only solution. And since Lord Farley could never be the right man, it behooved her to restrain this unruly lust that so lately beset her.
But despite her dire warnings and earnest intentions to shield herself from the wicked direction of her secret desires, when Phoebe slept, it was to dream of a lust fulfilled by a sun-browned, shirt-sleeved bailiff of a man. A lust fulfilled in a sweet-scented hayloft, and punctuated by a true and deep-felt joy in the fulfillment.
They awoke to watery sunshine, a storm-strewn yard, and a partially collapsed goat shed.
Phoebe surveyed the damage. She and Helen could clear the yard of broken branches, and drag off most of the broken boards of the precariously tilted shed. They could sweep away the rivers of mud and replant any uprooted shrubs. She could even put the ladder up against the house to check for loose roof slates.
But she’d have to hire someone to rebuild the goat shed, and she had to do it soon. Though winter was over, there was no guarantee against another storm like last night’s blow. Posie, Bella, and Fern deserved some sort of shelter. Short of bringing them into the kitchen, she had no choice but to approach Martin—or accept Lord Farley’s offer.
“We’re going to town,” she told Helen as they ate their morning porridge. “Put on your mourning dress.”
At Leake’s Emporium, Helen went around back to see the last of the puppies, while Phoebe went inside. A cluster of women looked up when she entered. Their guilty expressions turned to relief when they saw her. “Oh, it’s you, Phoebe. Good. Come look at this,” Mrs. Leake said. “You need to see this.”
The miller’s wife and the Widow Watling moved aside to reveal a small stack of newspapers spread open on the store counter. “Here,” Mrs. Leake said, stabbing a finger at an article set off by a decorative border. “And here. And here.” She flipped to several other issues. “My newspapers came last night, the monthly bundle I always get from London. But I didn’t look through them till this morning. I tell you, I could hardly digest my breakfast when I read it.”
Phoebe scanned the articles, a series of gossipy columns in the aptly named London Tattler . It was the sort of scandalmongering she normally wouldn’t bother with, or if she did read it, she would laugh at the pretensions and foibles of both writer and subjects.
But today she couldn’t laugh. Lord Farley—their Lord Farley—had been formally betrothed until just weeks ago. But that betrothal had been broken by his fiancée due to the revelation of the existence of his several natural-born children. Well, only two. But according to the articles, there was good reason to suspect he might have others.
“Now didn’t I say there was something odd going on with that young man?” Mrs. Leake asked. “Didn’t I? Two such children is bad enough. But more? And then expecting this poor Lady Catherine to raise them in her own household, with her own children, which he’d obviously get on her quicker than an old tomcat gets a litter on a—”
She broke off with a chagrined glance at Phoebe. “Sorry, child. I always forget that you’re still unmarried.” She patted Phoebe’s hand. “It’s a good thing you didn’t take that position in his household. You didn’t, did you?”
“No. No,” Phoebe repeated, still in shock. She’d known about Lord Farley’s natural-born children. Already she was half in love with both of them. But could there be more?
In truth, however, the children weren’t why Phoebe’s hands were curled into fists, her short, practical nails pressing into her palms. It was the betrothal.
Though it made no sense, the fact that he’d recently been betrothed to this Lady Catherine Winfield seemed almost a betrayal.
Forcing herself to a shaky calm, Phoebe read the articles again, deaf to Mrs. Leake and her cronies’ buzz of speculation. He’d been abroad, come back with Leya, located another
But despite her dire warnings and earnest intentions to shield herself from the wicked direction of her secret desires, when Phoebe slept, it was to dream of a lust fulfilled by a sun-browned, shirt-sleeved bailiff of a man. A lust fulfilled in a sweet-scented hayloft, and punctuated by a true and deep-felt joy in the fulfillment.
They awoke to watery sunshine, a storm-strewn yard, and a partially collapsed goat shed.
Phoebe surveyed the damage. She and Helen could clear the yard of broken branches, and drag off most of the broken boards of the precariously tilted shed. They could sweep away the rivers of mud and replant any uprooted shrubs. She could even put the ladder up against the house to check for loose roof slates.
But she’d have to hire someone to rebuild the goat shed, and she had to do it soon. Though winter was over, there was no guarantee against another storm like last night’s blow. Posie, Bella, and Fern deserved some sort of shelter. Short of bringing them into the kitchen, she had no choice but to approach Martin—or accept Lord Farley’s offer.
“We’re going to town,” she told Helen as they ate their morning porridge. “Put on your mourning dress.”
At Leake’s Emporium, Helen went around back to see the last of the puppies, while Phoebe went inside. A cluster of women looked up when she entered. Their guilty expressions turned to relief when they saw her. “Oh, it’s you, Phoebe. Good. Come look at this,” Mrs. Leake said. “You need to see this.”
The miller’s wife and the Widow Watling moved aside to reveal a small stack of newspapers spread open on the store counter. “Here,” Mrs. Leake said, stabbing a finger at an article set off by a decorative border. “And here. And here.” She flipped to several other issues. “My newspapers came last night, the monthly bundle I always get from London. But I didn’t look through them till this morning. I tell you, I could hardly digest my breakfast when I read it.”
Phoebe scanned the articles, a series of gossipy columns in the aptly named London Tattler . It was the sort of scandalmongering she normally wouldn’t bother with, or if she did read it, she would laugh at the pretensions and foibles of both writer and subjects.
But today she couldn’t laugh. Lord Farley—their Lord Farley—had been formally betrothed until just weeks ago. But that betrothal had been broken by his fiancée due to the revelation of the existence of his several natural-born children. Well, only two. But according to the articles, there was good reason to suspect he might have others.
“Now didn’t I say there was something odd going on with that young man?” Mrs. Leake asked. “Didn’t I? Two such children is bad enough. But more? And then expecting this poor Lady Catherine to raise them in her own household, with her own children, which he’d obviously get on her quicker than an old tomcat gets a litter on a—”
She broke off with a chagrined glance at Phoebe. “Sorry, child. I always forget that you’re still unmarried.” She patted Phoebe’s hand. “It’s a good thing you didn’t take that position in his household. You didn’t, did you?”
“No. No,” Phoebe repeated, still in shock. She’d known about Lord Farley’s natural-born children. Already she was half in love with both of them. But could there be more?
In truth, however, the children weren’t why Phoebe’s hands were curled into fists, her short, practical nails pressing into her palms. It was the betrothal.
Though it made no sense, the fact that he’d recently been betrothed to this Lady Catherine Winfield seemed almost a betrayal.
Forcing herself to a shaky calm, Phoebe read the articles again, deaf to Mrs. Leake and her cronies’ buzz of speculation. He’d been abroad, come back with Leya, located another
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