Rexanne Becnel by The Heartbreaker

goat’s milk into a metal pot. But the vision of Phoebe’s uptilted face, and that lovely mouth curving in such an artless smile fired James’s imagination anew. Though she did nothing overt to entice him, this winsome country girl had nonetheless started an ache in his loins. He ought to banish it, but he could not.
    Did she know what she was doing to him?
    Unfortunately, he suspected she did not. It would be far better for him if she did. Mothering her niece and his girls might come naturally to her, but flirting with randy young lords did not. It had been wishful thinking to imagine otherwise. No matter how frustrated he felt and how appealing she looked, she was not that sort of woman. He didn’t have to make any inquiries to be certain of that.
    It was up to him to get his base thoughts under control, and to remember what he really needed from this woman. If he really wanted to, he could find female companionship anywhere. But a good governess who could deal with a finicky baby and a belligerent ten-year-old? That was a damned sight more rare. He’d best consider what he needed most from Phoebe Churchill and not ruin matters just because his Prince Charming stood at attention every time she was near.
    “I’m going outside. To check on the horse,” he added when Izzy’s gaze jerked up to him.
    “Don’t you think Izzy’s doing well?” Phoebe asked, staring intently at him. “I think she has a natural talent for animal husbandry.”
    “Ah…Yes. Yes, she does,” he agreed, only belatedly understanding her silent message. “You’re very good at milking,” he said to Izzy. “Very smart to catch on so swiftly.”
    But the girl had turned away, her skinny back hunched as if to ward him off.
    Damn, but he was a clod when it came to this fathering business. Thinking about sex when he should be thinking about his children. Too much thinking about sex—and engaging in it—was how he’d come to have three natural-born children in the first place. If he was to avoid having any more, he’d better keep himself focused on what was important. Phoebe Churchill would make the perfect governess. No more. No less.
    “Can we come back tomorrow?” Izzy asked Phoebe a half hour later. The sun had begun its downward arc to the west and it was time for them to return to Farley Park.
    James waited without speaking for Phoebe’s answer.
    “I’m sure your father has better things to do than spend the day here,” she finally said when he didn’t respond to her pointed looks.
    “No he doesn’t.” The girl didn’t even glance at him for confirmation. But James refused to become nettled by her presumption. It had taken only one short afternoon for him to determine that children were Phoebe’s weakness. When it came to coercing her to become their governess, Izzy and Leya were his trump cards.
    “Besides,” Izzy went on. “You’re the only one who can keep Leya from crying all the time. She likes you better than she likes all those bitches—I mean witches—I mean grouchy old women at Farley Park.” She smiled impishly.
    Helen giggled nervously at Izzy’s impertinence, but at Phoebe’s stern look the younger girl went quiet. James wished Izzy were half so easy to repress.
    “If they’re grouchy, I suspect it’s because you’ve given them ample cause to be,” Phoebe said.
    “But you’re not grouchy.”
    James hid his grin behind a contrived cough. She’s got you there, Miss Phoebe Churchill.
    But Phoebe ignored the child’s last remark. “Leya was only unhappy because she had a stomachache. She’s going to be much more content now that she’ll be given goat’s milk instead of cow’s. You will make sure to check on that, won’t you, Izzy?”
    “Oh, yes.” Izzy hugged the bladder of goat’s milk Phoebe was sending home with them. “Anyone who gives her cow’s milk will have me to answer to. But I still want us to come visit again tomorrow.”
    Tenacious as a bulldog, James thought. He cleared