this?” Izzy stuck out her tongue, pushed her nose up with one finger, and pulled her lower eyelids down with two others. “My face could stay like this?” She affected a horrified tone. “Oh, no. Then I’d look like you!”

“Izzy!” James snapped.

But the girl only scowled at him from across the crowded carriage, her face a mask of rage and contempt. “I don’t want you to be my father. I hate you!” Before he could recover from the stab of guilt that shrill accusation sent through his heart, she flung open the carriage door, balancing herself for an instant on the threshold. Then she recklessly leaped out of the moving conveyance and onto the rocky ground.

James lurched to his feet. “Stop, driver!” But as quickly as James jumped out after her, Izzy was gone, scampering like a wild hare through the drizzle, making for the dreary woods and the anonymity of its shelter. At least she didn’t look hurt. But that was small comfort.

“Son of a bitch!” he swore.

“Really, James,” Catherine scolded. “There are ladies here. And a child.”

That’s my problem in a nutshell,
he wanted to roar. Too many ladies and children demanding his attention when all he wanted to do was search out Phoebe and ease the distress that had showed in her face and posture when he’d seen her at church. Only he couldn’t do that, not with everyone hounding him all the time, and always needing something from him.

With another muffled curse, he climbed up next to the driver, took over the reins, and started the team forward. First he had to get everyone back to Farley Park. Then he needed to lock himself away from all of them and think this mess through. Everything was out of control; his life was going to hell in a handbasket.

But it wasn’t because of his children; none of this was their fault. He was the author of his own misery. The sole author.

He stared at the woods where Izzy had fled. He needed to know she was safe. No, not just safe, but happy. Right now she was neither, and so neither was he. And neither was Phoebe.

Though he was sunk in gloomy thoughts, handling the horses down the muddy, rutted road brought him some level of calm. He had to get this life he’d chosen back under control. Something had to change. He just wasn’t sure what.

As if she sensed the beleaguered state of his thoughts, once at the house Catherine put all her considerable efforts into charming Helen. “Now, now,” she said, giving Helen a hug. “I’m sure your father will locate your sister. Won’t you, James?” She gave him a calm, confident smile.

“I’ve already called for a horse.”

“You see?” She smoothed a wayward strand of Helen’s fine, golden hair behind her ear. “Such a pretty little girl like you ought never to cry. It only makes your eyes puffy and your nose turn red. You don’t want that, do you?”

Helen sniffled and wiped her tears. “While we wait for Izzy to come home, can we go get Leya?”

Catherine hesitated only a moment before answering, “Why, of course we can.”

Only a moment. But it was long enough for James to recognize a disturbing truth. Catherine had warmed up to Helen. Who wouldn’t? The girl had a sweet, malleable temperament. She was a pretty blond angel of a girl, not dark and exotic like Leya, or foul-mouthed and ill-tempered like Izzy. She was the perfect little lady, thanks to Phoebe. Catherine probably saw in Helen a younger version of herself.

But Phoebe loved Izzy and Leya too. Despite the problems of their heritage and upbringing, Phoebe detected in them the same goodness and potential that she saw in her own niece.

He was making a mistake marrying Catherine Winfield. All at once it was so clear to him. He didn’t really want to marry her. Maybe he never had.

It made good sense on some levels. She would be an asset to his career and certainly she would make an impressive home for him in London. She’d probably give him beautiful children too, and he had no reason to doubt that she would love them.

But what about the children he had now?

It might not be fair to expect her to love his three motherless daughters. But when he saw how freely Phoebe loved them, it was hard not to fault Catherine for her lack.

“I’m going out to find Izzy,” he said.

Helen looked up from her place beside Catherine on a settee. “Do you know where she ran away to?”

“No. Do you have any ideas?” He knelt down and opened his arms to her, and was amazed at how swiftly she ran to him. A tight knot of emotion twisted in his chest. What a sweet little kitten of a girl she was, this trusting child he’d gone seven years not knowing. He squeezed her against his heart. Thank God he’d been given this second chance! “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he said, his voice thick with new feelings. “She’ll be all right. She’s a tough little character, our Izzy.”

Helen circled one of her arms around his neck. “She probably went to find Phoebe,” she whispered in his ear.

“Yes. She probably did,” he whispered back.

She leaned a little distance from him and stared at him with damp, serious eyes. “If you see Phoebe, tell her to come home.”

“I’ll do that.” He kissed her pert, upturned nose, and once more squeezed her to him. “I’ll do that,” he promised, reveling in the new pleasure of hugging his own child. One way or another, he’d bring Phoebe home to them all.

But first he had to find Izzy.

Something was afoot. Kerry observed Catherine as she stood with Helen in the window, watching James ride away. Then, Catherine collapsed on a settee, pressing a ridiculously frothy handkerchief to her mouth to forestall her tears. Tears!

For a woman not prone to emotional displays, it was most telling, and something in Kerry’s chest turned to lead. He’d wondered how deeply her feelings for James ran. Now he knew.

“Shoo, child,” Mrs. Donahue said, intercepting Helen as she made straight for the trembling Catherine. “Lady Catherine isn’t feeling well. Now, now,” she continued, turning her attention to Catherine. “You mustn’t work yourself into a state, my dear. I’m sure Lord Farley will be back straightaway.” The woman shot a cunning look at Kerry, then wrapped an arm around the wilting younger woman. “And I’m sure he’ll locate the child. Izzy,” she said, as if to convince him about how concerned Catherine was for the runaway child.

He knew what she was thinking: Since Kerry and James were such good friends, Catherine must always present the best face around him. But Kerry didn’t fault Catherine for her lack of interest in James’s natural-born children. In truth, he couldn’t think of one well-bred society miss who would have responded any better.

What he did mind was that she still was in love with James, while James was so clearly
not
in love with her. She probably guessed the truth, if her tears were any indication.

He steeled himself against any display of his own feelings. For a short while, when she’d cried off from her betrothal to James, Kerry had actually been hopeful. Not that he had much of a chance with her. Although he and Catherine rubbed along admirably well, and he knew she liked him, he was well aware that she would never cross her father. Lord Basingstoke’s expectations for his exquisite daughter ran much higher than a younger son with no political inclinations and such a modest income.

So he’d long ago resigned himself to admiring her from afar, consoling himself that she was in love with his best friend. But the very public dissolution of her betrothal had revived his foolish hopes—until she’d told him about her plans to follow James to Yorkshire, and asked him to go ahead of her and sound out the situation.

He should have stayed out of it. He could see that now. But he’d never been able to deny Catherine anything, and this time had been no different. Like picking at a sore spot, poking until it ached and bled, he’d come to Yorkshire to smooth the way for her with James. Then he’d stayed to squeeze every bit of personal pain out of his abject misery. Why couldn’t she see how devoted he was to her?

Because he’d hidden his feelings so well.

But seeing her unhappiness now was too much to bear. He waved Helen over to sit beside him—anything to prevent him from going to Catherine. “I’m sure James and Izzy will soon return to us safe and sound. Perhaps a little wet,” he added, smiling down at Helen.

From across the room Catherine whispered, “He cares more about the child than he does about me.” There was anguish in every word.

“He does not,” Mrs. Donahue countered.

“I’m afraid he might,” Kerry said, unable to prevent the words.

Mrs. Donahue shot him a withering look. “Mr. Fairchild. If you don’t mind, I am trying to comfort Lady Catherine—”

“By lying to her?” Kerry knew he should stop. He’d already overstepped himself. But he’d been holding his tongue for nearly three years; he didn’t think he could hold it a minute longer.

Giving Helen a reassuring pat, he rose and stalked over to the settee, staring down at the wide-eyed Catherine, while ignoring her furious companion. “Do you want to be married to James Lindford? Not Viscount Farley, that fine, worldly fellow who wants to follow in your father’s political footsteps, but James Lindford, the doting father of three natural children?”

“Of course she does!” Mrs. Donahue fairly shouted.

But Kerry saw the hesitation in Catherine’s lapis-blue eyes. “No, I don’t think she does. Be honest, Catherine. What
do
you want? You, not your father or your friend here.”

“I…I don’t know.”

Kerry smiled down at her beautiful, confused face. “Hasn’t anyone ever asked you that before?”

Slowly she shook her head.

Mrs. Donahue stood, insinuating herself between Kerry and Catherine. “This is ridiculous. Of course she wants to marry him. It was she who pleaded with her father to make this journey.”

“Because he wants me to marry Percival Langley,” Catherine burst out. Again she pressed the handkerchief to her lips. “He’s heir to the Earl of Bexham, who is said to be very ill.”

“Langley? Your father wants you to wed that nasty old goat?” Kerry advanced on Mrs. Donahue until she backed up. “No wonder she’s here chasing James if Langley is her only other option—” Abruptly he switched his gaze to Catherine. “You have other options, you know. You needn’t limit yourself to a choice between Langley and James.”

Mrs. Donahue let out an ugly laugh. “If you mean yourself, Mr. Fairchild—and I’m sure you do—I can guarantee that Lord Basingstoke would never accept any suit that you might make.”

“It’s not
his
acceptance I want,” Kerry bit right back at her. “It’s Catherine’s.”

Into the ringing silence created by that outrageous admission, a small, childish voice ventured, “I think maybe that Mr. Fairchild loves you, Lady Catherine.”

Kerry chuckled at Helen’s sweet statement of such an obvious truth. Mrs. Donahue scoffed in contempt. But Catherine only stared at him, amazed, no doubt, at the effrontery of his declaration—and through a child, no less.

She ducked her head under his steady regard, then looked up, composed once more. When she stood, she was the elegant woman he’d admired for so long, every bit of her discomposure tamped down and put away. His heart pounded with dread. This was probably familiar territory for Catherine, dismissing a too ardent admirer, turning away the suit of an unsuitable man.

“Leave us,” she said to Mrs. Donahue.

The woman gave Kerry a nasty smile. She, too, knew what was to come. Kerry braced himself as she hustled Helen out of the room and closed the door behind them.

In the silence he watched as Lady Catherine prepared herself to let him down. He saw her lick her pretty pink lips, and saw the rise and fall of her lovely bosom. “Is it true?” she asked. “Do you love me?”

He stiffened, locking his hands together in a painful fist behind his back. “I do.”

She blinked, the tiniest break in her serene countenance. “All these years, when we’ve been such good friends. Why have you never revealed yourself before now?”

“Because you were waiting for James. I thought you loved him.” He paused. “Do you?”

He held his breath. She met his challenging stare. “No.”

“No?” Was he hearing her correctly?

“I…I like him. He’s handsome and rich, and my father was very keen on him as a son-in-law—at least he was until this business with the children. Father became so angry he wanted me to make another marriage right away. He latched on to Percival Langley but I…I couldn’t. So I came here…”

“Despite your reservations about James?”

She nodded.

Hope, wild and uncontrollable, leaped like a frantic creature in Kerry’s chest. “Don’t marry James, Catherine.”

She made a helpless, fluttering gesture with one hand. “You make it sound so simple. But we both know it isn’t.”