Rexanne Becnel by The Heartbreaker Page B

her?
    Phoebe stirred a spoonful of sour milk into the fresh milk, then fastened a cheese cloth square around the top of the bowl to keep out any stray insects and dust. Outside, the rain had begun in earnest, tapping a lively pattern on the two glass windows, beating more dully on the shutters and door, and making a soft whooshing noise on the thick slate roof.
    Phoebe smiled to herself as she wiped her hands, then cleaned off the sturdy kitchen table. Being alone in her own house was still a novelty, a stolen pleasure she reveled in.
    Of course she wasn’t alone. The sleeping Helen had curled up in the chair near the hearth with Bruno squeezed in beside her. But her little-girl snores and those of the dog only added to the ambiance of the snug cottage. It was a spartan life with few luxuries, but it was safe and secure—or at least it would be, did the threat of their unpaid taxes not weigh so heavily upon her.
    Thinking of those taxes led her to considering Lord Farley’s tempting offer of a paying position. She should say yes. Why was she so afraid to do so?
    She just was. No logical reason, but there were lots of illogical ones. The manly figure he cut, especially upon his horse; his gorgeous eyes which seemed to see far beyond the surface of her skin; his sincere efforts on behalf of his children.
    Phoebe muffled a groan. She refused to waste an afternoon daydreaming about a man like him: one she could not have and should not want. So she settled cross-legged on the floor in front of one of the cupboards and went to work.
    She’d hardly begun when a sudden bang on the kitchen door jolted her alert. Before she could react, the door swung open, carrying in a gust of cold, wet air, and an equally cold, wet Izzy.
    “We’re here!” the child cheerfully announced from beneath a red muffler and a dark green oversized rain hood.
    Phoebe stood. “We?”
    “He’s putting the horses in your goat shed,” the girl said, thrusting back her dripping hood.
    That fast, Phoebe’s contentment fled. Lord Farley was here. Why on earth would he ride out on such a dreadful day to come to her simple abode? “Close the door, Izzy, before we all catch our death. Come, let’s get these wet things off you.”
    “I see the baby’s taking her nap,” Izzy said with a smirk. “I can play with Bruno all by myself now.”
    Phoebe took Izzy’s cape and shook the rain droplets from it, then hung it on a wall hook. “Two points, Izzy. As a visitor, first you knock. Then you wait for the door to be opened rather than bursting in as you did.”
    “But it was raining and I was cold.”
    “And second, you ask your hostess before you assume you may entertain yourself with any of her possessions.”
    Izzy frowned at her and Phoebe braced herself for an outburst. But to her surprise, Izzy composed her face into a pleasant, if forced, expression. “Sorry. May I play with Bruno?”
    “Yes. Of course you may. Go sit near the fire. Are your feet wet?”
    “A little.”
    “Then take off your shoes and set them on the hearth to dry.” She was busy situating Izzy when the second knock came. She froze, crouched before the hearth, when he knocked again and cracked the door open.
    “Is anyone home?”
    Phoebe drew back when he peered around through the opening. Goodness, she was dressed like a household drudge.
    “It’s cold,” Izzy called. “Close the door.”
    Then he was in, stamping his feet, shutting out the cold and wet, and filling her cozy cottage with his unfamiliar masculine aura. For a moment Phoebe’s head spun. She knelt on the solid floor, and yet still she felt dizzy, as if she might tilt right over.
    “Good day, Miss Churchill,” he said, when she continued silently to stare up at him.
    Somehow she rose awkwardly to her feet, smoothing her skirt and apron—anything to avoid looking at him. How ridiculous was that? “Good afternoon, Lord Farley.” At least her voice didn’t tremble like her hands did. She knotted her