Rexanne Becnel (8 page)

Perhaps Lord Farley had retreated to the countryside not because of his children, but to mend his broken heart.

The very idea made her head hurt. She’d spent most of last night imagining him falling in love with her, knowing it was stupid, but recalling every fairy tale she’d ever read, and believing that maybe such tales could come true.

But the real truth was that her fairy-tale hero was probably still in love with the beautiful Lady Catherine.

He had no business affecting her so perversely when he was otherwise attached!

“…and the butler’s wife’s sister told me he had a letter from one of those Bow Street fellows. You know, the ones that all the well-to-do hire to investigate whatever they need investigated.” Mrs. Leake gave a knowing nod. “Now why would he spend good money on a person like that? I’ll tell you why. Because there’s more children where those two come from. Mark my words. He’ll be running a regular orphanage up at Farley Park before you know it.”

“But they’re not orphans,” Phoebe said. The three women swiveled as one to face her. “They’re not orphans; they have a father willing to see to their needs.”

“That’s true,” Widow Watling said, nodding her gray head. “I suppose there’s something to be said for a man who doesn’t shirk his responsibilities. On the other hand, that particular man changes women more often than the post coach changes teams. What about the womenfolk around these parts? How can any of our young women be safe from such a man?” Her face settled into lines of disapproval. “Doesn’t Mrs. Phillips’s eldest girl work over to Farley Park?”

“You know, I believe you’re right,” Mrs. Leake said. “We’d better warn her to stay strictly away from that man, or before she knows it she’ll have a bun warming in the—” Again she broke off with an apologetic look at Phoebe.

But Phoebe was too unsettled to care about the other woman’s slip of the tongue. As soon as she could, she abandoned them to their unpleasant gossip and sought Martin in the backyard. She did not want to think about Lord Farley or his fiancée or any of the countless maids in his employ who might be more eager to succumb to his deceitfully appealing manner than she.

All she wanted was her goat shed rebuilt and to pretend she’d never met Lord Farley.

Nor did she want to ponder why she was so upset by any of this news. It wasn’t her business, and most of it wasn’t even news to her, except for the fiancée part.

To her relief, Martin promised to come up to Plummy Head the very next day to repair her shed, and to bring both his and his mother’s mending with him in exchange. Back inside the store the gossip continued about the viscount with a new cast of village women and a new set of opinions. Ignoring them, Phoebe checked the mail basket. Nothing yet from Louise. Then she set off, despite Helen’s pleas to linger.

“But there’s two puppies left,” the child pointed out. “Once they’re given away Bruno won’t have anybody left to play with.”

“He has you now, Helen. Come along.”

“But it’s not the same. I’m not a dog. If we took another puppy home with us—”

“One is enough.”

“But Bruno would—”

“No!”

Inside Phoebe cringed at the overly sharp tone she’d used. Helen was not the source of her bad humor. “I’m sorry, Helen. I’m just a little cross today.”

Helen glanced at her sullenly, as if to say, “Cross, just like Grandmother.”

What a dreadful thought, yet Phoebe knew she deserved it. As they trudged the wet path home, she made an extra effort to prove herself nothing at all like her never content mother. She made up a song about a colony of toads and pollywogs who lived in a pond called Big Muddy, and charmed her way back into Helen’s good graces. And she convinced herself that she was perfectly content with the life she led.

But when they turned the corner past the ancient lichen-streaked boulder that marked one corner of their farm, Phoebe’s contentment shredded, like an old burlap sack. Even from this distance she could see that her goats’ feeble housing now lay in complete ruin. Only it was not due to the storm, but rather to the efforts of two burly workmen.

They’d already sorted the wood into two stacks, one of straight reusable lumber, the other of splintered, rotten wood. And next to those rested a third stack of freshly cut boards.

“What are you doing?” she cried, hurrying across the muddy yard.

“Don’t you worry, miss,” the elder of the two men said. “We’ll have it back to rights by tomorrow evenin’.”

“But I don’t understand. Who told you to do this?”

The man grinned. “Lord Farley. The viscount. He said he owed you a debt.”

Lord Farley? Phoebe turned away before the fellow could notice the color that flooded her cheeks. She feigned interest in the stack of freshly cut boards while her mind spun in frantic circles. What did Lord Farley mean, he owed her a debt? Even more important, what did the workmen
think
he meant?

While Helen and Bruno watched the workers dig new post holes, then lift up the posts and pack them in with gravel, Phoebe prepared tea for the men and worried. When she was calm again, she brought the tea, honey, and cream out to them.

“No. I must thank you,” she said when they expressed their gratitude. “I never thought my meager assistance to his two children would warrant such a generous gesture from the viscount.”

“Well, he was clear in his orders to us, miss. He says to us that he don’t think your old shed could’ve withstood last night’s blow—and it seems he was right. So he says to us, he says rebuild that shed so no wind can blow it down again.”

She gave them lunch and a cold supper as well. By then it had become clear that the new structure would be almost twice the size of the old one. It was equally clear that she must go up to Farley Park and thank her benefactor.

The next day Martin arrived, loaded down with his mending and his mother’s, but with no shed to fix in exchange. Instead Phoebe set him to cutting firewood, painting the front door, and watching Helen while she went alone to Farley Park.

She selected an apple-green dress, her favorite, though she usually saved it for Sundays. It was only good manners to dress well when you called on the highest-ranking personage in the district, she told herself. Her mother would certainly have demanded it of her.

But Phoebe suspected her choice was caused more by vanity than proper manners. Lord Farley was accustomed to fine ladies dressed in the most fashionable designs. She wanted him to know that in spite of her limited living circumstances, she’d been raised a lady—and that he must treat her as one.

Upon her arrival, the butler ushered her directly to the master’s office, as if he’d been instructed to do so even before she got there. Lord Farley probably expected this call. It didn’t help her mood any to know how easily he predicted her behavior. Nor was her confidence bolstered by this first view of the interior of Farley Park. The entrance hall alone was twice the size of her entire cottage, and everywhere her gaze touched was further proof of his wealth and lineage. Portraits, statuary, jewel-tone carpets that silenced their footsteps.

His butler knocked at a heavy door, opened it for her, then closed it, shutting her, a silly, awestruck country girl, in with him, a powerful lord of the realm.

Lord Farley looked up when she entered, then stood. He was garbed in a collarless white shirt, an open waistcoat, and buff-colored breeches. “Good morning, Miss Churchill. I’m glad you’re here. Have you come to accept the position of governess?”

“No,” she said, taken aback both by his directness and his appearance. Didn’t he ever dress in the finery of the peerage? She cleared her throat. “I came here to thank you for sending your carpenters to rebuild the goat shed. How could you have known it was necessary?”

“You forget that I tethered my horse in there. I supposed it hadn’t improved in condition during the storm. Do you have any other damage?”

“No.”

“Because if you do, just direct the men to it.”

Frustrated, Phoebe crossed her arms. “I can hardly repay you for what they’ve already done. Certainly I can’t afford—”

“I don’t expect payment.”

He came around the desk and that fast the conversation tilted in his favor. If he’d seemed excessively masculine and overwhelming in her small kitchen, he seemed impossibly so here, surrounded by the trappings of his noble title. Once more he smiled at her. “Your advice for Leya about the goat’s milk has made life at Farley Park infinitely more pleasant. By comparison, repairing your shed is nothing.”

The sincerity of his expression and the appreciation in his eyes made mincemeat of the arguments she’d constructed during her march here. She’d helped him; he’d helped her. Put that way it seemed like neighborliness at its most simple.

But then his eyes flicked over her. Very fast. Very brief. His expression didn’t change. But in an instant, everything else did. For no reason that Phoebe could explain, he managed to light an unruly flame inside her—just as he’d obviously done to all sorts of women, all over the world, she reminded herself. The irony was that she was beginning to understand why so many of those women had succumbed to him.

But that didn’t mean she would succumb. If anything, it warned her to stay strictly away from him. That meant she couldn’t let this man do her any more favors. None. She had only to recall the vicious gossip those newspaper articles had started, and how easily such gossip could transfer to their little outpost of society.

After all, Martin would tell his mother about Lord Farley’s carpenters at work on her farm. Phoebe shuddered to think how that fact might be misrepresented. Mrs. Leake liked her well enough. But the woman never forgot that she was Louise’s sister. Nor did anybody else in Swansford. Guilty by association. Cut from the same cloth.

No. She had to keep her relationship with Lord Farley as circumspect as possible, and allowing him to rebuild the most important of her outbuildings was simply too much. For years she’d struggled to rise above the stain of her sister’s reprehensible behavior. She refused to let this man ruin her good name, even if his intentions were proper—which she wasn’t at all certain they were.

“Lord Farley, I appreciate the kindness you intend. But the time I spent with Leya cannot compare to the work your men are doing. I insist on repaying you for their labors.”

“Very well. Come look at the schoolroom with me.” He advanced to the office door and held it open. “Perhaps you can give me some advice on how to refurbish it.”

Too late Phoebe realized that she’d fallen into his trap—his very well thought out trap. Not budging, she stared at him. “I was thinking more of mending. Some task like that.”

“I don’t have any mending.”

“Izzy does.”

“I’m purchasing her a new wardrobe, something less fragile.” Once more he gave her that smile, the one that unsettled her down to her toes. “Farley Park is a self-sufficient household, Miss Churchill. The only things we’re really missing are a nurse and a governess.” One of his brows arched in expectation, and she could swear she saw a glimmer of smugness in his eyes.

She jutted out her jaw. “Very well, then.” She stalked past him, through the door and out into the hall. “I’ll have a look at your schoolroom and give you my opinion. But I cannot be governess here. I haven’t the time.”

“Whatever you say,” he murmured. But she knew he meant the exact opposite. He was humoring her for now, but he hadn’t given up his campaign to have her in his employ.

To her everlasting shame, Phoebe felt a perverse thrill. He was a force to be reckoned with, this man with his natural-born children. But so was she. He thought he could waltz back to Yorkshire and command the will of every woman he met. But she was wiser than most women.

He might have won this particular skirmish, but he would never win the battle.

The schoolroom at Farley Park took up the entire end of the top floor of the east wing. With monstrous windows soaring nearly to the ceiling on three sides, it commanded a spectacular view of the Yorkshire countryside. On one side meadows and forests spread as far as the eye could see. On the other Phoebe picked out the stables, laundry sheds, and all the sundry outbuildings required to support an estate the size of Farley Park. Beyond those buildings, a narrow lane meandered to a cluster of whitewashed cottages that were sheltered by a row of elm trees. She picked out the largest cottage, that of Farley Park’s bailiff.

Phoebe stared at the sturdy, thatch-roofed structure, made toy-like by the distance. It had its own garden with a fence around it. Clothes hung drying on a line in the backyard.

Twice now she’d spent the night beset by dreams of a tall, handsome bailiff, lovely disturbing dreams that left her restless with unnamable longings. Only those longings weren’t really unnamable. In her mind she heard the word “lust,” spoken in her mother’s scathing tones, tormenting her with shame. Lust was at the root of those forbidden dreams, and lust would bring her to disaster if she let it.

But how was she to silence the nighttime wanderings of her poor, fevered brain?

She turned from the windows only to face an even more distressing view. Lord Farley stood in the middle of the long-abandoned schoolroom, surrounded by the forgotten remnants of his childhood, but studying her, not the schoolroom. His fists rested on his hips—lean hips, as it happened, with powerfully sculpted legs encased in buckskin breeches. That, coupled with the tweed waistcoat, his casual shirt sleeves, and the open throat of his collar, absent of a stock, made him look every bit the hard-working bailiff of her midnight longings.

“What do you think?” he asked.

I think you’re seducing me without even trying. And doing a very good job of it.

“I think it’s perfect,” she said in a strained voice. She turned to circle the room, nodding too vigorously and feigning interest in everything she saw. A globe. A dictionary. An inkwell long dried of its contents. “All it wants is a good cleaning.” She picked up a useless, splintered quill pen. “Do you intend to have Leya spend her days up here along with Izzy? If so, you might want to section off a play area for her, and also provide a little bed where she can nap.”

“What about books?”

She stiffened her shoulders and took a breath.
Be firm, Phoebe.
“I would leave that decision to the governess you hire. She may be particular in that regard.”

He stared at her. She didn’t have to look at him to know he was watching her every move; she could feel the power of his eyes.

“Sixty pounds,” he said.

She wasn’t sure she’d heard him right until she spun around and spied the smug smile on his face. He’d just offered her sixty pounds to work for him? Although he didn’t look in the least affected by the princely sum he’d so casually thrown out, Phoebe certainly was. She gaped at him, aghast. “Sixty pounds? Are you mad? You can hire three governesses for a sum like that.”

“You would think so. But the woman I have in mind drives a hard bargain.”

Phoebe shook her head. “I assure you, if you post a notice in any of the York newspapers with that sum listed, you’ll be besieged with eager applicants.”

But he only shook his head. “I want you to teach my children. No one else.”

Their gazes held and clashed. But though Phoebe wanted to be angry at his high-handed persistence, she perversely felt flattered. How could she not be? Sixty pounds was a veritable fortune. With that sort of income, she could easily afford a maid-of-all-work, as well as a man for the garden, the animals, and general repairs. She could purchase new clothes for Helen instead of always remaking old garments for the child, and she could afford to set aside enough money to one day send the girl to a proper finishing school.

They might even decide to take a holiday down to London, and while they were there, visit Louise. Wouldn’t that shock her older sister, to see Phoebe and Helen dressed fine, with money to spare?

But as quickly as that satisfying scenario came, Phoebe quashed it. Helen was far too young to be exposed to how her mother lived.

Then Phoebe blinked and realized how foolish she was to imagine any of those things. If she took the position of governess for Lord Farley’s children, then started employing servants of her own and dressing above herself, the gossips would work overtime to link her to her employer in a less than exemplary light—especially should the outrageous amount of her wages ever be disclosed. Everyone in Swansford would be convinced that her newfound wealth was in fact the wages of a sinful life. After all, everyone knew that he’d lived the life of a profligate. As for her, she’d spent the last eight years trying to live down the scandal of being Louise’s sister. She couldn’t afford any slips in her behavior.

She cleared her throat. “I’m sure you mean your generous offer as a compliment, Lord Farley—”

“It’s not a compliment at all. That’s not how I do business. Sixty pounds is a practical, well-reasoned offer of employment. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Maybe to you,” she said, deciding it was time to speak more plainly. “But to the folk around here it would look considerably worse. To put it bluntly, you have a certain…reputation, shall we say. Should you suddenly overpay any female working for you, her reputation would be cast in a less than favorable light.”

A crease formed between his brows. “Are you saying the reputations of my housekeeper and the numerous parlormaids and cooks and laundrymaids—well paid, I might add, and several of them single—are now in question?”

“No. Not at all. Everyone knows they’ve worked here for some time. But a new employee…especially a governess.”

“Haven’t these same people known you all your life? Why should they think any less of you?”

He was determined to be obtuse, wasn’t he? Her temper riled, Phoebe planted her fists on her hips. “Why? I’ll tell you why. Because my older sister ran away with a man without bothering to marry him first. Because she promptly left him for someone else, and him for someone else. Because my niece, Helen, has no father.”

She should have stopped at that. But in for a penny, in for a pound. “And then there’s the fact that due to one youthful indiscretion, my mother was forced to marry beneath her. Even so, she always considered herself superior to everyone else in the district. Her uncle was a baron, you see. Despite the fact that her entire family turned their backs on her, she never let anyone in Swansford forget her lofty beginnings. As a result, even after all these years, discussing her daughters’ shortcomings gives those people a great deal of satisfaction. I’m sure you’ll understand, Lord Farley, why I can’t afford to have any shortcomings, real or otherwise.”

The silence that followed her outburst fairly echoed in the dusty schoolroom. Somewhere three floors down a man called out, and after a moment a woman answered. The wind carried the piercing cry of a hunting bird. But in the hollowness of the long-neglected chamber, there was only her, Lord Farley, and the ringing silence.

She heard when he took a long breath and released it. “I appreciate your situation, Miss Churchill. But you’ve met my children; you know they’re in dire need of a governess. I assure you, the offer I made you is legitimate.”

Phoebe nodded, a tight movement of her head. “I’m sure it was. And I wish you well in locating the right person for them.” She took a breath. As far as she was concerned, the subject was done with. “As for the classroom, I can’t imagine a nicer location for children to spend several hours a day.”

She turned for the door, then stopped. She’d almost forgotten her main purpose in coming here. “Thank you for sending your men to rebuild my goat shed. In the future, however, it would be better if you let me manage my farm as I see best.”

To her relief he didn’t argue. With head held high and poise intact, Phoebe glided to the door.
Mama would be so proud.

Her perfect, self-righteous exit was ruined, however, in the barreling form of Izzy. With a clatter of boots upon the uncarpeted floor, the skinny child burst into the room and plowed into Phoebe, nearly toppling them both to the floor.

“There you are,” Izzy said, righting herself, then shoving a tangled lock of hair back from her brow. She scowled at her father. “Whyn’t you tell me she was here?”

“I’m sure Miss Churchill wasn’t planning to leave without visiting with you. Were you, Miss Churchill?” He deflected Phoebe’s look with an unrepentantly smug smile.

Ignoring him, Phoebe reached out and tucked the wayward lock behind Izzy’s ear. “I was just coming downstairs to find you.” A fib, but a harmless one.

“To tell me you’re going to come live here and be my governess?” Eyes sparkling with anticipation, the girl danced back and forth from one foot to the other. “Mine and Leya’s?”

Phoebe pressed her lips together. Was this the same wild child from just a few days ago? She glanced at Lord Farley but found no help there. He, too, was waiting to hear her reply.

“I…You see, I can’t live here and be your governess, Izzy. I just can’t. But you can still come up to Plummy Head. I’ll teach you about the goats and my bees—you haven’t seen my beehives yet. And I’ll show you how to fish.”

Izzy’s expression fell. It wasn’t the answer she wanted, and she rounded on her father, glaring at him. “This is all your fault. Whyn’t you give her enough blunt so she’ll say yes?”

“I did—”

“It’s not about the salary,” Phoebe interrupted. She caught Izzy by the arms and crouched down so they were on eye level. “It’s just that I have other responsibilities.”

“You mean Helen. It’s all because of her. You don’t like me ’cause of her.”

“No. I do like you, Izzy. Very much.”

But the girl jerked away and sneered. “You’re a liar. You only wanted to get your stupid basket and other junk back. That’s the only reason you were nice to me!”

“Izzy! That’s not true.”

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” She darted past Phoebe and dashed out to the stairs. “I hate you, you whore! You slut!” Her shrill cries echoed as she stormed down the stairs. “I hate all of you!”

Phoebe stood there, too stunned to react. From sweet, childish hopefulness to a rage too bitter for any child to feel—and all on account of her.

As if he read her thoughts, Lord Farley came up beside her. “She didn’t really mean what she said. If anything, I suspect she feels exactly the opposite.”

Phoebe knew enough of children to suspect he was right. Yet still, painful emotions clouded her eyes with tears. Was she being selfish, denying Izzy the comfort she desperately sought and Leya the mothering she deserved? Was she more worried about what the gossips might say about her than what two little girls needed? Three little girls if she included Helen, who could only benefit from the financial security Lord Farley’s offer would provide.

Impatiently she dashed her tears away. “The last thing I want is to hurt her.”

“I know that, Phoebe.”

Through damp eyes she looked up at him, and this time, instead of their differences, what she saw in him was their similarities. They both wanted what was best for Izzy and Leya. He was willing to buck the London gossips for his children’s welfare. Was she willing to do the same with the Swansford gossips?

She shivered at the dangerous truth. Though it contradicted years of guarding her every word and action, a small part of her
was
willing.

As if that truth leaped through the air from her to him, his hands caught her arms and turned her to face him. There was something else they both wanted, and the crackling awareness of it stole the air from her lungs. Her eyes grew huge as she stared up at him. They wanted each other. He wanted her as much as she wanted him.

And he was going to kiss her.

Phoebe stood very still, not even breathing, as his head lowered. She’d been kissed before. It didn’t mean anything more than what it was, she told herself. A momentary giving in to desire. He wasn’t going to ravish her; she wouldn’t allow things to progress that far. She only wanted him to kiss her, to discover what it was like and why she wanted it. And then she wanted to kiss him back.

His fingers tightened on her arms. Strong, clever fingers. Warm, possessive fingers. He tugged her nearer; she caught her breath in anticipation.

His eyes were so intensely blue. His lashes seemed too long and thick to belong on a man.

She sighed. He was the man of her nighttime imaginings, just a man, not a peer. Her bailiff. She closed her eyes and all those impossible dreams came true. His lips met hers, so warm and hungry, and they ignited some latent fire deep inside her. Then he shifted and slanted his mouth on hers, and it was both terrifying and thrilling. One of his hands slid up her arm to cup her cheek, a long, slow stroke that worked like a bellows upon hot embers.

She wanted more—more closeness, more of something—and he accommodated her. With an almost imperceptible pressure at the corner of her mouth, his thumb coaxed her lips apart and all at once the fire roared out of control.

She wanted to recoil. She
should
recoil. But even more, she wanted to embrace the fire, to feel the flames lick higher. Already they licked at her thighs and belly and—

“Bloody hell!”

He thrust her an arm’s length back. His breath came in harsh rasps, while a stunned look darkened his face. “Bloody hell. That was not supposed to happen.”

Disoriented, Phoebe backed farther away and wrapped her arms across her stomach. “No…It…it wasn’t.”

“It won’t happen again. That I promise you.” In frustration he raked one hand through his hair. “Don’t use this as a reason not to be governess to my girls, Phoebe. Don’t do that.”

My girls.
The way he said those two words cut through the tumult of emotions that beset her. For him his daughters came first. He would resist the inclinations of the flesh—inclinations he’d obviously succumbed to in the past—if that was best for his girls.

But she…She was the one who hadn’t wanted to stop. Though she was filled with a strange clawing yearning for him, he’d been the one to pull back, determined not to give her the excuse she needed to stay away from Farley Park.