Farley. Not the offer he’d made her, but the man himself.
She let out a huge, frustrated sigh. Lord Farley. Viscount Farley. James Lindford.
James.
“James.” She tested the name out loud. Thunder rumbled its long, low answer.
Annoyed by her foolishness, she twisted around to her opposite side, and tried to punch up her ancient feather pillow. She was not going to think of him as anything but Lord Farley, principal landowner in these parts and a man whom a woman like her absolutely could not weave any fanciful dreams around.
On the other hand, would it really hurt to think about him that way? Not act on it, of course. Only, perhaps, to daydream about him—or rather, a man like him.
She sighed. She was twenty-four years old and for the past eight years she’d been as responsible as any housewife, tending to aging parents, to her sister’s abandoned baby, and to the farm and its myriad chores. The only thing she hadn’t done was tend to a husband’s needs.
Nor had she had a husband to tend to hers.
She shivered, a hot little quiver that had nothing to do with the cold, damp night. What did a husband do for his wife, beyond the obvious, of course?
She understood the mechanics of sex and procreation. From everything she’d seen of dogs and chickens, goats and even cattle, it looked none too pleasant for the female of the species.
Her mother certainly had made it sound horrid, with all sorts of dire consequences: a man could ruin a woman, but not vice-versa; he had his way with you, and a woman had to do her duty. She suffered the pain of the marriage bed. Then came the pain of childbearing, the sickness and backaches and fear. And never forget how many women died upon the birthing bench.
There were a hundred reasons to resist the temptations of lust, and Phoebe’s mother had preached every single one of them.
But then, Emilean Churchill’s life had been ruined by lust. Louise was the one who’d discovered the source of their mother’s bitter discontent, thanks to the village gossips. It seemed their mother had been the only child of the younger daughter of a baron’s brother. That much they’d already known. Though Emilean’s connection to the peerage was not close, she’d been raised a lady and had expected to marry well.
But a handsome farmer’s son had turned her head—though it was hard for Phoebe to picture her taciturn father either young or handsome. Nevertheless, in a moment of youthful indiscretion, Emilean’s life had been forever altered. Forced to wed, she’d moved with her new husband into his parents’ small cottage on Plummy Head, a refined and educated young lady living what she considered the coarse life of a rural peasant.
Of course, the Churchills weren’t peasants. They’d owned their farm free and clear since the Civil War. But to Emilean, they’d been peasants and she’d never bent enough to see them any other way. Her life’s goal since then had been to marry her daughters to men of better society than her own husband. So she’d adhered to the strictures of her own childhood and applied herself to the education of her girls with a vengeance. No rule was too minor to be ignored, no infraction too insignificant not to require prompt punishment.
And no young man was allowed anywhere near her daughters. Lustful, deceitful villains all. That’s how she saw them.
Phoebe had tried hard to please her mother, and for a while so had Louise. But Louise had swiftly grown too beautiful to escape the notice of the local young men. With her lush figure and mane of golden hair, she’d attracted men like the beacon fires on the coast attracted smugglers.
The more they’d come around, the harder Emilean had preached, and the wilder Louise became. Phoebe had been fourteen when her sister ran off with a ship’s captain, and sixteen when Louise returned to deliver a tiny infant into her mother’s care.
That’s when the bleakness had settled in earnest upon the Churchill
She let out a huge, frustrated sigh. Lord Farley. Viscount Farley. James Lindford.
James.
“James.” She tested the name out loud. Thunder rumbled its long, low answer.
Annoyed by her foolishness, she twisted around to her opposite side, and tried to punch up her ancient feather pillow. She was not going to think of him as anything but Lord Farley, principal landowner in these parts and a man whom a woman like her absolutely could not weave any fanciful dreams around.
On the other hand, would it really hurt to think about him that way? Not act on it, of course. Only, perhaps, to daydream about him—or rather, a man like him.
She sighed. She was twenty-four years old and for the past eight years she’d been as responsible as any housewife, tending to aging parents, to her sister’s abandoned baby, and to the farm and its myriad chores. The only thing she hadn’t done was tend to a husband’s needs.
Nor had she had a husband to tend to hers.
She shivered, a hot little quiver that had nothing to do with the cold, damp night. What did a husband do for his wife, beyond the obvious, of course?
She understood the mechanics of sex and procreation. From everything she’d seen of dogs and chickens, goats and even cattle, it looked none too pleasant for the female of the species.
Her mother certainly had made it sound horrid, with all sorts of dire consequences: a man could ruin a woman, but not vice-versa; he had his way with you, and a woman had to do her duty. She suffered the pain of the marriage bed. Then came the pain of childbearing, the sickness and backaches and fear. And never forget how many women died upon the birthing bench.
There were a hundred reasons to resist the temptations of lust, and Phoebe’s mother had preached every single one of them.
But then, Emilean Churchill’s life had been ruined by lust. Louise was the one who’d discovered the source of their mother’s bitter discontent, thanks to the village gossips. It seemed their mother had been the only child of the younger daughter of a baron’s brother. That much they’d already known. Though Emilean’s connection to the peerage was not close, she’d been raised a lady and had expected to marry well.
But a handsome farmer’s son had turned her head—though it was hard for Phoebe to picture her taciturn father either young or handsome. Nevertheless, in a moment of youthful indiscretion, Emilean’s life had been forever altered. Forced to wed, she’d moved with her new husband into his parents’ small cottage on Plummy Head, a refined and educated young lady living what she considered the coarse life of a rural peasant.
Of course, the Churchills weren’t peasants. They’d owned their farm free and clear since the Civil War. But to Emilean, they’d been peasants and she’d never bent enough to see them any other way. Her life’s goal since then had been to marry her daughters to men of better society than her own husband. So she’d adhered to the strictures of her own childhood and applied herself to the education of her girls with a vengeance. No rule was too minor to be ignored, no infraction too insignificant not to require prompt punishment.
And no young man was allowed anywhere near her daughters. Lustful, deceitful villains all. That’s how she saw them.
Phoebe had tried hard to please her mother, and for a while so had Louise. But Louise had swiftly grown too beautiful to escape the notice of the local young men. With her lush figure and mane of golden hair, she’d attracted men like the beacon fires on the coast attracted smugglers.
The more they’d come around, the harder Emilean had preached, and the wilder Louise became. Phoebe had been fourteen when her sister ran off with a ship’s captain, and sixteen when Louise returned to deliver a tiny infant into her mother’s care.
That’s when the bleakness had settled in earnest upon the Churchill
Similar Books
