Rexanne Becnel (18 page)

“Dining
en famille,
” Lady Catherine said, smiling benignly. “I’ve always thought suppers of this sort one of the most charming aspects of country life. It’s so pleasant an alternative to the more formal ritual of dining in town.” She turned her clear gaze on Phoebe. “But I’m sure, Miss Churchill, that you will also instruct Lord Farley’s children in the proper etiquette of formal dining.”

“Of course.”
To the limits that my own lack of knowledge can instruct them.
But Phoebe wouldn’t admit that out loud for the world. It was obvious to her that Lady Catherine meant to prove her own superiority to Phoebe, which superiority of knowledge Phoebe reluctantly must concede—but only to herself. Phoebe sent a speaking look to Helen and Izzy, then nonchalantly unfolded her napkin across her lap. Like little echoes, they did the same and, to Phoebe’s relief and pride, they continued to mimic her manners throughout the meal.

And what a long meal it became. The tight ship Mrs. Gatling had run had apparently gone aground in the several days since her dismissal. The leek soup came out in a timely manner, warm and fragrant and fairly tasty. But they waited fully fifteen minutes for Mr. Benson to pour the wine prior to the second course of pâtés being served. After the pâté came more wine, poured at an excruciatingly slow pace by the butler. Then came red mullet in cardinal sauce, served cold, though it wasn’t meant to be. Another interminable wait led to an oyster dish; a good while later roasted venison arrived with peas; and eventually the final course: a duck sitting in its own congealed fat, surrounded by salad and root vegetables.

Lady Catherine kept a serene smile on her face, earning Phoebe’s grudging respect. Phoebe could almost hear her mother’s voice: a true lady never notices any shortcomings in her host’s arrangement.

Her own expression was probably more like Mrs. Donahue’s, not nearly so calm and unconcerned. Before Phoebe went to bed tonight, she meant to detain Mr. Benson and make some very pointed suggestions about managing the staff. Meanwhile, had it not been for her competitive need not to be outdone by Lady Catherine, Phoebe was certain she would have stormed into the kitchen right then and there.

Fortunately Mr. Fairchild kept them entertained, enough so that the restless girls managed to make it through the meal, almost to dessert.

“My goodness,” Phoebe said when Helen could not stifle a huge yawn. “It grows late. If you will permit it, my lord, I believe the girls ought to take their dessert in the nursery.” She trailed off under his steady scrutiny. She’d avoided meeting his gaze as much as possible. Also Lady Catherine’s. That had left Mr. Fairchild and Mrs. Donahue, who sat opposite her. But now she faced James.

Lord Farley, she told herself. She needed to think of him as Lord Farley, not James. But it was hard, given the level of intimacy they’d shared.

“By all means, Miss Churchill. The girls are free to go. Good night, Izzy. Helen.” But when Phoebe stood to depart he said, “There’s no need for you to leave early.”

“I must see to the children.”

“They know how to find their own bedchambers.”

“Yes, but since I am their governess—”

“One of the maids will help them prepare for bed.”

“But what of their dessert?” A pathetic argument to be sure, but Phoebe was becoming desperate. Somehow the children’s presence in the dining room protected her. Once they left, however, her purpose here would suddenly seem suspect. The others might guess…

But James seemed determined to keep her here. “Mr. Benson will see their apple tarts delivered to the nursery,” he stated in a tone that brooked no disagreement.

Phoebe’s heart sank. It was one thing to dine in this company with the children beside her. They were her buffer, her security, her reason for being here. With them gone, she was thrust out on her own, an oddity, a country fowl among city peacocks.

Phoebe had never regretted her lack of funds so profoundly as she did now. Why, Lady Catherine’s dress alone would pay all her bills for a year at least. As for the value of the gold and amber necklace and earbobs that adorned the woman, they would probably see Phoebe into her old age.

But Lady Catherine was more than frothy salmon silk and sparkling gold and gemstones. For recognizing Phoebe’s distress, she laid a perfectly manicured hand
sans
glove on Lord Farley’s arm. “You must allow our Miss Churchill to govern the children as she deems best, James. If she feels she ought to accompany them, you must not overrule her.”

The words were said sweetly and in such ladylike tones as to not imply any real rebuke. That made them all the more difficult for Lord Farley to ignore. “Very well,” he conceded after a momentary hesitation.

But as Phoebe escaped the dining room with its rich fragrance of so many beeswax candles, instead of feeling victorious, she felt vanquished. Lady Catherine was the exact sort of woman a man like Lord Farley sought in a wife: beautiful, perfectly turned out, with impeccable manners and such grace, whether dealing with servants or a peer.

It only felt worse to acknowledge that Lady Catherine was also the precise image of what Emilean Churchill had wanted in a daughter. Louise had been beautiful; Phoebe had been dutiful; but neither of them had ever possessed the cool grace that Lady Catherine exuded.

Ahead of Phoebe on the stairs Izzy said, “I want to eat my dessert in bed.”

“No. You’ll make crumbs and stain the linens,” Phoebe said as they climbed to the third floor.

“Bruno will lick them up,” Helen said.

“And there’s a washerwoman to clean the linens,” Izzy pointed out.

When Phoebe didn’t respond, the girls scampered ahead of her, leaving her to trudge heavily after them. A washerwoman, the upstairs maid, the cooks—she ticked off the staff, one for every step on the long run of stairs. The butler, the downstairs maids, the footmen. The groomsmen, the stable master, the gardeners. More staff than she’d ever considered, people waiting on you hand and foot, and someone assigned to every task. Louise was right. Helen would be raised with every comfort and every privilege.

The part of Phoebe that was small and mean-spirited took a nasty sort of comfort that chaos presently reigned at Farley Park despite all these people employed to run the house. But she knew it was only because no one was in charge of the staff anymore.

Though it was not her place to step in to rectify matters, neither was it in Phoebe’s nature to tolerate such disorganization when she knew full well she could correct it. She might never have managed servants before, but she knew how a household ought to run. Difficult servants could be taken in hand much like difficult live-stock—and difficult children.

Of course if she stepped in, she would be playing right into the viscount’s plan to make her an indispensable part of his household. For now, though, she chose to ignore that fact. So she helped the girls make their ablutions and don their nightgowns, then settled them in the bed they now shared, with two tarts apiece on plates propped upon their laps.

Two impromptu stories about three little fairy children who lived in the attics of an enormous house were all it took to see the girls sound asleep. Dousing the candles, Phoebe made her way to baby Leya’s room, and smiled down on the sleeping child. Leya was well on her way to recovery and soon would be chasing up and down the stairs and halls, exercising her newly discovered mobility.

Before then, however, Phoebe needed to make sure the floors of those halls were clean and mopped, and that the rest of the household functioned as it ought.

She returned downstairs to find the dining room dark and James and his guests retired to someplace else—which place Phoebe fully intended to avoid. Instead she sought the ancient butler in the kitchen, where he sat with several other members of the staff. They all looked up when she entered.

She folded her hands primly at her waist. “Lord Farley has suggested that you might need assistance in the management of his household until such time as he can hire a new housekeeper.”

Mr. Benson blinked in slow comprehension. Standing next to the enormous hearth, the cook shot the older man a fulminating look and muttered, “Thanks be.”

“Tomorrow,” Phoebe went on, “I’d like to meet with you, Mr. Benson, as well as you, Cook, and also the most senior of the housemaids.”

“There’s two,” the cook said sourly. “Sisters.”

“Sisters?”

The other servants sent the cook cautionary looks, as if to say, watch what you reveal to an outsider. But the stout woman ignored them. “Yes, two sisters who’ve been with the family for years, and who disagree on everything. Everything,” she emphasized.

When no one contradicted the disgruntled cook, Phoebe pursed her lips. She was beginning to understand. Sisters who disagreed on everything and who both probably aspired to the housekeeping position. This she could handle.

“Have them both join us, then. Eight o’clock in the housekeeping office.” Then she left, pleased with the way that had gone. Except that she didn’t know where the housekeeping office was. But it couldn’t be that hard to find.

Taking up a candle from a small table in the service hall, she went into the butler’s pantry, checking all the doors. She found the buttery, the pantry, and the linen storage, but no office. Closing a fourth door which led to a dusty, little-used storeroom, she turned, only to be startled by a looming shadow. James!

“Looking for someone? Dare I hope it is I?” he asked, advancing into the pale circle of light her candle offered.

Still startled, and with one hand on her throat, Phoebe said, “I…I was looking for the housekeeping office.”

“It’s here.” He indicated a short hall behind her. “I’ll show you.”

Like a fool she preceded him down the hall, a willing fool who couldn’t pretend not to know where that door really led.

Once in the compactly arranged office, he took the candle from her and set it upon the desk. “So, I take it you’ve decided to act as housekeeper for me?”

“Temporarily. Just for a few days, while you have guests. I…I thought but to ensure there are no more three-hour dinners and unanswered bells.”

He stared at her, a bemused smile on his face, as if he hadn’t expected that from her. With her stomach fluttering, Phoebe averted her gaze from his. “Well, perhaps I should go. I’ve arranged an early meeting here with the senior members of your staff.”

“Your staff now,” he corrected her. “But don’t leave yet, Phoebe. I haven’t thanked you properly for making this transition to Farley Park so easy for the girls.”

Phoebe tilted her chin up and gave him an even look. “Did I really have any other choice?”

He shrugged. “I’ve known a lot of women who would never consider putting their wishes second to the well-being of those girls. So yes, I think you did have a choice. Come now, Phoebe. Don’t pretend to be angry with me. You’re here; I’m here. There’s a lot to be said for the situation. Why not take advantage of the possibilities that presents?”

So saying, he advanced across the small office, unhurried, nonthreatening. Yet Phoebe felt as if the stability of her whole world was under assault. Everything she knew and relied on had been threatened by this man’s entrance into her life. But instead of running away from him, she chose perversely to run straight to him.

He took hold of each of her arms and slowly, inexorably drew her to him. “I wanted to do this all evening,” he murmured just before his lips met hers. “This and so much more.”

Phoebe had been wanting to kiss him too, no matter how much she tried to deny it. She’d wanted him to stand up at the dinner table, in front of his children, his friend, and most especially, his fiancée, and take her, Phoebe Churchill, in his arms and make love to her. To declare that she was his choice, no other, and to send everyone else away so that he could prove his love to her.

Such perverse thoughts. So sinful! But lust had turned her into a wanton creature, and love had driven the last vestige of logic right out of her head. So she accepted his kiss. She rose to it and gloried in the masculine invasion. Behind her the door closed. Ahead of her heat and passion beckoned. All she had to do was allow it to happen.

But they were in the housekeeping office. Worse, there were servants still about.

“Wait.” She gasped out the word against his lips.

He shifted her up so that she sat upon a records cabinet. Then he leaned into her, and used his hips to press her knees apart. “No one will disturb us here.”

“But Mr. Benson might hear us—”

“He’s half deaf.”

“There are the others—”

“Who are all seeking their own beds.”

Sure enough, the sound of muffled voices carried from the hall. “G’night, then.”

“See you in the morning.”

Footsteps faded away, and Phoebe’s fears began to ease. Then a step sounded nearer, and she tensed. Someone had stopped just outside the door to the tiny office. A low-pitched laugh carried to them.

“Why, Robert!” A young female voice giggled this time. “You wicked thing, you.”

“C’mon, Peg. Give a good lad a toss, why don’t you?”

“You’re hardly a good lad,” the girl protested, but with the sound of yes in her voice.

Robert chuckled and then something bumped against the wall, and someone gasped. “Oh, but I am a good lad, Peg. Very, very good.”

Phoebe heard little else, only more bumping and heavy breathing. But it was plain what was happening in the shelter of the little hall behind the door. This Robert and Peg were making love!

Phoebe looked up at James, his face but inches from hers. A sultry light glittered in his eyes, sultry and dark, and clear in its intent. His hands moved from her waist to her knees, sliding her best skirt and prettiest petticoats up to bare her cotton stockings, her ribbon garters, and her naked thighs.

His hands were so hot and burning. Overcome by the wickedest sensations, Phoebe fell back against the wall.

“You’re delicious,” he said, staring down at the darker skin of his hands upon her pale flesh. “Delicious to touch.” His clever fingers pushed higher, moving beneath the bunched fabric.

“They’ll hear you,” she warned. But it was a weak protest, and if anything, it emboldened him.

“Delicious to taste,” he went on as his gaze moved up to her mouth. With torturous restraint he bent to kiss her, and as his mouth captured hers, his palms slid higher still. His tongue possessed her mouth while one of his fingers possessed the seething center of her.

She cried out and arched against him, then turned her face away and clamped her lips shut. They would be discovered.

“Do you hear them?” he whispered hotly in her ear as his finger drew in and out of her. “Do you think he’s doing this to her?” He made a deep, circular movement with his finger.

Phoebe’s head thrashed back and forth. She was afraid to speak, afraid to groan, afraid to do anything but sit here, a boneless heap, and revel in the erotic sensations he roused in her. Beyond the door the faint rhythmic bumping increased, with muffled grunts accompanying it, and muffled gasps.

“Sounds as if they’ve already moved on to the main course,” James murmured. “The feast.” So saying, his hands glided around to her buttocks and slid her forward, to the edge of the cabinet. He lifted her legs to circle his hips, an action that felt utterly right to Phoebe. Then with a deft manipulation of the front of his breeches, he released his erection. With unerring swiftness he found the slick, demanding center of her. Found her and buried himself deep within her.

“Oh!” Phoebe breathed out the word while clutching at his shoulders. Her head fell back as he thrust again into her, certain and deep, a simple movement that nonetheless felt absolutely essential to her continued existence.

“Oh. Oh.” Her moans became a breathy chant as he pulled her over and over to him. The movements were small but ferocious, made more urgent and powerful by their restraint. In a mad rush, on the housekeeper’s record cabinet, with a housemaid and a footman echoing their behavior just beyond the door, he made love to her, and when the madness overtook her, she bit down on her lip to repress her scream.

“Damn,” he swore against her neck as she clenched and clenched in involuntary spasms around him. “Damn!” Then he stiffened, raising her right off the cabinet top.

Phoebe clung to him, arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, legs fastened desperately about his hips. He jerked and thrust and spent himself in her, and she didn’t want it to end. They were joined, made one. To pull apart now seemed impossible.

Then a sharp cry from the hallway returned her rudely to reality. The man swore in a breathless voice. “Criminy, but you’re one fine bit of ass, Peg.”

The woman giggled. “As are you.”

Then a rustle of cloth, footsteps fading away, and Phoebe’s world came back into focus.

James sat her down on the cabinet and pulled away. But though she slid back from him, disentangling arms and legs and skirt from their carnal embrace, he didn’t entirely let her go. His arms were braced against the wall behind her, trapping her there, just as his hips trapped her with legs still apart, a most vulnerable position for a woman. She was fully clothed yet fully available to him—and not just physically. She averted her eyes as she struggled to control her breathing and control her expression. But Phoebe suspected he knew exactly how vulnerable her emotions were to him.

“Phoebe.”

Slowly she lifted her gaze to find his vivid eyes boring into hers. The candle flickered behind him, casting his face in shadows. But she fancied she saw his eyes clearly, burning blue and midnight black.

“This is why I wanted you in a chamber well away from the children’s wing.”

Phoebe nodded. “Yes. I know. But…But was this so terrible?” she asked, shocked by her unexpected boldness.

He grinned. “No.” He pressed a fervent kiss to her mouth, one that reignited every fire he’d just quenched within her. “Not so terrible at all,” he said, once she was again melting for him. “But I’d prefer to make love to you as you deserve, in a big, deep bed where we can thoroughly exhaust ourselves on each other. You have to change bedchambers as soon as you can. Tomorrow,” he emphasized.

“But the girls need me nearby. At least Helen does.”

“I need you too.”

She stared at him, moved by his words. Yet she hungered still for more. Why couldn’t he love her?

Because he loves Lady Catherine,
her mother’s voice came chillingly to her.
Because men never love the women who give themselves away like sluts.

Once more Phoebe averted her gaze, and after a moment he pushed away from the wall. There was an awkward silence as they adjusted their clothing. She started to slide down from the cabinet, but he helped her with a warm grip on her waist. He didn’t immediately release her.

“This is not the way I planned it to be, Phoebe.”

She straightened her shoulders and suppressed any self-pitying thoughts. “You needn’t apologize to me, for I’ve never had any expectations of you.”

He frowned. “None?”

She shook her head. “I’m not a simpleton, Lord Farley. I know what my place is within your household, and I know how this ultimately shall play out.”

“Do you?”

“I do. So you needn’t make apologies for what we both participate equally in.”

“It wasn’t meant as an apology.”

“Good.” She sidled out of his embrace and on shaky legs moved to the door. “It’s awfully late and I’ve arranged an early appointment with the senior staff.”

He watched her with eyes which had been so clear and direct, but now were dark and shuttered. “Fine. I don’t suppose you want me to walk you to your bedchamber.”

A little tremble coursed through her, a perverse longing to have him walk her there and accompany her inside, then lie down and make love to her again, and afterward sleep naked in her arms, and her in his. It was utter madness. She wasn’t certain people did such things. But she wanted to do it. With him.

“No.” The word sounded strangled and none too convincing. She cleared her throat. “No. I don’t think that would be wise.”

“After you then.” He gestured to the door. “I’ll wait here a few minutes before I leave.”

She nodded and left, but her legs threatened to collapse the whole long traipse up the stairs. On the second level candles burned in the hallway. Somewhere on this floor Lady Catherine slept. Phoebe didn’t want to think about her, but she couldn’t drive the other woman’s image away. One day when James married Lady Catherine, he would do with her what he had just done with Phoebe.

Perhaps he already had done as much—

A little cry escaped her throat, and distress lent strength to her legs. She hurried up the last flight, the candle flame wavering fitfully. In the shadows of her bedchamber she hastily disrobed and made her chilly ablutions. Then donning her well-worn night rail, she slid between the icy sheets and stared up at the plaster ceiling.

She’d made her choice; it would be foolish to regret it now. Nor would she allow herself to envision a fanciful future that bore a closer resemblance to a child’s fairy tale than to the reality of her life. She was no cinder girl raised up from the scullery by a beloved prince. At the moment she was the willing mistress of a viscount, that was all.

That some might consider her situation quite an accomplishment for a goat girl afforded her little comfort. The hopeless truth was that she wanted to be the cinder girl and have the prince love her and marry her and pledge eternal fidelity to her. She wanted the fairy tale.

A sob caught in her throat, but ruthlessly Phoebe fought it down. She would not cry over what she could not have. She’d never been the weepy sort; she wouldn’t become one now.

Tea was served in the second parlor promptly at four o’clock, attended by James’s guests and his older girls, both washed, combed, and handsomely outfitted. Luncheon had occurred with similar timeliness, a simple repast to be sure: roast chicken, a thick, warming, vegetable soup, and freshly baked rolls. But the food was good and, equally important, it was hot.

“What a difference a day makes,” Kerry remarked as he bit into a sugared roll smeared with butter and plum jam. “Mmm. Or perhaps I should say, what a difference one woman makes.”

James didn’t rise to the bait, which, judging by his friend’s avid gaze, was what that comment was.

Sitting beside Kerry, Catherine was not so observant. “A good servant is indeed an invaluable commodity to any household. She makes life so much more pleasant.”

“Indeed,” Kerry said. “
So
much more pleasant.”

James shot him a warning glare, only to be met by the most innocent expression.

“Where is our Miss Churchill anyway?” Kerry went on. He looked at the girls, who were working a puzzle on a low table near the hearth. “Izzy, Helen. Why didn’t Miss Churchill accompany you to tea?”

“She told us she had to go down to the kitchen,” Izzy said as she fitted a piece in the border of the puzzle. “Something about the maids.”

“Although a governess is perfectly acceptable at tea, a housekeeper is not,” Lady Catherine commented as she set her tea down.

James sent her a sharp look. At least she was making an effort with his children. But even so, her remark irritated him. “Miss Churchill is the girls’ governess and Helen’s aunt,” he said. Catherine might not appreciate the reminder, but she’d better get used to it. “We’re doubly in her debt since she has agreed to act as housekeeper until I can find a replacement.”

Kerry straightened up, then patted Catherine’s arm as if to lessen the force of James’s reprimand. He shot James a speaking look. “So, why did the previous housekeeper leave?”

Tamping down his annoyance, James said, “I discharged her when I realized she was a humorless, coldhearted—” He broke off. “Let’s just say that she wasn’t very good around children.”

“Come take your tea,” Lady Catherine called out to the girls. She smiled in approval when the pair shared a look, then rose and marched obediently to her and accepted the cups she’d poured for them. She nodded when they carried their cups back to their table without rattling or sloshing tea into their saucers. Then she turned to James. “Miss Churchill is obviously very good with children.”

Izzy smiled over at them, but it was a smile that didn’t reassure James at all. “Miss Phoebe is a wonderful person and the best lady I ever met,” the girl said. She glanced at James as if to be sure he got the message, then picked up her teacup again, sticking her little finger straight out as she sipped.

“Yes, she is,” James agreed. “And you, apparently, are a very good student.”

Izzy ignored him, as was her usual wont. Despite improvements in every other aspect of her bearing, the girl’s frosty attitude toward him hadn’t eased a bit. It frustrated him to no end. Why did she hate him so? If not for that, a casual observer would never guess that two months ago she’d been ratting the streets, begging, thieving, and living by her wits. Today she looked like a perfect little lady, dressed in a blue frock with white collar and cuffs, white stockings, and gleaming black shoes. Her shiny hair was clean and brushed, caught in a tortoiseshell barrette on each side. Though uncurled, it was thick and pretty, and recently trimmed of its ragged ends.

In short, Izzy looked every bit as pretty as Helen, save for that mulish glint in her eyes. But despite the war of wills he and she still fought, he had to admire the child. She might be a brazen, hard-nosed little thing, but no one would ever take advantage of her or her sisters, not if she had anything to do with it.