Rexanne Becnel (25 page)

He hadn’t said he loved her.

She swallowed hard. She wouldn’t let that be a requirement to accepting his proposal. She was too practical to expect him to love her. But she wanted him to. Desperately.

Did he still love Catherine?

The very thought turned her cold. Surely he couldn’t. But she had to know. “What about Lady Catherine? Aren’t you already betrothed to her?”

His eyes narrowed and a small furrow appeared between his brows. “Not for long.”

That should have cheered her, but it didn’t. He discarded women so easily. “Not for long?” She pursed her lips, afraid to hear the answer to her next question. “And how long shall you remain betrothed to me?”

One side of his mouth curved up in a knowing grin. “Not for very long at all.”

Somehow Phoebe managed to drag her utterly spent and naked self up from the floor and into her dressing gown. James remained where they’d lain, stretched out on his side upon the rug, watching her jerky movements. His front side was still damp from their watery frolic, and he had the sultriest, knowing expression in his heavy-lidded eyes.

“You haven’t given me an answer, Phoebe.”

“To what?” As if she didn’t know!

“Will you marry me?”

She ducked her head and fiddled with the ties meant to hold her dressing gown closed. “Marry you? Or be betrothed to you?”

He rolled on to his back. “We can skip the betrothal and go straight to the marriage, if that’s what you prefer. Of course, I’ll have to obtain a special license so that we don’t have to announce the banns.” He broke off when he spied her gaping expression. “What? You don’t think I have the wherewithal to obtain a special license?”

“You…You really mean it?”

“Of course. There are a few benefits to being a viscount, and one of them is that I know people who can do me favors.”

“No, no. I mean about marrying me.”

He sat up, staring at her. With his open shirt and disheveled appearance, he might have been the bailiff she’d once wished he was, attainable for a woman like her. She swallowed hard. But maybe he
was
attainable. He certainly sounded sincere.

“Of course I meant what I said. Why else would I say it? Wait a minute. Did you actually think that when I said I wouldn’t be betrothed to you for long that I meant I would propose to you with the intent later to break off the betrothal?”

“You’re planning to break your betrothal with Lady Catherine,” Phoebe said, a trifle defensively. “And before, in London, she broke it off with you.”

“But I’m breaking off with her so that I can marry you.” He rose to his feet.

“But why?” Phoebe wrapped her arms around herself, afraid to believe him. If she let her hopes rise and then had them dashed, she wasn’t certain she could bear it. “I’ve already agreed to be governess to your daughters, and it’s obvious you can make me act your mistress no matter how noisily I protest.” She blushed, but forged on. “Are you offering for me because you’re afraid I might marry someone else?”

“Partly.” He stepped forward; she stepped back. “But that’s not the whole reason.”

“You don’t want to share me. Is that it?”

His jaw tightened and the muscle there throbbed. “I’ll never share you with any man, Phoebe Churchill. Never.”

“Well, if we are ever to become man and wife, I refuse to share you either. What do you think of that?”

Comprehension dawned in his eyes, comprehension and a shadow of guilt. “You’re thinking about my past. But that’s over with, and anyway, this is different.”

“How can I be sure? How can
you
be sure? After all, I know I’m at least the fifth woman for you.” Her mind rebelled at the thought. “But I could just as well be the fifteenth.” Her hands tightened into fists. “Or the fiftieth.”

The guilt in his eyes deepened. “I wish I could undo my past, Phoebe. But I can’t. All I can say is that you overestimate my appeal. All those other women—” He lifted his hands, then let them fall to his sides. “Yes, I pursued them. I’ve always pursued what I wanted, including you. But I never lied to any of them. They always knew my intentions. I’ve only proposed twice in my life. Once to Catherine, and now to you.”

She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe every single word. But it seemed the nearer she came to having some part of this man, the more parts she wanted of him. At one point she’d been happy to be his mistress. Then she’d wanted marriage. She still wanted that. But now she wanted it with love. Love first, followed by marriage and lifelong fidelity.

The problem was, he didn’t love her. He wanted her, perhaps more than all the previous women he’d wanted, and she knew he liked her. He also thought her the best candidate to mother his children. But none of that was the same thing as love. She drew herself up. “If you had married Lady Catherine, would you have been faithful to her?”

She’d caught him by surprise with that question. He shoved his hands into his pockets, then turned and paced restlessly before the hearth. “I would have tried.”

Oh, God!
Phoebe threw her hands up in despair. “Tried? You would have tried?”

He looked up, frowning. “Yes. I would have tried. I’m being honest, Phoebe. Isn’t that what you want from me?”

“Honesty
and
fidelity.”

“I’ll be faithful to you.”

“Oh, really?”

“There’s a world of difference between you and Catherine.”

“Don’t remind me.” It was her turn to pace the short limits of the parlor.

“What does that mean?” He caught her by the arms, forcing her to face him. “What does that mean?”

At his touch, the last of her control collapsed. Like the opening of Pandora’s box, all her secrets and fears and doubts burst out to poison the air between them. “It means she’s beautiful and rich, with the right family. Everything I am not. I have no family connections; no experience with the peerage. I may have learned manners at my mother’s knee, but nothing to adequately prepare me for the duties attendant on becoming a viscountess.”

A viscountess.

While Phoebe had daydreamed about herself as James’s wife, not once had she imagined herself in the role of Viscountess Farley. The real possibility of it scared her witless.

That fast the tables of her emotions turned. She’d doubted his readiness to marry when it was she who was the one most unsuited to their union. Cold with fear, she shook her head. “I cannot accept your offer. I’m flattered of course, but…No. I can’t marry you.”

His grip tightened on her arms and he pulled her nearer. “Yes you can. You will.”

“You don’t understand.” She bowed her head until her brow rested upon his chest. “I couldn’t possibly do it.”

She heard his harsh breathing; she felt the rise and fall of his chest against her forehead. “Tell me this: If I weren’t a viscount, would you marry me then?”

She drew in a long, shuddering breath. “I have wished that you were a bailiff,” she admitted in a low voice.

His chest began an odd, rhythmic shaking. It took her a long moment to understand. He was laughing at her! She raised her head. “It’s not funny! I would make a very good bailiff’s wife.”

“But you’ll make an even better viscountess.” With the tenderest touch he cupped one of her cheeks and smiled down into her unhappy face. “Maybe this might help to convince you. As I said before, I’ve proposed marriage twice in my lifetime. But one thing I’ve never done before is vow my love to anyone. Not until now.”

Now?

Not until now?

Phoebe wasn’t certain whether he’d actually said those words, or her poor, desperate mind had just imagined them.
Not until now.

“I love you. You, Phoebe.” His glittering blue eyes searched her face. “I can’t live without you. Haven’t I proven that over and over again? I’ve chased you down every time you tried to leave Farley Park. I need you there with me. You and no other. And if you won’t live with me there, then I’ll live with you here. Or we can go live in the bailiff’s cottage.”

One side of his mouth lifted in a crooked grin. “Don’t you see? I love you. Say you’ll marry me, love. I’m begging you. You’ll break my heart forever if you don’t.”

If she hadn’t seen the truth in his eyes, and felt the insistence in his hold, those simple words might not have been enough to make Phoebe believe him. But how could a woman possibly resist a man like this? His avowal was so urgent, so sincere, that tears sprang into her eyes. “You really do love me?”

“I love you.” He shook his head, as if he were as amazed by that fact as she. “I should have realized it sooner, and then told you the minute I knew. I’m an idiot, I know. But I do love you. And I’ll be lover, husband, viscount, or bailiff to you. Whatever you want me to be.”

When she still stared speechlessly up at him, he added, “And faithful. That I promise you above all else. My past…” He let out a long sigh and shook his head. “Maybe I was just waiting, practicing for the real thing. For you. It’s so clear now. I’ve been waiting my whole life to find you, Phoebe.”

A slow smile began to curve Phoebe’s mouth. He meant it. He really did. A happiness unlike anything she’d ever known radiated through her. But after all the torment he’d put her through, she didn’t want to give in too easily to the rogue.

“Practice?” she echoed, glancing at him askance. “Every one of them was just practice, you say. Well, I suppose, then, that the practice has paid off.” Staring straight into his eyes, she slowly wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. “You are rather good at convincing a girl to do whatever it is you want.”

His eyes had grown hot watching the teasing of her tongue, and she felt his body tense. To his credit, however, he wasn’t sidetracked by her sultry behavior.

“But have I convinced you to marry me?” he asked. “Have I convinced you that I love you?”

On the inside Phoebe might be trembling from the effort to restrain her bubbling joy, but her conviction was as solid as the granite ground beneath Plummy Head. “Yes.”

It was his turn to smile. He pulled her a little closer. “And you will marry me?”

She threw her arms around him. “Oh, yes.”

James felt the difference the moment he drew Phoebe against him. Although she had willingly admitted her love for him, she’d been reluctant to marry him, enough to have him terrified that she would turn him down. But the willingness he felt now in her embrace erased any worry he’d harbored. Like sunshine her love poured over him, heating through him in a way he’d never known. Their lovemaking had always been wonderful. She’d been willing and eager, giving totally of herself.

But what he felt now in the strong, feminine length of her was much more than that. He buried his face in the tangled dampness of her hair and inhaled. Essence of Phoebe. He could get drunk on it. He wanted to drown in it. Essence of Phoebe. Essence of love.

“There will never be anyone for me but you,” he murmured as unfamiliar tears stung his eyes.

“There better not be,” she said, lifting her lips to his.

He accepted the offer of her kiss and reveled in the excitement she roused in him. But as he lifted her high and carried her up the stairs to her bed beneath the roof rafters, he didn’t correct her misconception of his words. It wasn’t a promise he was making to her, that there would never be anyone else for him. It was a statement of fact, of comprehension, of personal revelation. He would never want anyone but her.

He hadn’t given up freedom or variety or even a political career when he vowed his love and fidelity. Instead he’d obtained everything he’d never had: contentment; satisfaction. Family.

Love.

The London Tattler
—
April 28

The torrid tale of Viscount Farley and his trail of broken hearts has taken an even more lurid turn. It appears the betrothal between the esteemed Lady Catherine and the rogue Lord Farley has not only been resumed, the marriage itself has already taken place. And in the barren wilds of Yorkshire, no less!

Lady Basingstoke is said to be prostrate with grief at the abruptness of the union. Likewise, Lord Basingstoke refuses to answer any inquiries about his daughter’s sudden reversal regarding the indiscreet viscount.

One hesitates to speculate on the reason for nuptials so hasty as to preclude the attendance of the bride’s family. But given the number of children previously fathered by Lord Farley, can there be any doubt?

The London Tattler
—
May 3

Even in a season replete with petty scandals and peccadilloes, the transgressions of some loom like mountains of sin over the foothills and errors of their compatriots.

I refer, of course, to the shameful conduct of Lord Farley. Bad enough that he toyed with the affections of that light of the season, Lady Catherine Winfield. Worse came the news that he rushed her into a marriage with out the consent of her devastated parents.

But the actual truth is so vile and unbelievable that the reader is to be forgiven for throwing down this paper in utter disbelief. Rest assured, the truth is as I write it. Lord Farley is indeed wed in a rushed country marriage rite—but not to Lady Catherine! He has wed a country nobody, a woman hired as his children’s governess, who previously worked as a dairymaid!

Yes, dear readers, the new Viscountess Farley is a crude local from the vicinity of his country seat. One wonders how many children the man has hidden in the northern wilds, and why at this late date he feels the necessity to wed a woman of that sort when he has refused to wed any of his previous inamoratas.

As for Lady Catherine, his supposed bride, it seems she, too, is wed in a hasty ceremony, but to the Honorable Kerry Fairchild, youngest son of the Earl of Sanderly. It goes without saying that her doubly distraught parents are in seclusion.

The London Tattler
—
May 19

Were it not for my faithful readers’ right to know the truth, this correspondent would throw his pen and paper away, despairing of the selfish willfulness of the younger set. How is Mother Britain to prosper in the hands of this pleasure-seeking generation who flaunt every precept of good society? Marrying without parental approval may do for the common folk, but it seriously undermines the English tradition of consolidating power in the most capable hands.

It appears, sadly, that some of the older generation are not immune to this infection of disloyalty to tradition. I refer, of course to the news that Lord and Lady Acton plan to host a wedding reception for her son, the widely reviled Lord Farley—he of the dairymaid wife.

I predict a spectacular disaster. Who of any note can desire an acquaintance with such a man and his necessarily coarse wife?

The London Tattler
—
May 21

Lady Basingstoke was seen at Madame Henri’s exclusive dress shop yesterday afternoon. According to sources not to be doubted, she was fitted for a magnificent gown to be worn when she greets her newly married daughter and son-in-law. One wonders about the desperation of a poor mother faced with either losing her beloved daughter to an impulsive marriage, or accepting the errant child with her poorly selected mate. While Mr. Fairchild boasts a fine family name, he is a far cry from the rich, titled fellow Lady Catherine might have claimed. Lord Basingstoke continues mum on the entire subject.

Meanwhile Lady Acton, mother of Lord Farley, is seen at the races, at Vauxhall Gardens, and at every breakfast, rout, and ball in town. Clearly she detects the animosity building toward her son and his goat-girl bride, and is trying to deflect it.

The London Tattler
—
May 24

My dearest readers, truth is now become stranger than fiction, and certainly more lurid. It seems that Lord and Lady Basingstoke have joined as hosts for the Acton party. Their daughter and her husband are traveling south with Lord and Lady Farley (and I use the term “lady” rather loosely in the latter case). Plans now are for both couples to be feted at the planned ball.

Though it pains me to say it (cover your eyes, you gentler of my readers) it makes one wonder what else the two couples do in tandem.

The London Tattler
—
May 30

Portman Square has become a crowd of tradesmen and servants preparing for the Acton fete. A steady stream of riders, carriages, and strollers also progresses past the ornate Acton manse, especially since the ill-matched couple is purported to be in residence. Could it be that voyeurism shall trump good sense, and draw those who should know better to attend an event designed to honor those who have no honor? Rest assured, dear readers, that should that be the case, your faithful correspondent will not fail to report on every aspect of that party, no matter the personal affront involved.

The London Tattler
—
June 1

Finally it can be said. The rumors of Lord Farley’s marriage to a goat girl were vastly overstated. The new Lady Farley, formerly Miss Phoebe Churchill, second cousin to Baron Kennington of Yorkshire, is a stunning woman, gracious despite the staring eyes of more than six hundred guests. As expected, Lady Catherine Fairchild, née Winfield, comported herself in the manner one has come to expect of such a winning creature.

The two brides wore complementary gowns: ivory and azure silk for Lady Catherine, cream and apple-green moiré for Lady Farley. Likewise the women displayed a friendliness that defied every attempt to see scandal in their association. They were often seen arm in arm circulating among their guests.

Not straying far from their sides, the two grooms appeared utterly in their element. It is with considerable relief that your correspondent notes a pleasant truth: It was plainly a love match that drove Lady Catherine so precipitously into a union with Mr. Fairchild. There can be no other conclusion.

As for Lord Farley and his bride, it can be assumed that his mother (the ageless, ever gracious Lady Acton) has taken the new Lady Farley well in hand, for her behavior at the crush was beyond reproach. Given Lord Farley’s past history, it remains to be seen how well he will behave in the future. And there is, of course, the question of his several children—there are now said to be three of them in residence with him and his new bride.

The London Tattler
—
June 2

Rotten Row is never easy to traverse, however yesterday it was an absolute snarl. The reason? The new Lady Farley and her husband’s three daughters were taking the air in her mother-in-law’s fabulous open phaeton while Lord Farley rode attendance. They attracted attention wherever they went, for it seems everyone who is anyone felt compelled to expound upon the crushing success of the party they hosted two days previously. Even your loyal correspondent was so moved.

The true reason for the extravagant attention, however, was the three little girls accompanying the newlyweds. Lady Farley held the dusky-skinned baby on her lap, and it was plain to one and all that true affection exists between the two. As for the older two, they are a curious pair of kittens, pretty little blond girls who look remarkably presentable given their unseemly beginnings.

At one point Lord Farley took the two older girls down to the water’s edge. It was then that Lady Farley informed her audience that her husband had arranged for her to legally adopt his daughters. An unusual arrangement to be sure. But as a former governess, she seems uniquely suited to the task.

Your correspondent finds it quite singular to see such generosity of spirit in so young a woman. No doubt Lady Farley will inject fresh life into the sometimes staid world of society.

Only one unpleasant incident marred the afternoon: Some light-fingered jackanapes picked my pocket. My pearl-handled knife, a gold watch, and one pound six were removed from my person during the crush around the Farley phaeton.

When a person cannot be safe, even in Hyde Park and surrounded by the
crème de la crème
of society, well, it is a sad day for Britannia. A sad day, indeed.

That’s all I have to say on the subject.