milk.”
“Cow’s milk?”
“I assume so. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to give them—I mean if they don’t have a mother to…ah…to tend to those things?”
She looked up at him, amused by his embarrassment to be discussing “those things.”
He had extended his hand to Leya and the child now held fast to his finger. At once a quiver of heat shot through Phoebe, unexpected and unnerving. He was too close. That was the inane thought that went through her head. He was too close, and though this was his baby and he had every right to be touching her, it felt as if he had somehow touched her too.
Wholly undone, she stopped and handed Leya to him. “Here, you try it.”
In the transfer his hand grazed hers, and again she felt that startling frisson of awareness. Sucking in a sharp breath, she stepped back, averting her eyes from him to his child.
For a moment the baby looked ready to cry again, but once Lord Farley had her positioned just right, she instead let out a little sigh. As if Leya knew the source of her relief, she stared straight at Phoebe, her baby eyes wide and unblinking. And just that fast, Phoebe fell in love with her. She was so perfectly, exotically beautiful with her blue-gray eyes, golden skin, and shining ebony hair.
Leya’s gaze was so trusting, so accepting. So content. Life had not yet tarnished her soul and, God willing, it never would.
“Once again I find myself in your debt, Mrs. Churchill,” Lord Farley said, drawing her attention back to him. His smile, overlaid so sincerely upon his weary, rough-hewn features, disoriented Phoebe. For a moment she could only stare at him. Against the stubble of his unshaven face his teeth gleamed too white. The chest hair that curled up at the loosened throat of his shirt made him look elementally masculine. Indeed, his disheveled appearance made her feel strange, in a way she’d never experienced—small and feminine and vulnerable, though that made no sense.
Then an echo of her mother’s strident voice came to her, reminding her that under no circumstance should a woman ever allow herself to be alone with a man dressed only in his shirt sleeves. Not even if it was perfectly innocent.
Phoebe knew she must state her business, then be gone from here.
So, pulling herself together, she crossed her arms and frowned. “You are hardly in my debt, Lord Farley. However, I did come here today on an urgent matter. It seems Izzy has struck again.”
“What?”
“She stole my milking stool—at least I assume it was she.”
His expression fell from gratitude to frustration. “Bloody hell,” he muttered.
Needing to find some flaw in him, Phoebe latched at once onto that. “If you curse in the presence of your children, you cannot fault them when they echo your words back to you. I believe Izzy’s language is foul enough already.”
Even to her own ears she sounded stiff and prissy. Stifling a groan, she realized that it was worse than that. She sounded just like her own stern, fault-finding mother.
To his credit Lord Farley didn’t respond to her criticism. Instead he began again to walk. After a moment, she followed.
“I don’t know what to do with that girl. She hates me and all the staff too. No matter what we ask of her, she does the opposite. She curses, she refuses to bathe. She screams and breaks things. She runs away and—as you know—she steals anything that isn’t tied down.”
Despite her wariness of the viscount and the awkward circumstances, Phoebe’s tension eased a bit. At least he was trying to do right by his children.
She tucked her chin in and took a steadying breath. “At the risk of appearing too bold, could I ask how long you’ve had your daughters with you?”
He glanced at her, then away. “I’ve had Leya several months. But Clarissa…six weeks or so.”
“I see. Might I inquire further about their mothers?”
He smoothed his hand over Leya’s hair, then kissed the dark crown of her head.
“Cow’s milk?”
“I assume so. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to give them—I mean if they don’t have a mother to…ah…to tend to those things?”
She looked up at him, amused by his embarrassment to be discussing “those things.”
He had extended his hand to Leya and the child now held fast to his finger. At once a quiver of heat shot through Phoebe, unexpected and unnerving. He was too close. That was the inane thought that went through her head. He was too close, and though this was his baby and he had every right to be touching her, it felt as if he had somehow touched her too.
Wholly undone, she stopped and handed Leya to him. “Here, you try it.”
In the transfer his hand grazed hers, and again she felt that startling frisson of awareness. Sucking in a sharp breath, she stepped back, averting her eyes from him to his child.
For a moment the baby looked ready to cry again, but once Lord Farley had her positioned just right, she instead let out a little sigh. As if Leya knew the source of her relief, she stared straight at Phoebe, her baby eyes wide and unblinking. And just that fast, Phoebe fell in love with her. She was so perfectly, exotically beautiful with her blue-gray eyes, golden skin, and shining ebony hair.
Leya’s gaze was so trusting, so accepting. So content. Life had not yet tarnished her soul and, God willing, it never would.
“Once again I find myself in your debt, Mrs. Churchill,” Lord Farley said, drawing her attention back to him. His smile, overlaid so sincerely upon his weary, rough-hewn features, disoriented Phoebe. For a moment she could only stare at him. Against the stubble of his unshaven face his teeth gleamed too white. The chest hair that curled up at the loosened throat of his shirt made him look elementally masculine. Indeed, his disheveled appearance made her feel strange, in a way she’d never experienced—small and feminine and vulnerable, though that made no sense.
Then an echo of her mother’s strident voice came to her, reminding her that under no circumstance should a woman ever allow herself to be alone with a man dressed only in his shirt sleeves. Not even if it was perfectly innocent.
Phoebe knew she must state her business, then be gone from here.
So, pulling herself together, she crossed her arms and frowned. “You are hardly in my debt, Lord Farley. However, I did come here today on an urgent matter. It seems Izzy has struck again.”
“What?”
“She stole my milking stool—at least I assume it was she.”
His expression fell from gratitude to frustration. “Bloody hell,” he muttered.
Needing to find some flaw in him, Phoebe latched at once onto that. “If you curse in the presence of your children, you cannot fault them when they echo your words back to you. I believe Izzy’s language is foul enough already.”
Even to her own ears she sounded stiff and prissy. Stifling a groan, she realized that it was worse than that. She sounded just like her own stern, fault-finding mother.
To his credit Lord Farley didn’t respond to her criticism. Instead he began again to walk. After a moment, she followed.
“I don’t know what to do with that girl. She hates me and all the staff too. No matter what we ask of her, she does the opposite. She curses, she refuses to bathe. She screams and breaks things. She runs away and—as you know—she steals anything that isn’t tied down.”
Despite her wariness of the viscount and the awkward circumstances, Phoebe’s tension eased a bit. At least he was trying to do right by his children.
She tucked her chin in and took a steadying breath. “At the risk of appearing too bold, could I ask how long you’ve had your daughters with you?”
He glanced at her, then away. “I’ve had Leya several months. But Clarissa…six weeks or so.”
“I see. Might I inquire further about their mothers?”
He smoothed his hand over Leya’s hair, then kissed the dark crown of her head.
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