Rexanne Becnel (9 page)

He had pulled away when she had not.

If she needed proof of his sincerity, that was awfully good. Could it be that she was the untrustworthy one? He might have gone through a world of women in the past, but it seemed he didn’t mean for her to become one of them.

Disappointment knifed through her; painful and perverse. Why didn’t he want her?

Though she fought them, every insecurity she’d ever felt rose to bludgeon her self-esteem. She wasn’t beautiful like Louise, nor rich and titled like his former fiancée and the other women he’d known. Why should a man like him want a woman like her?

“No,” she said. Was that the only word left in her head? She cleared her throat. “No, I would never blame Izzy and Leya for what you—What we—” She crossed her arms over her chest and huffed out a breath. “For what just happened.”

“Then say you’ll reconsider my offer. You name the salary.” Again he swept a hand through his hair. “You can see how attached Izzy has become to you.”

Phoebe forced herself to think about the children instead of the man who’d just curled her toes with his kiss. “She’s so attached to me that she hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you.”

It was hard to know what Izzy thought. “Perhaps you can convince her to come up to Plummy Head for lessons there.”

He scowled, hunched his shoulders, and shoved his hands in his pockets. “If she comes to your farm for lessons, then I wouldn’t be anywhere nearby and you could preserve your reputation among the old biddies around here. Is that the idea?”

She raised her chin and met his brooding gaze. “I believe it would be for the best. After Helen, the most important thing I have is my good reputation.”

Dark and brooding, his eyes moved over her, head to toe and back again. It was unnerving, mainly because Phoebe couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Did he like her more for herself or for what she could provide his children?

More importantly, which way did she
want
him to like her?
Stop being so perverse!

“Very well,” he said. “I’ll have her brought to your house every day for lessons.”

Phoebe nodded. It was for the best, she told herself. Everyone got what they wanted this way: financial security for her and Helen; an education for Izzy.

But as they walked down the stairs side by side, it occurred to her that Lord Farley had not gotten what he wanted. He was a man accustomed to the company of women. Since she would not be that company, did that mean he’d find someone else?

Phoebe stumbled, but caught herself on the handrail.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” she answered, keeping her eyes trained straight ahead. “Just fine.”

Lord Farley’s workmen had finished constructing the goat shed except for shingling the roof. Martin had cut and stacked half a cord of wood near the kitchen door. He’d also taught Helen how to train Bruno to sit, lie down, and come when called. By the time Phoebe arrived home after a long roundabout, soul-searching hike along the cliffs, she had only to restoke the fire and prepare supper before the chill of night crept over the land.

She sighed as she stared down at her plate of stewed carrots and cheese bread. “What would you say if we hired a maid-of-all-work for our household?”

Helen looked up from her supper. “Does that mean I wouldn’t have to sweep the stairs anymore?”

“That’s right. Or haul water from the well, or carry in the milk from the goats.” Helen tended to spill more than she carried in.

The little girl grinned. “Then I say yes.”

“There is a catch.”

Helen looked up from licking melted cheese from her thumb.

“Lord Farley has offered me a position teaching Izzy, and I think I must accept his offer.”

“No.” The excited grin dissolved into an obstinate frown. “I don’t like her.”

“Now Helen. I’m sure you’ll learn to get along.”

“But it’s too far to walk every day.”

“She’ll be coming here.”

That turned Helen’s plaintive expression desperate. “No. Not here. Not her.”

“Her father has offered me a very good salary, Helen, and we certainly need the money. With it I can hire that maid and we’ll be able to spend all spring doing our lessons outdoors. In the meadow, or perhaps at Wildfen Pond, or even down upon the beach. Think about it. I’ll have so much more time to spend with you if I don’t have to do all the cooking and washing and tend all the animals.”

She could see the struggle on Helen’s perfect little face: freedom from chores versus Izzy’s constant presence. Phoebe leaned forward, pressing the point. “I think Izzy is already getting nicer. I’m sure you’ve noticed. I predict that within another week or so the two of you will be the best of friends. I promise, Helen. You’ll be glad of this. By the time of the May Day Festival, you’ll have forgotten you ever disliked Izzy.”

Helen slumped back in her chair, the very picture of dejection. “Will Leya be coming with her?”

“Perhaps not at first. She is, after all, still an infant. But I’m certain we can convince Lord Farley to send her now and again.”

Mention of Lord Farley perked the child up. “Do you think Himself would teach me how to ride?”

Phoebe reached over and stroked her niece on the cheek. “If you want him to, I’m sure he will.”

“Will you ask him?”

Conscious of an unseemly warmth rising into her face, Phoebe returned her attention to her supper. “I think it best if you ask him, Helen. He seems a very accommodating man. When it comes to children,” she added under her breath.

James had supper alone in his office, eating at his desk before a sputtering fire. The room was dark and cold, just like his mood. Just like his life.

He’d had four letters today. One from his friend Kerry inquiring about life in the hinterlands, one from his mother assuring him that the gossip in town was beginning to ease, and a third from one of Lord Basingstoke’s cronies stating that James’s expected appointment as the King’s Counsel on Foreign Affairs had been rescinded. No surprise in that. Still, the slight rankled. How long was he to be shunned for his indiscretions, which were no less than those of three-quarters of the House of Lords?

He knew, though, that he wasn’t being punished for having fathered his children. His crime was acknowledging them and daring to bring them into his own household.

He let out a frustrated oath. It had been a stupid, ill-considered decision, moving Izzy and Leya into his London home. Yet even now he didn’t think he’d do any different.

He stared moodily into the fire. Perhaps he might have married Catherine before telling her about his children. Perhaps.

Bloody hell, what was the point in rehashing any of it? What was done was done. He’d closed the door on any alliance with Lord Basingstoke when he humiliated the man’s daughter. No use to stew about that anymore. At the moment his most pressing worry was what to do about Izzy.

All day long the child had fled in the opposite direction every time she saw him, like a feral cat determined to remain free, even as it skulks around the barnyard hoping for a stray bit of food. According to the cook, Izzy had filched two apple tarts, a half-loaf of bread, and a small crockery tub of butter from the pantry. Then she’d disappeared to some hiding place or another.

At least Leya was asleep. Goat’s milk had made a world of difference in the child’s temperament, and without her stomachaches, her bright eyes and cheerful smile had swiftly charmed everyone who came in contact with her. Everyone, that is, but his housekeeper. Mrs. Gatling’s sour disposition matched her sour expression.

Eventually she’d have to go. It was clear to him that the nature of his children’s births was a barrier the woman would never be able to climb over. She didn’t want to climb over it. But he’d be damned before he subjected his girls to her constant disapproval, no matter how subtle.

If only the woman could be as accepting of his children as Phoebe.

He pushed back in his chair, forgetting his meal. Phoebe. The whole day he’d struggled to put those few minutes in the schoolroom out of his mind. But damn, if that kiss hadn’t tormented him at every turn.

He took a long sip of wine. He’d spent the better part of his adult life being stupid when it came to women. Or maybe impulsive was a better word. The fact was, he liked women, whether tall, short, voluptuous, or waif-like. He liked blondes, brunettes, and red-heads, and he’d never understood men who limited themselves to a particular type.

Added to that, between his mother and two sisters, he’d been raised on the vagaries of the female mind. So you’d think he’d be wise to their inconsistencies.

But the only truth he’d ever learned was that women made no sense at all. They didn’t think the same way men did. He’d learned, though, that if a man was patient and observant—and determined—he could discover a woman’s weakness. For some women it was elaborate flattery, for others the need to be pursued. Some desired extravagant gifts, others needed a hint of danger, a taste of the forbidden.

The most dangerous women, however, were the ones who demanded love.

He untied his cravat and flicked the cloth onto his littered desk. Naturally, Phoebe Churchill fell into that category. That was reason enough for an honorable man to maintain his distance. On top of that, she was inexperienced when it came to men and was essentially alone in the world. Far too vulnerable for a man like him to dally after.

But the main reason he should never have kissed her was because of his girls. Izzy liked Phoebe, notwithstanding the child’s rantings to the contrary. Izzy instinctively trusted her, and so did he. The simple fact was, he needed Phoebe Churchill to take care of his children, not to take care of him.

He threw back the last of his wine, then glowered into the waning fire. Another long night in his cold, lonely bed. But it would be worse tonight; he could tell. For he still tasted the wonder on Phoebe’s lips when he’d deepened their kiss. He still felt that sweet pliancy when her young, lithe body had arched against his. Her skin had been as soft as buttermilk, her hair fragrant with some sort of flowers.

He groaned at the urgent rise of desire, firing his blood and fighting the stricture of his breeches. He needed a woman to relieve this frustration, and soon. But besides his own servants—whom he never indulged with—there were no other convenient women to be found. Another reason to hate the countryside.

“Bloody hell.” He lurched to his feet, determined to quash these pointless yearnings. First he would search out Izzy. Wherever she’d hidden, she must have fallen asleep by now. He’d awaken her and explain that Phoebe wanted to be her governess, but at Plummy Head, not Farley Park. Then he’d carry her to her own bedroom.

After that he’d open the last envelope, sent by the investigator he’d hired in London. With any luck that man had finally located his other child.

He just hoped that this one didn’t complicate his life as much as the first two had.

Izzy arrived at ten in the morning, carried in on a fierce wind that promised a cold day but no rain. She knocked once, let herself in, then slammed the door and scowled at Phoebe and Helen. “I’m here like you wanted. So let’s go fishing.”

Helen scowled right back. “Fish don’t bite in a storm. Don’t you know anything?”

“Kiss my arse.”

“Izzy!” Both girls looked up at Phoebe’s stern tone. “Young lady, you can just march yourself right outside and begin this morning anew. Or you can return home. The choice is yours to make. However, you need to understand one thing: I do not allow foul language or bad manners in my home.”

The girl leveled her with a lethal stare. “I didn’t want to come here anyway.”

Phoebe rebuffed the glare with a regretful smile. “That’s too bad. Because I really wanted your help with the goats today. They’re a little leery about their new shed and are off their milk. But I suppose Helen and I can manage without you.”

Phoebe watched from beneath sheltering lashes as Izzy struggled between what she wanted and what she thought she wanted. When the girl yanked the door open and stormed out, Phoebe’s heart sank. But after a long, breath-holding moment, a single rap sounded.

Phoebe swung the door wide. “Come in,” she said, and ignoring the determined scowl on the child’s face, gave her a warm, welcoming hug. “I’m so glad you’re here. Why don’t you put your shoes over there, by the hearth? And look, this peg is for your cloak.” She smiled down at Izzy. “So. I assume Leya isn’t coming today.”

“Cook says she has a fever.” Izzy set her gloves on top of her shoes, then donned her inside clogs. “She only felt a little warm to me, and she didn’t act like she was sick. I wanted to bring her anyway, but Lord Farley said no.”

From the kitchen table Helen said, “Whyn’t you call him Father or Da’ or Poppa like other children do?”

“’Cause he wants me to,” Izzy said, slanting Phoebe a sly look.

Phoebe hid her smile. “How wise of you, Izzy. I completely agree. You should only call him Father when you begin to feel as if he really
is
your father. I have to say, though, that I’m reassured by how hard he’s been trying. Did you know, even though I initially declined his offer to become your governess, he refused to give up until I agreed? But tell me about Leya. When did her fever start?”

“I don’t know.” Izzy wandered over to Bruno who was energetically gnawing an enormous old ham bone.

“Is anyone else at Farley Park sick?”

Izzy shrugged. But when Phoebe pressed her hand to the child’s forehead, Izzy let her. “How did you get here?” Phoebe asked once she was reassured that Izzy wasn’t feverish.

“He brought me.”

He
. Phoebe cleared away their breakfast dishes. There was only one
he
in Phoebe’s life—and hers too, it seemed. “I’m surprised he didn’t come in to say hello.”

“He had business in town.”

It was just as well, Phoebe told herself as she pulled out two slates and an old book of letters and rhymes. It was better than well. He meant to keep his distance, just as he’d said. He would pay her wages; she would instruct his daughters. With a bit of luck they might go weeks without ever crossing paths.

Months even.

It was an ideal arrangement. The answer to her prayers. So why did she feel as if a black storm cloud had just settled over her head, turning everything in her life colorless and bleak?

Then a thought occurred to her and she brightened. He’d brought Izzy here; eventually he’d have to retrieve her.

But late in the afternoon a servant came to fetch Izzy, driving the closed coach up the rutted lane. It was raining and cold as they waved Izzy off, and low-hanging clouds threatened to engulf Plummy Head in a chilly fog. The dreariness mirrored Phoebe’s mood perfectly.

You should be happy.
She forced herself to count her blessings, ticking them off in her mind. The goats were dry in their new shed. There was plenty of stacked wood in the yard. She and Helen were warm and snug in their cottage with the possibility of eviction no longer a threat. Most of all, she now knew that she could trust Lord Farley.

But therein lay her discontent. She could trust Lord Farley to keep his distance, to respect her person, to never kiss her again.

She stared out into the empty, prematurely dark sky. How was she to live out the rest of her gray, colorless life if she never expected to be kissed like that again?

Izzy arrived early the next morning, alone and on foot, with her hair streaming in tangles, no gloves on her icy hands, and without a scarf to warm her throat. Again she barged in without knocking, but the look on her face forestalled any scolding.

Alarmed, Phoebe dragged her next to the hearth. “What’s wrong? Has something happened?”

A hard shiver racked the girl’s thin body. “Leya woke up really sick. Her skin feels just as hot as a fire brick and she’s puking her guts out. She’s too sick even to cry, Phoebe. She just lies there whimpering.” Izzy stared at Phoebe, her face pale with the cold, and a stricken look in her huge blue eyes. “She needs you. I know she does. Will you come back with me? You have to come.”

Fear chilled Phoebe to her soul. Babies died of fevers; it happened all the time. “Did your father send to Swansford for the doctor?”

“Yes. But Leya needs
you
. You’re the only one that can make her better.”

“I’m sure the doctor will know what to do,” Phoebe said, trying to console both Izzy and herself.

But Izzy was adamant. “You made her well before. You have to come right now. Hurry. Get your cloak and boots.”

“All right, we’ll go. But first you need a hat and gloves. Helen, find something of yours for her.”

Once bundled up they made the three-mile distance in record time and with no complaints from Helen. It began to sleet as they started down the last hill, but the vigorous half-walk, half-run kept them warm. Izzy hurried them in through the kitchen, then up the servants’ stairs to the nursery where the housekeeper stood in the hall, issuing orders to two maids.