cottage. The bleakness and shame and silence.
Again Phoebe shivered and rolled to her other side. She pulled the heavy wool blanket up to her chin. The problem was, despite her mother’s bitter denunciation of men and their vulgar, lustful ways, Phoebe had heard enough talk from other sources to know that some women enjoyed the company of men. Her sister obviously did. On her last visit Louise had dropped all sorts of hints about the private goings-on between men and women, laughing at Phoebe’s shocked blushes and embarrassed curiosity.
Just to remember Louise’s ribald stories started the knot in Phoebe’s stomach churning, sending a wave of heat through her. She turned over again and thrust the blanket down from her chest. Unfortunately, it wasn’t only Louise’s frank words that were heating her; rather, it was Lord Farley. Lord Farley and her overactive imagination.
But why was she having such a foolish reaction to such an unobtainable man?
She hadn’t reacted so when Osmund Shepherd had kissed her on market day three years ago. Then she’d been more worried that he might want to marry her, and how was she to decline his offer without hurting his feelings? He hadn’t asked, though, and six months later he wed Eliza Perkins, the baker’s oldest girl.
She hadn’t responded to Thomas LeFarge either, the ship’s captain whom everyone knew was smuggling French wines and laces. He was handsome and dashing, but not her sort at all. Three kisses and no reaction save, perhaps, for mild disgust.
But Lord Farley…He had but to look at her with those intense eyes of his, so blue and hot and perversely distressing—
She kicked the blanket off her legs and lay in the cool blackness of her attic bedroom and let Lord Farley’s image play across her mind.
James…
If only he were an ordinary man, a farmer, say. He certainly had the shoulders and arms of a man who hefted hay bales and handled dray animals. But he was too worldly for a farmer.
A solicitor, then. After all, he was educated and well read with the sharp gleam of intelligence in his eyes. But the solicitors she knew were fussy sorts, mired in detail, and pasty-looking from long hours spent indoors, bent over their desks.
Somewhere between an obscenely masculine farmer and a keenly intelligent solicitor. Not a merchant. That seemed too mundane. Perhaps a bailiff?
She curled onto her side. A bailiff. Yes. The overseer of a large estate which required he be an expert horseman and well read, at least on matters pertaining to land management and animal husbandry. He would know about managing people too—servants and tenant farmers and field laborers. If a bailiff were to wed he would want a woman of some refinement and education, but who also knew about farming. Someone who loved living in the country.
She would make the perfect wife for a bailiff.
If he were a bailiff.
Only he wasn’t.
Lord Farley was a lord. A viscount. A peer. A man who could have his pick of women from the highest strata of British society—and the lowest strata, if what he implied about Izzy’s mother was true.
A woman like her, set somewhere in the middle of his wide-ranging tastes in women, had no business yearning after a man like him.
“Lusting, you mean.”
She cringed to speak the words out loud. But there was no other explanation for this hot sleeplessness that plagued her.
Remember Mother and all her warnings.
Except that her mother could have been happy with the fruits of her personal lust if she’d just allowed herself to be.
All right then, remember Louise and her shameful behavior.
But if Louise had focused her lust on one man instead of such a variety, she, too, might have found contentment.
Phoebe frowned into the darkness of her low-ceilinged bedroom, trying to make sense of her mother’s troubles, her sister’s, and now her own. Lust was a real thing, clawing at the insides of a woman. Directing it upon the right man—the one right man—seemed the
Again Phoebe shivered and rolled to her other side. She pulled the heavy wool blanket up to her chin. The problem was, despite her mother’s bitter denunciation of men and their vulgar, lustful ways, Phoebe had heard enough talk from other sources to know that some women enjoyed the company of men. Her sister obviously did. On her last visit Louise had dropped all sorts of hints about the private goings-on between men and women, laughing at Phoebe’s shocked blushes and embarrassed curiosity.
Just to remember Louise’s ribald stories started the knot in Phoebe’s stomach churning, sending a wave of heat through her. She turned over again and thrust the blanket down from her chest. Unfortunately, it wasn’t only Louise’s frank words that were heating her; rather, it was Lord Farley. Lord Farley and her overactive imagination.
But why was she having such a foolish reaction to such an unobtainable man?
She hadn’t reacted so when Osmund Shepherd had kissed her on market day three years ago. Then she’d been more worried that he might want to marry her, and how was she to decline his offer without hurting his feelings? He hadn’t asked, though, and six months later he wed Eliza Perkins, the baker’s oldest girl.
She hadn’t responded to Thomas LeFarge either, the ship’s captain whom everyone knew was smuggling French wines and laces. He was handsome and dashing, but not her sort at all. Three kisses and no reaction save, perhaps, for mild disgust.
But Lord Farley…He had but to look at her with those intense eyes of his, so blue and hot and perversely distressing—
She kicked the blanket off her legs and lay in the cool blackness of her attic bedroom and let Lord Farley’s image play across her mind.
James…
If only he were an ordinary man, a farmer, say. He certainly had the shoulders and arms of a man who hefted hay bales and handled dray animals. But he was too worldly for a farmer.
A solicitor, then. After all, he was educated and well read with the sharp gleam of intelligence in his eyes. But the solicitors she knew were fussy sorts, mired in detail, and pasty-looking from long hours spent indoors, bent over their desks.
Somewhere between an obscenely masculine farmer and a keenly intelligent solicitor. Not a merchant. That seemed too mundane. Perhaps a bailiff?
She curled onto her side. A bailiff. Yes. The overseer of a large estate which required he be an expert horseman and well read, at least on matters pertaining to land management and animal husbandry. He would know about managing people too—servants and tenant farmers and field laborers. If a bailiff were to wed he would want a woman of some refinement and education, but who also knew about farming. Someone who loved living in the country.
She would make the perfect wife for a bailiff.
If he were a bailiff.
Only he wasn’t.
Lord Farley was a lord. A viscount. A peer. A man who could have his pick of women from the highest strata of British society—and the lowest strata, if what he implied about Izzy’s mother was true.
A woman like her, set somewhere in the middle of his wide-ranging tastes in women, had no business yearning after a man like him.
“Lusting, you mean.”
She cringed to speak the words out loud. But there was no other explanation for this hot sleeplessness that plagued her.
Remember Mother and all her warnings.
Except that her mother could have been happy with the fruits of her personal lust if she’d just allowed herself to be.
All right then, remember Louise and her shameful behavior.
But if Louise had focused her lust on one man instead of such a variety, she, too, might have found contentment.
Phoebe frowned into the darkness of her low-ceilinged bedroom, trying to make sense of her mother’s troubles, her sister’s, and now her own. Lust was a real thing, clawing at the insides of a woman. Directing it upon the right man—the one right man—seemed the
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