Rexanne Becnel (20 page)

Catherine went on. “I’ve given it considerable thought. The baby—she’s actually quite adorable and she could live with us while the other two attend school. If you wish them to eventually be presented into society, they will require far more instruction than their current governess can provide.” She paused. “I presume you do want the best for them.”

“Of course I do. But not right away. They need Ph—Miss Churchill. For now they need her.”

Catherine dipped her head in quiet acquiescence, then looked up. “So we are in agreement.” She smiled. “Father will be so pleased.”

James managed a smile back, and when she placed one small hand on his arm, so small as to appear childish, he automatically covered it with his much larger one. If Lord Basingstoke was pleased, then James should be pleased. It seemed his three-year goal of courting the man would come to fruition after all.

But James wasn’t pleased, not as he’d ought to be. When Catherine stood and apologized for interrupting his work, then took her leave, gliding away in that ethereal, floating manner of hers, he couldn’t return to his work.

Without actually saying the words they seemed to have resumed their betrothal. There were questions still to be answered, decisions to be made, and all the legal papers to be redrawn and re-signed. The gossips were sure to salivate over every bit of it. But he was getting what he wanted. That’s what mattered. He was back in the game. Once the marriage was done, the gossip would eventually fade away.

But what would his daughters think about this? What would Phoebe think?

He shoved the ledger book back from him, toppling over an Indian bronze of a tiger and its cub. It hit the carpeted floor with a dull thud, much like the sudden change of his circumstances had hit him. He’d just attained something he’d wanted a long time, something he’d lost, then anticipated regaining ever since Catherine arrived. But that something didn’t bring him the satisfaction he’d expected.

Just a dull thud.

Phoebe saw Kerry crossing the back verandah too late to avoid him. He started toward her at a jaunty pace, swinging his arms and whistling like a plowboy. Were the circumstances of their acquaintance different, she would enjoy his company immensely. He was pleasant and good-natured, with just enough devilment in him to be entertaining. All in all, excellent company. But he was too curious about her—about her and Lord Farley—and she feared he meant to dig and burrow until he discovered that which she could never allow him to discover.

Unwilling to subject herself to his inquiry, she hailed the girls, who were hanging over the edge of the fountain. “Helen. Izzy. Look who’s come to visit with you.” He’d become a great favorite of theirs, and as Phoebe predicted, their heads popped up and at once they started a foot race toward him.

Izzy won. “There are pollywogs in the fountain.” She grabbed him by one hand. “Come see.”

Helen shook her head. “It’s too early for pollywogs.” She grabbed Mr. Fairchild’s other hand. “They’re probably just little minnows or insect larva.”

Izzy shot her a withering look. “You don’t know everything.”

Mr. Fairchild waggled both their hands. “I’m afraid, though, that Miss Helen knows far more about the countryside than we city folk do, Izzy. It’s no use to argue with her when her knowledge is greater than ours.”

It was such a sweet scene, the normally timid Helen holding her ground while the usually irascible Izzy made a wry face, then conceded with a shrug. In her arms Leya jiggled and laughed, and Phoebe hugged her closer to her heart. Discovering they were sisters had been so good for Helen and Izzy. The little family they were forging had expanded both their horizons, and no doubt would continue to do so. For all Phoebe’s misgivings about the situation, she was absurdly happy to be a part of their newly blossoming lives.

“You might know a little more than me about country stuff,” Izzy said to Helen. “But if we ever go to London, I’ll be the one to teach you about everything.” Then she grabbed Phoebe’s elbow, dragging her back to the fountain with them. “Come and see. If we catch some of them in a jar of water, we can take them inside and see what they grow up to be.”

“Yes, indeed,” Mr. Fairchild said. “Insects or toads. Perfect indoor pets. The cats will enjoy the toads, I suppose. Batting them around. Eating them.”

“No!” Izzy said, while Helen made a loud chomping sound. They were a pleasant, laughing company, until Lady Catherine and Mrs. Donahue found them. At once Phoebe stiffened, Izzy scowled, and Helen retreated to her hesitant silence.

Lady Catherine didn’t seem to notice. Phoebe took in the woman’s beautiful sky-blue gown and perfect blond coiffure, which were set off by a collection of gold and aquamarine jewels she probably would dismiss as mere baubles. Phoebe’s mouth turned down on one side. Catherine was no doubt accustomed to bringing conversations to a crashing halt whenever she made an entrance. She probably expected it.

“Good news,” Mrs. Donahue announced, beaming at her younger friend. “Grand news.”

“Indeed?” Mr. Fairchild said. Phoebe sensed rather than saw his good humor flee. “Pray, do not keep us in suspense. Or perhaps I can guess,” he added, an edge to his voice. “Might it have anything to do with viscounts and weddings?”

Lady Catherine averted her gaze, but her satisfied smile revealed the accuracy of his words.

Like taffy candy, Phoebe’s knees went weak. It was no more than she’d expected ever since the woman’s arrival. Had she hoped they wouldn’t eventually come to an agreement? Foolish girl. Foolish, foolish girl.

Mrs. Donahue laughed and clapped her hands. “Yes, a wedding, with a viscount—
and
a viscountess.”

Mr. Fairchild glanced at Phoebe, a hint of accusation in his gaze. How was any of this her fault? Then he gave Lady Catherine a grave bow. “My congratulations. Farley is a lucky fellow indeed. Very lucky. And where is the bridegroom anyway?”

“I just left him in his office, hard at work,” Lady Catherine said. “But I simply had to share my happy news with someone.” Her eyes fastened upon Phoebe who had yet to move or speak or even to blink. “My dear Miss Churchill, I will need your assistance in getting to know James’s children. I can count on you, can’t I?”

Then not even waiting for a reply, she turned to Mr. Fairchild and, hooking her arm in his, started them back toward the house. “Come, I must tell the cook to prepare something festive for dinner tonight. And I need to pen a letter to my father about my good news. He shall be so pleased.”

It was all spiraling out of control. James stared out the window of his study, blind to the rolling, pastoral view. Over the course of three short months his life had lurched from one extreme to another. Betrothed, feted, and the toast of London society, he’d been so close to achieving his years-long goal. Then it had been yanked beyond his reach, the golden ring snatched back.

Now he had hold of it again, or he would once he and Catherine wed. If he was smart, he’d press for an early date, midsummer at the latest. That way he could salvage a small part of this year’s season.

He rubbed one hand over the back of his neck. The problem was, he didn’t want to go back to London. Not just yet.

His gaze focused on a pair of groundskeepers working along the driveway, then swept across the whole of his family estate. Farley Park was a handsome property. In the thirty years since his father’s death and his mother’s remarriage, he’d seldom visited the estate. But between the bailiff and his London solicitor, he’d seen that it was well managed. The income it produced was more than adequate to its upkeep, and the surplus had financed his many lengthy sojourns abroad.

He hadn’t intended to reside here though, not until he was married and had sired a son who would inherit the property. When he had arrived, it had been under duress, with his personal life an unholy mess, and no real plan for his future.

Had it only been a month since he’d retreated from London? It felt like years ago. He could hardly remember his life before Leya and Izzy—and now Helen.

And Phoebe.

He needed to speak with Phoebe.

No. He needed to do more than speak with her. He needed time alone with her, without the threat of interruption either by children, servants, or anyone else. Phoebe felt uneasy around Catherine—which he understood. But he also got the sense that Catherine didn’t particularly approve of Phoebe, which he didn’t understand. You’d think Catherine would be happy to have some other woman tending to his children.

He supposed women were competitive in different ways than men. Nevertheless, he needed to reassure Phoebe that, unlike what she’d once predicted, the lady of
this
house would not be making the decisions regarding his daughters’ governess. Phoebe’s position at Farley Park was absolutely secure.

But as James left the study, he was met by his guests in the hall. One thing led to another, and Catherine never let him out of her sight. The children took their tea in the schoolroom, and tonight would be dining there as well. “So we adults may celebrate our betrothal,” Catherine said when she told him the plans she’d made with the cook. “Miss Churchill said she understood and that she would sup with the children.”

She understood? James clenched his jaw. Bloody hell. If Phoebe understood about the celebration Catherine planned, that meant she’d already been told about the renewed betrothal. Probably by Catherine herself. Damn, but he’d hoped to reveal that tricky bit of news to her himself.

Not until dinner was over—three bottles of wine consumed among the four of them, and his patience at a raging end—was James able to bid his guests goodnight. He made straightaway for Phoebe’s third-floor bedchamber. Surely the children were asleep and would not disturb them. He eased open the door to her room. All was in darkness. “Phoebe?” He advanced to her bed. “Phoebe? Wake up. It’s James.”

She wasn’t there.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark he scanned the room, baffled. The bed was still neatly made. She must be with the children. Was one of them ill?

In the room they now shared, Izzy and Helen were curled together beneath a mountain of bedcovers. Tucked amid the folds and curves were the three kittens as well as Bruno, who snored like a miniature bellows. But no Phoebe.

In Leya’s room, however, he found the nurse’s cot occupied. Impatiently he crossed to her. “Phoebe.” He shook her by the arm. “Wake up. I need to talk to you.”

“What? Who?”

James jerked back when one of the downstairs maids sat upright. Her bleary eyes bulged with fright, and she clutched the blanket like a shield to her chest.

“Holy damnation,” he swore. “Where’s Phoebe?”

The girl blinked. “Who?”

Bloody hell, would nothing go right for him ever again? Somehow James restrained himself from shouting. “Where is Miss Churchill?”

“Miss Churchill? Why, she said…she said…” the girl stammered. “She said she was going home, milord. That’s right. Home.” She pulled the blanket even higher, then added in a shaky voice, “I believe she lives over to Plummy Head.”

He damn well knew where she lived. But why had she gone back there, and without telling him? James wanted to roar his frustration, to pound the wall or, better yet, put his fist through it. But the sleep-befuddled maid was staring at him as if he were a nightmare apparition. There was also Phoebe’s reputation to respect.

So he reined in the unholy rage that gripped him and crossed to Leya’s bed. The sight of her peaceful little face and the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest gave him pause. He tucked the blanket more securely around the sleeping cherub, then smoothed a hand over her silky head. Odd how the sight of her calmed him, how touching her seemed to connect him to Phoebe. But he wanted more than that vicarious connection. He wanted the real thing, to find her. Now.

“Keep up the good work,” he muttered to the maid, who’d not budged from her terrified pose upon the narrow bed. Did the ninny actually think he meant to accost her?

Once out of the nursery, however, James forgot about the maid. He had to find Phoebe.

He caught up with her where the woods gave on to the field, then angled up toward her house. Off the sea the wind chased the strands of clouds and mist away, leaving the moon to light a chilly, colorless scene. Phoebe looked small in the vastness of the darkened landscape, like a lonely wraith wandering an inhospitable land that once had been a happy home to her.

But it was ruined now, and it was all his doing. The worst of it was that he couldn’t undo it, not without either giving up Helen or giving up Phoebe. Even then it wasn’t that simple. For Helen wasn’t only a part of him; she was also Izzy’s sister and Leya’s, and the three little girls belonged together. Family, even one as messy and disjointed as theirs, was not something to give up without a fight.

He’d bet money that Phoebe felt the same way.

He reined in his blowing horse and watched as Phoebe hurried toward the hunkering shadow in the distance that was her cold, empty house. She walked the land without fear or hesitation. She probably knew every rock in the path, every dip and curve of rocky ground. This was her home, her life—or what he was leaving of it to her.

But no matter how badly she thought he’d ruined her life, he had to make it right. Somehow he had to try to make it right. So he spurred his horse forward from the edge of the woods, never taking his gaze from her.

He could tell when she first heard the thunder of hooves. She halted and turned, one hand to her throat, searching the dark. When she spied him, she stumbled back two paces. But she held her ground. She knew it was him. Who else could it be?

Phoebe waited for James at the stone wall, fighting for calm against a riot of emotions. She needed distance from him, that’s why she’d needed to come home tonight. So why did her heart leap to know he’d followed her? The crushing wall of tears she’d fought and defeated rose now in absurd relief and gladness. He’d come for her!

But she had to turn him away.

When he brought his animal to a plunging halt not an arm’s length from her, she tilted her chin up. “Go home to your fiancée, Lord Farley. There is nothing for you here.”

He threw himself from the saddle with such violence his horse shied away. “You’re here,” he countered. And with that he caught her to him, as fiercely as a Gypsy thief bent on ravishing her.

“No—” She twisted and fought, furious at this newest example of his arrogant, high-handed behavior.

“Listen to me, Phoebe. That’s all I want. Just hear me out—”

“No!” She turned away from the heat of his breath on her cold cheek. She tried to kick his shins, and to pry herself from the bear hug of his hold.

But he was too strong and too determined. With her arms trapped between them and her toes barely skimming the ground, she felt as helpless as a trout in one of her nets. She’d had every reason to be wary of him, yet still she’d unwisely taken the lure he’d dangled before her. There was no escaping the consequences now.

She wanted to scream her frustration, to revile him with her fury and her outrage. With her pain. How could he hurt her this way, deep in her heart where she was most vulnerable? How could she have let him close enough to do so?

“Be still, sweetheart.” His embrace, though adamant, managed not to be cruel. He shifted her, sliding her down his hard belly and chest, until her feet found purchase. But it was the odd friction of wool on wool with warm bodies just beneath that resonated to her more than the pebbled ground beneath her boot soles.

“Phoebe,” he murmured in a voice that vibrated through her, husky and warm. And as fast as her name disappeared into the night, so did he suck all the opposition from her.

“Phoebe.” His gloved hand cupped her face; she felt the seams of supple leather caress her cheek. What she wanted, though, was flesh. Warm, naked flesh.

But the only uncovered portion of them was their faces. Like a being separated from herself, her head swiveled. Her sheltering eyelids lifted and her gaze fastened upon his clever, mobile lips.

That’s what she wanted. His lips upon hers, that spiraling heat that turned her blood to lava, swamped every one of her senses, and pushed everything else out of her mind. She didn’t want to think, not about anything.

For a moment only they were suspended between what they wanted and what they should want. On some level Phoebe sensed that he, too, hesitated. But then a rogue wind whipped her skirts against his legs. It tore her bonnet away and freed her hair to the tumult of the gusty night. His hand slid into her hair, his fingers curled into the tangles, and his mouth came down upon hers.

Lightning struck, not from the sky, but from the stormy center of her. Clean, hot lightning, surging with electric heat to meld them as one, to burn all but desire out of them.

“Don’t run away from me,” he said, a guttural command on her seeking mouth.

No. I won’t,
she answered with all the force of her yearning body. In this, at least, they were in utter agreement. He demanded the use of her mouth and she demanded that he use it well. Mouth and tongue; friction, invasion, and possession. She invaded him back, thrusting her tongue into his mouth in a rhythmic give-and-take that mirrored the other give-and-take she wanted.

A greedy moan vibrated between them. His or hers? One of his hands slid down to cup her derriere, pressing her to the ridge of his hardened male flesh. Her hands slid inside his open coat and circled his waist. He was so hot and so hard. Everywhere. He was muscle over bone, and all of it focused on her.

He moved his mouth to her ear, then her throat, nuzzling past the collar of her coat and dress. She felt the hard nip of his teeth, but instead of pain, it shot an arrow of intense desire to the churning place in her belly. As if it were a real caress on her nether lips, moisture rose inside her. Liquid want. Lust.

Lust. Phoebe struggled for logic and for breath.

“This…This isn’t the answer. It solves nothing,” she said, pulling her hands from inside his waistcoat. She pressed her palms against his chest and tried to push away from him. But he wouldn’t release her.

“It solves one thing,” he said. “It eases one pain. It scratches one itch. You feel that itch, don’t you, Phoebe?” He caught her bottom lip between his teeth, not biting her, but tugging on it, teasing her with this possibility of a kiss until all she wanted was the fullness of his mouth on hers, the connection and invasion all over again.

It was the answer he sought.

“You see?” He pulled away just as she clutched him tight once more and arched greedily against him. Then without warning he scooped her up and, stepping over the squat stone wall, he strode across the yard to her cottage.

“Wait—”

“No.”

“Your horse—”

“Will be there in the morning.”

It was a maiden’s dream, to be swept away through the dark of night by a man intent on giving her more pleasure than she could rightly imagine. The wind to propel you on, the moon to light the way, the stars to wink their approval.

Though she knew James wouldn’t drop her, Phoebe clung to his neck and buried her face against his collar. She wanted this dream of stormy desire and fiery culmination, even though dawn would turn the dream to a nightmare of heartbreak and shame and despair.

He kicked open the door and, not bothering with the stairs, made for the settee and the square of moonlight that lit the carpeting before the cold hearth. He set her on her feet but did not let her go. Even in the inkiness of the house she felt the force of his eyes.

“Where are the flint and steel?”

A shiver ran through Phoebe, though not of coldness. “I’ll get them.”

He knelt beside her layering wood upon the cold hearth, and when her shaking hands couldn’t make a spark, he took over the task. A little fire, a pair of flickering candles. Then they faced one another, still dressed yet bared to one another in ways that terrified her. He knew her weaknesses. All of them.

No. Not all of them. She would never let him know that she loved him. That would be going too far.

She hugged her arms across her chest. Nor could she reveal how deeply his renewed betrothal had hurt her. For only a woman in love would feel betrayed by what he’d done. So she must be a woman
not
betrayed and
not
in love. Never in love. Only in lust.

He added several logs across the small, spitting flame, feeding it until its pale, yellow light drove the shadows back into the corners. Then he stood, shed his coat, and turned to her.

“Why did you leave without telling me?”

Phoebe lifted her chin, ignoring the tendrils of cold air on her neck that reminded her where his hot tongue had so recently trespassed. “I left a note on your chair in the morning room.” When he only stared at her, tall and commanding in her little parlor, she went on impatiently. “Tomorrow is Sunday, my day off.” Then, more angrily, “I have plans that don’t include you.”