Rexanne Becnel (7 page)

“It’s cold,” Izzy called. “Close the door.”

Then he was in, stamping his feet, shutting out the cold and wet, and filling her cozy cottage with his unfamiliar masculine aura. For a moment Phoebe’s head spun. She knelt on the solid floor, and yet still she felt dizzy, as if she might tilt right over.

“Good day, Miss Churchill,” he said, when she continued silently to stare up at him.

Somehow she rose awkwardly to her feet, smoothing her skirt and apron—anything to avoid looking at him. How ridiculous was that? “Good afternoon, Lord Farley.” At least her voice didn’t tremble like her hands did. She knotted her fingers at her waist. “May I take your coat?”

“Thank you.” In one easy movement he swung his heavy caped riding cloak off and she reached for it.

That’s better. Just remember all Mother’s instructions on manners and visitors and small talk and such.

Unfortunately she hadn’t counted on the effect of his coat, its lingering warmth and the subtle scent that lifted from it. Wool and saddle leather, horses and rain. But there was something else she couldn’t name, something heady and powerful that made her dizzy all over again.

She clutched the cloak to her too long, pressing it to her chest while she tried to catch her breath.
You’re acting like a fool!

As she turned and hung his beautifully cut garment on a peg beside her own plain cloak, she resolved to cease this foolish overreacting to him. The disparity between the two garments summed up the situation so well. They had business to do, that was all. He’d come for milk and perhaps for more insight into raising his children. She was perfectly amenable to supplying both. Beyond that they had nothing in common.

Taking a breath, she turned back to him. “I had quite given up on you both, the weather is so horrid.”

“We didn’t mind the rain,” Izzy said from her place by the fire with Bruno. “I’m used to it. In London it rains all the time.”

“Indeed.” Phoebe’s gaze flitted back and forth between father and daughter. “Tell me, how did Leya fare last night?”

“She slept through the night,” Lord Farley answered. He rubbed the back of his neck and gave her a wry smile. “I’d forgotten how good it feels to sleep a whole night through without interruption. Thank you for that. I’m eternally in your debt. We all are.”

Pleased by his sincerity, Phoebe tried not to let her smile stretch too wide. “I’m relieved to hear it.”

“Such a simple solution to Leya’s misery,” he said. “May I sit?”

“Of course. Would you like tea?”

He pulled out a chair at the table. “Anything warm will do.”

Phoebe turned to the hearth and swung the kettle over the fire. He might need something to warm him, but she most certainly did not. Indeed, her cheeks must be fairly glowing.

“The only problem we had with Leya,” he went on, “was when we left to come here. She cried to come with us, but the cook warned about bringing a baby out in such weather.”

“The cook was right. And I’m not so certain about Izzy being out either.”

“But you don’t mind my getting a good soaking?”

She looked up from measuring out the tea. “That’s not what I meant.”

“No.” He smiled at her again, holding her gaze captive this time. “I know that’s not what you meant. I’m only teasing you.”

It was more than just teasing, though—or it affected her more. Phoebe had never been so aware of anyone in her entire life. He was like a force unto himself, like a powerful wind, unsettling everything in its path. He scattered her wits and her good sense like a spring gale scattering the winter’s leftover leaves and grasses.

That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, she told herself. Not so long as she kept a strict control on herself.

So she smiled, then looked back at her task. “Izzy,” she called. “Come have tea with us.”

It was easier with Izzy at the table with them. “Should I awaken Helen?” Lord Farley asked.

“No. I’ll make her a cup later. So, Izzy. How are you occupying yourself? Are you behaving any better?”

Izzy concentrated on her tea, stirring three generous dips of honey into it. “I haven’t lifted anything else, if that’s what you want to know.”

“That’s reassuring. I’m enjoying having my bucket and stool back. When might I expect the return of the other things you took?”

Izzy shot her a fierce scowl. “When it stops raining.”

“Good. Then perhaps one day you can join Helen and me at our outdoor lessons.”

“Lessons?” She’d looked interested until Phoebe mentioned lessons. “I don’t need no lessons.”

“
Any
lessons,” Phoebe corrected. “And yes you do.”

Without warning the girl leaped up, overturning her chair with a great clatter. “No I don’t!”

With one swift move Lord Farley caught her by the arm. “Izzy! That’s no way to behave. Pick up that chair and apologize.”

With a jerk the girl pulled the chair upright. But her face was a study in childish mutiny. “I’m not having lessons. I told you I wouldn’t an’ I meant it.”

“What about today’s riding lesson?” Phoebe put in, keeping her tone mild.

Izzy shot her a suspicious look. “That’s different.”

“Really?” Phoebe took a sip of her tea. “I don’t see how. And yesterday you had a driving lesson, as I recall. Why not a different sort of lesson tomorrow?”

“’Cause you mean reading. And ciphering. And all that other stupid stuff that stupid teachers try to cram into your head. Well, I don’t need any of it.”

Phoebe felt Lord Farley’s gaze on her as he awaited her response. But she kept her gaze locked with his daughter’s. “You think it won’t be any fun. But it will be. Just ask Helen.”

“That baby?” Izzy sneered. But instead of running off, she sat down in her chair again. Beneath the sturdy table one of the girl’s feet swung back and forth, thumping an agitated rhythm against the chair leg. Above the table she reached for her oversweetened tea and added yet another dipper of honey from the round honey pot.

Phoebe hid a smile. Izzy was intrigued. She didn’t want to be, but she was.

For a moment they were all quiet. Outside the insistent rain slackened, and when Bruno stretched, then whimpered to be let out, Phoebe rose to open the door.

“I’ll go with him,” Izzy said, jumping up and snatching her cloak. Before they could stop her, she was out the door and splashing across the muddy yard after the puppy.

Standing in the doorway watching them, Phoebe didn’t realize Lord Farley had come up behind her until he spoke. “Does your offer to Izzy to join in Helen’s lessons mean you’ve decided to take the position as her governess?”

She startled, then forced herself to remain very still. “It’s one thing to include the child in our casual lessons, and another thing entirely to step in as her governess. Though I appreciate the compliment you’ve given me, I don’t think I’m adequately qualified for the position.”

“Well, I think you are. So does Mrs. Leake down at the store. She specifically recommended you. Besides, every time I watch you deal with Izzy I have all the proof I need.”

In her throat Phoebe felt the heightened racing of her heart. He was flattering her and it was working. Still, she demurred. “I couldn’t possibly act as governess to Izzy and still manage my farm.”
I couldn’t possibly be in the same household with a man like you all day.

“With the salary I’m prepared to pay, you can afford to hire a maid or even a farm worker. Please, Phoebe. Miss Churchill,” he amended at her quick look of consternation. One of his hands curled around her arm, forcing her to face him. “I need your help.” He paused, staring steadily into her eyes. “Izzy and Leya need you.”

It was a powerful plea, playing to every one of her weaknesses. Between the heat of his touch, his familiar use of her given name, and the entreaty in his mesmerizing eyes, Phoebe could hardly catch her breath. And hanging over all was the irresistible temptation of finally having a reliable income.

On the other hand, however, there was his reputation with women to consider. His shameful reputation. “I…I can’t,” she whispered. Why was she whispering?

“You can,” he said, his blue eyes dark with insistence. “You offered to let her take lessons here with Helen. How is my request so different?”

Because it is
, she wanted to say. Only how to explain it? Fortunately Helen’s sleepy voice piped up behind him. “Phoebe?”

At once Lord Farley released her arm and stepped back, and with the break of his hold Phoebe gulped in a huge breath of air—and sanity. This man had the power to convince a woman to do anything, she reminded herself. Today she’d nearly agreed to work for him. If she did that and crossed paths with him on a daily basis, what else might he convince her to do?

She swallowed hard and stared past him to where Izzy romped with Bruno. She had only to look at Lord Farley’s by-blow children to know the answer to that question.

She turned to Helen and took her gratefully into her arms. “Hello, sleepyhead. Look who’s come to visit.”

Helen peeped, shy and rosy, from her burrowed place in Phoebe’s skirts. “Hello.” She gave Lord Farley a sleepy smile. “Did you bring Leya with you?”

“I’m afraid it’s only Izzy and I today. But you can come visit Leya any time you like,” he added, shooting a glance at Phoebe.

Not fair, she wanted to scold him. Not fair at all.

Helen raised her head. “Izzy?” Craning her neck, she peered past Phoebe, and when she spied her nemesis, she stiffened. “She’s getting Bruno all wet. And all dirty.”

“Now Helen, Bruno needed to go outside. You should be proud of him. He stood by the door and whined, just like you’ve been teaching him to do.”

Helen pulled away and stood on the edge of the stoop, halting when the rain began to pelt her. “Bruno. Bruno!”

Izzy looked up, but Bruno didn’t.

“Bruuunooo!”

Lord Farley sidled through the doorway, brushing against Phoebe as he did. “I’ll get him, Helen. Wait here.”

Helen’s anxious gaze followed him and only when he scooped up the dirty pup did the child’s narrow shoulders relax. “He’s nice,” she said. “I like him.”

“Yes. So do I,” Phoebe murmured.
Too much.

Izzy was exuberant once they all returned to the house, as much to taunt Helen as anything else, Phoebe speculated. While the girls squabbled in the parlor over drying off the little dog, Phoebe quickly filled the bladder with fresh milk. Of course, the viscount followed her into the kitchen.

“You’re the right person to teach my children,” he said, taking up right where he’d left off. “I’ll pay you eight pounds per quarter, I’ll provide you and Helen each a comfortable room at Farley Park, and I’ll have the schoolroom there refurbished—whatever you might require.”

“I couldn’t live at Farley Park. What about my goats and chickens? My garden?”

“You can continue to live here or move into a room at Farley Park. And you can spend whatever amount of time you like in either place. Teach the girls there, teach them here. Just say that you’ll take the position, Miss Churchill. We can work out the details later.”

In the end she gave him the only answer that would hold him off. “I’ll think about it. That’s all I can promise.”

“That’s all I want.” But as she turned away, Phoebe could swear he added, “For now.”

That night it stormed. The wind howled around the windows, the rain pelting at the ancient cottage as the sea raged against the beach and cliffs. By comparison, the previous day’s dreadful weather seemed almost pleasant.

Helen lasted five minutes in her own bed before a hair-raising bolt of lightning sent her diving into bed with Phoebe. Once comforted, the child swiftly fell asleep. But Phoebe wasn’t so fortunate.

It was the storm, she told herself. Noisy, angry—it was impossible to ignore. And Helen, all arms and legs and soft snores, took up more space in the bed than her slight, seven-year-old body should. Plus, Phoebe had the three goats in their rickety lean-to shed to worry about. What if this storm finished off what the one last August had begun, and that poor excuse for a stable finally collapsed?

Then you will have to take up Lord Farley’s offer, if only to afford building a new goat shed.

Which brought her circling back to the real reason she couldn’t sleep: Lord Farley. Not the offer he’d made her, but the man himself.

She let out a huge, frustrated sigh. Lord Farley. Viscount Farley. James Lindford.

James.

“James.” She tested the name out loud. Thunder rumbled its long, low answer.

Annoyed by her foolishness, she twisted around to her opposite side, and tried to punch up her ancient feather pillow. She was not going to think of him as anything but Lord Farley, principal landowner in these parts and a man whom a woman like her absolutely could not weave any fanciful dreams around.

On the other hand, would it really hurt to think about him that way? Not act on it, of course. Only, perhaps, to daydream about him—or rather, a man
like
him.

She sighed. She was twenty-four years old and for the past eight years she’d been as responsible as any housewife, tending to aging parents, to her sister’s abandoned baby, and to the farm and its myriad chores. The only thing she hadn’t done was tend to a husband’s needs.

Nor had she had a husband to tend to hers.

She shivered, a hot little quiver that had nothing to do with the cold, damp night. What
did
a husband do for his wife, beyond the obvious, of course?

She understood the mechanics of sex and procreation. From everything she’d seen of dogs and chickens, goats and even cattle, it looked none too pleasant for the female of the species.

Her mother certainly had made it sound horrid, with all sorts of dire consequences: a man could
ruin
a woman, but not vice-versa; he had his way with you, and a woman had to do her duty. She suffered the pain of the marriage bed. Then came the pain of childbearing, the sickness and backaches and fear. And never forget how many women died upon the birthing bench.

There were a hundred reasons to resist the temptations of lust, and Phoebe’s mother had preached every single one of them.

But then, Emilean Churchill’s life had been ruined by lust. Louise was the one who’d discovered the source of their mother’s bitter discontent, thanks to the village gossips. It seemed their mother had been the only child of the younger daughter of a baron’s brother. That much they’d already known. Though Emilean’s connection to the peerage was not close, she’d been raised a lady and had expected to marry well.

But a handsome farmer’s son had turned her head—though it was hard for Phoebe to picture her taciturn father either young or handsome. Nevertheless, in a moment of youthful indiscretion, Emilean’s life had been forever altered. Forced to wed, she’d moved with her new husband into his parents’ small cottage on Plummy Head, a refined and educated young lady living what she considered the coarse life of a rural peasant.

Of course, the Churchills weren’t peasants. They’d owned their farm free and clear since the Civil War. But to Emilean, they’d been peasants and she’d never bent enough to see them any other way. Her life’s goal since then had been to marry her daughters to men of better society than her own husband. So she’d adhered to the strictures of her own childhood and applied herself to the education of her girls with a vengeance. No rule was too minor to be ignored, no infraction too insignificant not to require prompt punishment.

And no young man was allowed anywhere near her daughters. Lustful, deceitful villains all. That’s how she saw them.

Phoebe had tried hard to please her mother, and for a while so had Louise. But Louise had swiftly grown too beautiful to escape the notice of the local young men. With her lush figure and mane of golden hair, she’d attracted men like the beacon fires on the coast attracted smugglers.

The more they’d come around, the harder Emilean had preached, and the wilder Louise became. Phoebe had been fourteen when her sister ran off with a ship’s captain, and sixteen when Louise returned to deliver a tiny infant into her mother’s care.

That’s when the bleakness had settled in earnest upon the Churchill cottage. The bleakness and shame and silence.

Again Phoebe shivered and rolled to her other side. She pulled the heavy wool blanket up to her chin. The problem was, despite her mother’s bitter denunciation of men and their vulgar, lustful ways, Phoebe had heard enough talk from other sources to know that some women enjoyed the company of men. Her sister obviously did. On her last visit Louise had dropped all sorts of hints about the private goings-on between men and women, laughing at Phoebe’s shocked blushes and embarrassed curiosity.

Just to remember Louise’s ribald stories started the knot in Phoebe’s stomach churning, sending a wave of heat through her. She turned over again and thrust the blanket down from her chest. Unfortunately, it wasn’t only Louise’s frank words that were heating her; rather, it was Lord Farley. Lord Farley and her overactive imagination.

But why was she having such a foolish reaction to such an unobtainable man?

She hadn’t reacted so when Osmund Shepherd had kissed her on market day three years ago. Then she’d been more worried that he might want to marry her, and how was she to decline his offer without hurting his feelings? He hadn’t asked, though, and six months later he wed Eliza Perkins, the baker’s oldest girl.

She hadn’t responded to Thomas LeFarge either, the ship’s captain whom everyone knew was smuggling French wines and laces. He was handsome and dashing, but not her sort at all. Three kisses and no reaction save, perhaps, for mild disgust.

But Lord Farley…He had but to look at her with those intense eyes of his, so blue and hot and perversely distressing—

She kicked the blanket off her legs and lay in the cool blackness of her attic bedroom and let Lord Farley’s image play across her mind.

James…

If only he were an ordinary man, a farmer, say. He certainly had the shoulders and arms of a man who hefted hay bales and handled dray animals. But he was too worldly for a farmer.

A solicitor, then. After all, he was educated and well read with the sharp gleam of intelligence in his eyes. But the solicitors she knew were fussy sorts, mired in detail, and pasty-looking from long hours spent indoors, bent over their desks.

Somewhere between an obscenely masculine farmer and a keenly intelligent solicitor. Not a merchant. That seemed too mundane. Perhaps a bailiff?

She curled onto her side. A bailiff. Yes. The overseer of a large estate which required he be an expert horseman and well read, at least on matters pertaining to land management and animal husbandry. He would know about managing people too—servants and tenant farmers and field laborers. If a bailiff were to wed he would want a woman of some refinement and education, but who also knew about farming. Someone who loved living in the country.

She would make the perfect wife for a bailiff.

If
he were a bailiff.

Only he wasn’t.

Lord Farley was a lord. A viscount. A peer. A man who could have his pick of women from the highest strata of British society—and the lowest strata, if what he implied about Izzy’s mother was true.

A woman like her, set somewhere in the middle of his wide-ranging tastes in women, had no business yearning after a man like him.

“Lusting, you mean.”

She cringed to speak the words out loud. But there was no other explanation for this hot sleeplessness that plagued her.

Remember Mother and all her warnings.

Except that her mother could have been happy with the fruits of her personal lust if she’d just allowed herself to be.

All right then, remember Louise and her shameful behavior.

But if Louise had focused her lust on one man instead of such a variety, she, too, might have found contentment.

Phoebe frowned into the darkness of her low-ceilinged bedroom, trying to make sense of her mother’s troubles, her sister’s, and now her own. Lust was a real thing, clawing at the insides of a woman. Directing it upon the right man—the
one
right man—seemed the only solution. And since Lord Farley could never be the right man, it behooved her to restrain this unruly lust that so lately beset her.

But despite her dire warnings and earnest intentions to shield herself from the wicked direction of her secret desires, when Phoebe slept, it was to dream of a lust fulfilled by a sun-browned, shirt-sleeved bailiff of a man. A lust fulfilled in a sweet-scented hayloft, and punctuated by a true and deep-felt joy in the fulfillment.

They awoke to watery sunshine, a storm-strewn yard, and a partially collapsed goat shed.

Phoebe surveyed the damage. She and Helen could clear the yard of broken branches, and drag off most of the broken boards of the precariously tilted shed. They could sweep away the rivers of mud and replant any uprooted shrubs. She could even put the ladder up against the house to check for loose roof slates.

But she’d have to hire someone to rebuild the goat shed, and she had to do it soon. Though winter was over, there was no guarantee against another storm like last night’s blow. Posie, Bella, and Fern deserved some sort of shelter. Short of bringing them into the kitchen, she had no choice but to approach Martin—or accept Lord Farley’s offer.

“We’re going to town,” she told Helen as they ate their morning porridge. “Put on your mourning dress.”

At Leake’s Emporium, Helen went around back to see the last of the puppies, while Phoebe went inside. A cluster of women looked up when she entered. Their guilty expressions turned to relief when they saw her. “Oh, it’s you, Phoebe. Good. Come look at this,” Mrs. Leake said. “You need to see this.”

The miller’s wife and the Widow Watling moved aside to reveal a small stack of newspapers spread open on the store counter. “Here,” Mrs. Leake said, stabbing a finger at an article set off by a decorative border. “And here. And here.” She flipped to several other issues. “My newspapers came last night, the monthly bundle I always get from London. But I didn’t look through them till this morning. I tell you, I could hardly digest my breakfast when I read it.”

Phoebe scanned the articles, a series of gossipy columns in the aptly named
London Tattler
. It was the sort of scandalmongering she normally wouldn’t bother with, or if she did read it, she would laugh at the pretensions and foibles of both writer and subjects.

But today she couldn’t laugh. Lord Farley—their Lord Farley—had been formally betrothed until just weeks ago. But that betrothal had been broken by his fiancée due to the revelation of the existence of his several natural-born children. Well, only two. But according to the articles, there was good reason to suspect he might have others.

“Now didn’t I say there was something odd going on with that young man?” Mrs. Leake asked. “Didn’t I? Two such children is bad enough. But more? And then expecting this poor Lady Catherine to raise them in her own household, with her own children, which he’d obviously get on her quicker than an old tomcat gets a litter on a—”

She broke off with a chagrined glance at Phoebe. “Sorry, child. I always forget that you’re still unmarried.” She patted Phoebe’s hand. “It’s a good thing you didn’t take that position in his household. You didn’t, did you?”

“No. No,” Phoebe repeated, still in shock. She’d known about Lord Farley’s natural-born children. Already she was half in love with both of them. But could there be more?

In truth, however, the children weren’t why Phoebe’s hands were curled into fists, her short, practical nails pressing into her palms. It was the betrothal.

Though it made no sense, the fact that he’d recently been betrothed to this Lady Catherine Winfield seemed almost a betrayal.

Forcing herself to a shaky calm, Phoebe read the articles again, deaf to Mrs. Leake and her cronies’ buzz of speculation. He’d been abroad, come back with Leya, located another child—Izzy—and then been hounded out of London.

Part of Phoebe admired him all the more for his tenacity in the face of such public censure. But another part, the stupid, unworldly part, was furious at him. Furious!

But why?

She folded the papers and pushed them away. She was furious because he’d been engaged. Worse, he’d been engaged to a beautiful, titled young woman whom everyone obviously admired. No doubt he’d been madly in love with her, but she’d swiftly found a new suitor in that Percival Langley fellow.