felt as if he’d been run over by a juggernaut.
Pathetic, starving, homeless orphans in a ditch! For God’s sake!
He reached for the bellpull and paced the study until the summons was answered.
“Send for the bailiff at once,” he ordered curtly. Presumably Phoebe would have informed the bailiff of her actions. The man would know where the children were housed and what outlay was necessary to keep them clothed and fed.
Phoebe stood in the hall for a minute, wondering if she’d made any impact on Cato. But he’d dismissed her so firmly there wasn’t much else she could do at present. Where were Olivia and Portia?
Portia was probably feeding the hungry Alex in the parlor. She ran up the stairs to the bedchamber, where she scrubbed the ink from her mouth with ferocious vigor. Then she made her way to the square parlor at the back of the house.
Portia was ensconced on the deep window seat, Alex contentedly nuzzling her breast. Eve was sucking her thumb dreamily, leaning against her mother’s drawn-up knees.
“This would be the very picture of a maternal idyll if you didn’t look so unlikely,” Phoebe observed. “Do you never wear dresses anymore?”
“Only if Rufus expresses a preference,” Portia said with a wicked little grin. She moved Alex to her other breast.
“Where’s Olivia?”
“In her chamber reading Pliny, I believe.” Portia cast Phoebe a shrewd look as the other woman paced restlessly from the fireplace to the door and back again.
“So, what do you think of the state of matrimony, then, duckie?” Portia inquired. “As I recall, you were as much agin it as I was.”
“I still am,” Phoebe stated. “It’s damnable not to be your own person anymore, Portia. To
belong
to a husband.”
Portia nodded her understanding. “Laws made by men are going to favor men,” she observed with a cynical smile. “But we aren’t helpless, you know. Even husbands can be cut to fit.”
“Maybe . . . if they notice you exist,” Phoebe said tightly, coming to a halt by a worktable. She flipped open the lacquered lid of the workbox and began to trawl through embroidery silks with her fingers, not looking at Portia.
“What do you mean?” Portia lifted the satiated baby and held him against her shoulder, patting his back.
Phoebe’s color was high, but there was no one but Portia in whom she could confide.
“Do people always make love in the dark, with the curtains closed, and they don’t say anything, and it’s all over so quickly, you barely realize it’s happened, and . . .?”
“Wait! Wait a minute!” Portia interrupted the flow. “Is that what happens?”
“Every night,” Phoebe said dismally. “And it’ll happen every night just like that until I conceive. He doesn’t find me appealing, don’t you see. How could he after Diana?”
“Diana was a bitch . . . hard as nails,” Portia stated. “I expect she preferred the dark. She probably would have preferred it if it could have happened in her sleep when she didn’t know anything about it.” Her lip curled with scorn.
This struck Phoebe as remarkably shrewd. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she said. “Maybe Cato thinks I’m the same.”
“But you’re not?” It was clearly a question.
“No!” Phoebe cried. “No, I’m not. I ache, Portia. I’m so hungry for him to touch me. I want to see him naked, I want to touch him, every inch of him. I could
eat
him,” she added with another wail. “It’s such torment.”
Portia’s jaw dropped slightly. It wasn’t that she didn’t understand the need, it just surprised her coming from Phoebe. “Are you saying you love Cato?”
“Love, lust, I don’t know!” Phoebe dropped the lid of the workbox with a clatter. “All I know is that when I hear hisfootstep, my stomach drops. When he pushes his hair back with his hand in the way he does, my thighs go all quivery, and when he touches me, even accidentally, I start to thrum like a plucked lute. I turn into a
Pathetic, starving, homeless orphans in a ditch! For God’s sake!
He reached for the bellpull and paced the study until the summons was answered.
“Send for the bailiff at once,” he ordered curtly. Presumably Phoebe would have informed the bailiff of her actions. The man would know where the children were housed and what outlay was necessary to keep them clothed and fed.
Phoebe stood in the hall for a minute, wondering if she’d made any impact on Cato. But he’d dismissed her so firmly there wasn’t much else she could do at present. Where were Olivia and Portia?
Portia was probably feeding the hungry Alex in the parlor. She ran up the stairs to the bedchamber, where she scrubbed the ink from her mouth with ferocious vigor. Then she made her way to the square parlor at the back of the house.
Portia was ensconced on the deep window seat, Alex contentedly nuzzling her breast. Eve was sucking her thumb dreamily, leaning against her mother’s drawn-up knees.
“This would be the very picture of a maternal idyll if you didn’t look so unlikely,” Phoebe observed. “Do you never wear dresses anymore?”
“Only if Rufus expresses a preference,” Portia said with a wicked little grin. She moved Alex to her other breast.
“Where’s Olivia?”
“In her chamber reading Pliny, I believe.” Portia cast Phoebe a shrewd look as the other woman paced restlessly from the fireplace to the door and back again.
“So, what do you think of the state of matrimony, then, duckie?” Portia inquired. “As I recall, you were as much agin it as I was.”
“I still am,” Phoebe stated. “It’s damnable not to be your own person anymore, Portia. To
belong
to a husband.”
Portia nodded her understanding. “Laws made by men are going to favor men,” she observed with a cynical smile. “But we aren’t helpless, you know. Even husbands can be cut to fit.”
“Maybe . . . if they notice you exist,” Phoebe said tightly, coming to a halt by a worktable. She flipped open the lacquered lid of the workbox and began to trawl through embroidery silks with her fingers, not looking at Portia.
“What do you mean?” Portia lifted the satiated baby and held him against her shoulder, patting his back.
Phoebe’s color was high, but there was no one but Portia in whom she could confide.
“Do people always make love in the dark, with the curtains closed, and they don’t say anything, and it’s all over so quickly, you barely realize it’s happened, and . . .?”
“Wait! Wait a minute!” Portia interrupted the flow. “Is that what happens?”
“Every night,” Phoebe said dismally. “And it’ll happen every night just like that until I conceive. He doesn’t find me appealing, don’t you see. How could he after Diana?”
“Diana was a bitch . . . hard as nails,” Portia stated. “I expect she preferred the dark. She probably would have preferred it if it could have happened in her sleep when she didn’t know anything about it.” Her lip curled with scorn.
This struck Phoebe as remarkably shrewd. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she said. “Maybe Cato thinks I’m the same.”
“But you’re not?” It was clearly a question.
“No!” Phoebe cried. “No, I’m not. I ache, Portia. I’m so hungry for him to touch me. I want to see him naked, I want to touch him, every inch of him. I could
eat
him,” she added with another wail. “It’s such torment.”
Portia’s jaw dropped slightly. It wasn’t that she didn’t understand the need, it just surprised her coming from Phoebe. “Are you saying you love Cato?”
“Love, lust, I don’t know!” Phoebe dropped the lid of the workbox with a clatter. “All I know is that when I hear hisfootstep, my stomach drops. When he pushes his hair back with his hand in the way he does, my thighs go all quivery, and when he touches me, even accidentally, I start to thrum like a plucked lute. I turn into a
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