Chapter 1

Wych House

Little Sissingdon

Early December

Phoebe, Viscountess Needham, hurried through the portrait gallery, her hand beneath the swell of her belly. At seven months pregnant her hurried pace was no longer very fast.

If Nanny Fletcher could see her, she would shout down the roof. Her childhood nurse believed that expecting mothers nearing their eighth month should do no more than sip fortifying cordials while reclining on a chaise longue.

That would drive Phoebe mad within a week.

She was thrilled to have this family Christmas party to plan, even though her husband, Paul, chided her daily about over-exerting herself.

"Hire somebody to do all this for you, darling. You know Dixon would be happy to help. He has more time than he needs now that Dennehy has taken over most of his burdens."

Phoebe knew that was true. Her husband's longtime secretary, Mr. Dixon, was a wizard. Although Dixon would be leaving shortly after the New Year—to take up residence at an estate he'd inherited from a great uncle—he had an apt pupil in Paul's new secretary, Colbert Dennehy.

Phoebe did not know Mr. Dennehy very well, but her husband's long-term protégé, was clever, dedicated, and had readily soaked up Dixon's instruction over the last few months.

So, yes, the two men could have managed the preparations far better than Phoebe.

But how did one explain to one's husband that some things—like overseeing the preparation of her sisters' and brother's chambers for their return to their ancestral home after an absence of more than six years—was not something she wanted to delegate?

Nor could Phoebe delegate the errand that was bringing her to the south wing, the part of Wych House that was home to Ellen Kettering, a woman all and sundry believed to be her husband's former mistress and mother of his illegitimate child, Lucy.

Ellen, against all odds, had become Phoebe's dear friend over the past months. Their friendship had begun even before she had learned that Ellen and Paul had never been lovers and Lucy was not his child.

In the months since learning the truth about Ellen and Lucy, Phoebe had come to love both of them. It pained her greatly that Ellen—who had been ill for years—was dying. And dying soon. Every day the other woman looked weaker and weaker. Phoebe suspected Ellen was only clinging to life because she didn't want to die before Lucy's birthday, which was Christmas Day.

Phoebe visited Ellen every day, right after Lucy went up to the schoolroom to have her lessons with her governess.

They would enjoy a cup of tea, chat, and Phoebe would read bits of the newspaper aloud as Ellen could no longer see well enough to focus for long. Afterward, Phoebe went about her day and Ellen returned to her bed. She slept a great deal in order to be awake for those hours when Lucy would join her.

But lately, Ellen had slept through Phoebe's visits. Rather than leave her friend, Phoebe stayed and sat beside her while she slept because Ellen had once confessed that Phoebe's presence was a comfort to her.

Phoebe also stayed because she worried the fragile woman would go to sleep and not wake again.

Something hot slid down her cheek and Phoebe dashed away the tear with the heel of her hand, disgusted with herself. The last thing Ellen needed to see was her weepy face. She stopped in front of an ancient looking glass that hung just outside Ellen's spacious apartment and made sure her eyes weren't red. And then she practiced a smile—not stopping until it looked natural—and knocked softly before entering.

An almost crippling wave of relief rolled over her when she saw the other woman was awake and, for a change, sitting upright rather than reclining on her chaise longue.

She smiled. "Good morning, Phoebe." If a person did not look too closely it was easy to believe Ellen's flushed cheeks were a sign of health rather than feverishness. "You are just in time to help me go through all this."

All this was the jumble of jewelry boxes, wrapping paper, and spools of ribbon on her secretaire desk.

Phoebe grinned and this time she did not have to force it. "Oooh, wrapping gifts? My favorite! What is all this?" she asked, pulling a chair close to the desk.

"Nothing especially valuable, just some treasured trinkets." Ellen opened a pretty blue lacquer box. Inside was a delicate gold chain with a lovely filigree cross.

"Beautiful," Phoebe said.

"I gave Paul the more valuable pieces to keep in his safe. I hope you will help him choose what to give to Lucy on her birthdays and other special occasions in the years to come."

Phoebe nodded, her eyes prickling. "Of course."

Ellen set her hand over Phoebe's, her fingers like frozen twigs for all that her color was so high. "Thank you so much for agreeing to have a special Christmas with just the four of us, Phoebe. I promise I will not keep you and Paul away from your family for long."

Phoebe gently squeezed Ellen's hand. "I am delighted to have an intimate celebration. But remember that you are more than welcome to join the larger gathering, too."

"Thank you. If I feel well enough, I will."

But Phoebe knew that would not happen, and not just because of Ellen's illness, but because the rest of the Bellamy family still believed that Ellen was Paul's former mistress.

Paul, Phoebe, and Ellen had agreed to maintain the fiction until Lucy turned eighteen, when Paul would tell her the truth about her parentage. Only then would Phoebe tell her sisters the truth.

It was for the best, although it did make matters awkward in the meanwhile.

Unfortunately, Phoebe thought with a painful stab as her friend chattered happily about the small gifts littering the table, Ellen herself would not be around for long to suffer that awkwardness.

Suddenly, the mound of paper and ribbons moved, and a furry head emerged.

"There you are, Silas!" Ellen said, the words scolding but her tone affectionate as the little rodent yawned, strutted across the desk, and then strolled up Ellen's arm, giving Phoebe a daring look as he snuggled against the sick woman's neck.

Her brother Dauntry's squirrel was a furry bundle of mischief that had plagued Phoebe for years. Lucy had begged to care for the pet while Doddy was away at school and Phoebe had, reluctantly, agreed. Although the little beast often caused havoc when he escaped Ellen's apartment and ran amok in the huge house, Phoebe could not regret his presence for how much joy he gave not only Lucy, but—unexpectedly—Ellen, too. Whenever Silas was near it seemed to Phoebe that the ill woman looked less fragile.

If the squirrel helped keep Ellen alive longer, then Phoebe could almost like the animal.

But as she watched Ellen's pale, shaky hand stroke Silas's thick winter fur, she feared even the squirrel might not be enough to keep her with them until Christmas.

Several days later…

Phoebe stared across the massive desk at her husband Paul and bit her lip to keep from speaking because she was too angry to trust herself. Not angry at Paul, but what her parents were constantly forcing him to do.

"Don't be angry, darling." He smiled at her, his rugged features irresistible and charming. It still astounded her that they had been married less than a year. In fact, she had not even known him last Christmastime and yet now she could not imagine life without him.

"I'm not angry at you, Paul. I just wonder when it will all stop." She did not mention how ashamed she was of her parents—she had admitted that to him times beyond counting—because she knew it distressed him. Any person who looked at Paul Needham's massive body and harsh-featured face would not believe he could be so sensitive. But he lived and breathed for her and Phoebe would never stop thanking God that she had been fortunate enough to meet him in a dusty lane last spring.

The source of her chagrin was a letter Paul had received from Phoebe's father, the Earl of Addiscombe, just that morning. Not only had the earl cancelled his plans to spend Christmas with them—the letter arriving the very day he was supposed to arrive—but included with the brief missive was a sheaf of bills.

Paul removed his spectacles and tossed them onto the desk before pushing his chair out from his desk and striding toward the door.

Phoebe twisted in her chair and watched as he locked the door.

Her lips parted and her heart began to beat faster as he strode back to his chair and sat. "Come here," he said.

"Paul, we can't. It is too—"

"Come here, Phoebe." He patted his massive buckskin clad thigh with an equally massive hand.

Phoebe bit her lip, barely hesitating before heaving herself to her feet. Even before she'd become pregnant, she had not been a petite woman. Now that she was eating for two, she felt like a lumbering cow.

Or at least she would have felt that way if not for the adoring, lustful gaze in her husband's eyes as she lowered herself onto his lap.

" Mmm ." He wrapped one muscular arm around her hips to draw her closer to the hard wall of his chest while his other hand came to rest on her swollen belly.

Phoebe loved the look of masculine pride that stole over his face.

"Mine," he murmured, stroking from her bulging midriff up to her ridiculously swollen breasts. His lids lowered over his penetrating gray eyes as he palmed her, his huge hand actually making her look small. "How long did the midwife say we could keep—"

"As long as it does not hurt," Phoebe hastily interrupted, before he could say something vulgar and wildly arousing. After all, they were expecting the first of their Christmas guests within the next few hours. It would not do to give in to her body's relentless demands for him in the middle of the day, no matter how much she might like to do so.

She glanced at the long-case clock, calculating the hours before she could feel his bare skin and huge body pressed against her own.

Paul grinned at her, fully aware of the thoughts running through her mind. "Well?" he taunted.

"We don't have time," she said, unable to keep the whiny disappointment from her tone. "By the time we make our way up—"

"We don't need to go up to your chambers. We don't even need to get undressed. I could just slide my hand beneath this pretty gown," he demonstrated exactly that, his warm fingers caressing up her stocking-clad calf to her bare thigh. "Open for me, Phoebe," he said, his voice gruff with desire.

Her gaze slid to the clock. "Are you sure we—"

"Spread your thighs for me," he said, giving her the stern look that turned her knees to jelly, his dark eyes capturing hers. She swallowed and slowly spread her knees.

His nostrils flared as his hand stroked up her thigh until one big finger encountered the lips of her sex. His eyelids fluttered when he felt how swollen and wet she was. "Good God! You are drenched," he accused, dipping his finger into her slick heat as he looked up to meet her gaze. "You poor needy darling," he said, circling the source of her pleasure with just the perfect amount of pressure. "You need to come, don't you?"

She widened her eyes at him. " Paul. "

He grinned smugly at her outraged reaction. Even though they had been married for nine months, his vulgar words still made her face heat.

And she loved it.

"Can you feel how hard you make me, Phoebe?" he asked, shifting beneath her.

"As if anyone could miss that, " she muttered as a thick, iron-hard ridge dug into her fleshy bottom.

He laughed. And then, before she knew what he was doing, his hand slid out from beneath her skirt and he took her by the hips and lifted her onto his desk as if she weighed no more than a book, making Phoebe fall even more in love with him.

"You should not lift me like that! You are going to hurt yourself."

He made a scoffing sound and shoved up her skirt and petticoat, baring her to her hips.

"Where are Dixon and Dennehy?" she asked nervously. "They aren't going to—"

"Open for me," he barked.

Her knees instantly jerked apart. Irked at her body's reaction, she began to close them again.

" Uh, uh, uh. I don't think so, darling." He easily pushed her thighs apart. "Lie back for your lord and master."

"I am serious, Paul. They have keys, do they not? Are they going to—"

His eyes, now a dark, hungry slate gray, snapped from her sex to her eyes. "Lie back, or I will summon them both here to watch while I strip you naked and pleasure you right here on my desk."

Phoebe's jaw sagged at the vulgar suggestion—and not only with surprise, either.

"Why, you naughty thing!" he teased, reading her fiery blush and guilty look with an ease that both disconcerted and aroused her. "That made your tight little pussy clench, didn't it? You would like to be watched while I licked and fingered and fu—"

"I would not, " she insisted, mortified.

His grin disappeared and the dangerous look that replaced it made her shiver. "Good. Because I won't share you. Ever. And I will kill any man before allowing him to look at what belongs to me."

Was it wrong that his violent, primitive words made her sex clench and throb even harder?

"Now," he said, his voice silky. "I am only going to say this one more time. Lie down."

She swallowed and then carefully complied, feeling incredibly exposed as he pulled her to the edge of the desk and proceeded to drape one leg over each of his shoulders.

"Paul—"

"Hush," he ordered.

Phoebe bit her lip to keep from making embarrassing noises when he spread her lower lips and his hot, wet mouth closed over her sex.

"Oh, God," she muttered. How could something so naughty feel so very, very, very good?

He groaned, noisily licking and sucking as if he would consume her. "Your juicy, delicious cunt is going to be the death of me one of these days."

"Paul!"

He ignored her exclamation and clamped her legs tighter with his arms to stop her squirming, burying his tongue deep inside her, the warm pad of his thumb rhythmically stroking her engorged nub in exactly the right place.

All plans to remain silent flew out the window the moment the coiled bliss inside her exploded. She was vaguely aware of loud, animalistic cries—hers—and the feel of his hair between her fingers as she first ground against him and then, after her climax began to ebb—tried, and failed—to pull his head away.

"Paul! It's too much," she whimpered.

"Just once more." He lightly sucked her throbbing peak between his lips.

Phoebe had thought she was too sensitive—painfully so—to climax again, but he proved yet again that he knew her body far better than she ever would.

When she was quivering and limp from her second orgasm she tried to close her thighs, but he easily held her open.

"I won't touch anything sensitive," he promised between licks. "I just want to make sure I didn't miss anything." He was as good as his word as he carefully, and thoroughly, laved and kissed every part of her. "So good," he murmured, his tongue lightly probing the entrance to her body. And then he groaned and plunged deeper.

Phoebe's face was on fire as he feasted on her. She considered trying to get up but knew he would not release her until he was good and ready. In fact, any sign of resistance only made him dig in.

Besides…she loved this part, when he worshipped her body, which he—inexplicably—continued to be obsessed with. Indeed, he seemed to want her more, despite how horribly ungainly she'd become.

Her lips curved into what she was sure was a fatuous smile and she gave herself up to the bliss of the moment.

An indeterminate time later he heaved a reluctant sigh, gave the source of her pleasure one last, lingering, sucking kiss and then gently lowered her legs before standing. "I would do this all day—if not for the fact that I have a blasted meeting with Bixby and I've not read over his report yet." Bixby was his man of business who'd come all the way from London, otherwise she suspected Paul would have made the poor man wait.

He smiled down at her, his lips red and swollen from his labors. "Did I hurt your hips?" he asked when she brought her knees together and winced.

"It was worth it," she said as she straightened her skirts.

He laughed and then strode to the door and unlocked it before returning and slipping his arms beneath her and returning to his chair, holding her cradled in his lap.

"There, you see? You have pleased your husband greatly and nobody is the wiser." He lifted her close enough to kiss her, a faint, musky scent lingering on his lips.

"You like tasting yourself on me, don't you?"

Predictably, she blushed.

He chuckled smugly, kissed her hard, and then leaned back in his chair, wincing as he adjusted the long, hard ridge that was jammed into her hip.

Phoebe slid a hand between their bodies and lightly squeezed the thick bulge. "May I help you with this, my lord?"

His eyes kindled and she could see he was seriously considering it. But, after a moment, he sighed and shook his head. "Unfortunately, there is no time. But rest assured that I will save it for you."

"Save it?" she asked with a wide-eyed look, continuing her stroking, purposely goading him because she loved it when he was filthy, no matter how much it shocked her.

"I am saving it for tonight, when you will beg for every inch." His gaze flickered to her mouth and his eyes narrowed. "I fact, I think you will take me twice."

"Paul!"

He raised a black velvet eyebrow, one of his big hands suggestively stroking the crease between her buttocks, a thick finger pressing against that most taboo part of her. "Perhaps even three times."

Phoebe gasped. They had done that on only two occasions, and she had, to her intense astonishment and mortification, enjoyed it.

"My wicked wife," he said, chuckling at whatever he saw on her scarlet face—probably her unladylike eagerness—and kissed her hard, taking her hand by the wrist and firmly removing it from his manhood. "Behave."

"I thought I was behaving?" she said, pouting.

He kissed her again. "What a little monster I've created."

"Ugh. Not so little. " She shifted uncomfortably and glared at her bulging midsection.

He took her chin and tilted her to face him, his expression unexpectedly stern and even more domineering than usual. "As it happens, I love your body."

Phoebe's breathing quickened beneath his piercing gaze, and she couldn't look away.

His eyelids lowered slightly, and he set his free hand on her belly and caressed her, a slow, sensual smile spreading across his face. "I intend to put you in this condition as often as is safe for you."

" Paul! "

He kissed her lingeringly. "You don't know that you are perfect, do you?"

She gave a scoffing laugh. "You are the only one who thinks so."

"I am the only one who matters."

"Yes, you are," she agreed, caressing his jaw, the love she felt for him so overwhelming it sometimes scared her.

He was leaning down to kiss her again when the library door banged open .

Both their heads whipped up.

"Papa?"

Phoebe clambered off her husband's lap—or at least tried to, but Paul kept her in place easily with one arm.

"Oh, I'm sorry—I didn't realize you weren't alone," Lucy said. "I can come back later and—"

"You did not interrupt anything," Phoebe lied.

"Come and sit." Paul gestured to the chair that Phoebe had briefly occupied.

Phoebe tried to get up, but Paul continued to hold her.

Lucy did not appear to find it odd that Phoebe was sitting on Paul's lap. As usual, Silas's glittering black eyes peeked out from the curtain of Lucy's curly blonde hair.

"Did you need something, sweetheart?" Paul asked his daughter.

"Miss Capshaw wants me to go into the village with her, but—" she broke off and slid Phoebe a shy look. "But I didn't want to miss Doddy's arrival—because Silas is so excited and misses him," she added, blushing fierily. "Do you know what time he might get here?"

"Not until much later, sweetheart," Paul assured her. "You can go with your governess and still be home in time to meet his carriage."

"Oh, good. Miss Capshaw is taking me for my last fitting." She turned to Phoebe. "It is the pale pink gown, Phoebe—the one you suggested—and it will be ready just in time for the Christmas fete."

"Excellent! It is perfect for your first dance," Phoebe said.

Although Lucy was not yet fourteen, she would not be the only one her age at the dance, which was part of the annual village Christmas celebration and occurred early enough in the day to be more of a family gathering than a traditional assembly.

"Miss Capshaw said that I must ask you whether I could purchase proper gloves, Papa." Lucy's huge blue eyes, so much like Ellen's, fixed on Paul. "Please," she added softly.

"Proper gloves?" Paul repeated, obviously confused.

"Yes—long ones. The sort ladies wear to balls."

"Oh." He frowned. "I am not sure—"

"Please, Papa," she wheedled.

Paul turned to Phoebe. "What do you think?"

"It is true that she is young, but you will be there. I think, under the circumstances, it would be unexceptionable."

Paul nodded. "You may have them."

"Huzzah!" Lucy leapt to her feet. "I had better go and find Miss Capshaw. The sooner we leave, the sooner we can return." She darted from the room in such haste that the two of them chuckled.

Paul sighed. "One minute she is wanting gloves like a young lady, the next she is still a child." He raised his eyebrows. "I trust you know that it is not reuniting your brother with his squirrel that is making her blush and smile so much. I am relieved Doddy is bringing friends. Perhaps she can become fixated on one of them rather than your brother."

"It is just a girlhood crush, Paul. She will have dozens before she finally falls in love."

"I certainly hope so, darling. Or I shall have to strangle your mother and hide her body in a barrel. You know she would make your life hell if her heir fell in love with a cit's illegitimate daughter."

Phoebe cupped her husband's face with both her hands and kissed him hard before releasing him. "That is years and years from now. Lucy is only thirteen and Doddy might be a few years older, but he's still a boy." She paused. "But as for your idea about my mother and the barrel…"

Paul laughed and caught her up in his arms, kissing her soundly. "What did I do to deserve such a ruthless, beautiful wife?"

"You are just lucky, I suppose," she murmured, sinking her fingers into his hair, claiming his mouth, and giving as good as she got.

Another knock interrupted their play.

Paul sighed. "Yes?"

Davis, their butler, opened the door.

"I beg your pardon, my lord, my lady," he said, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond their shoulders. "But a carriage has just arrived."

Phoebe frowned. "Already? Is it Lord Needham's post chaise with my brother? Or is it one of my sisters?"

"No, my lady." He hesitated. "It is your mother. The Countess of Addiscombe," he added, just in case Phoebe didn't know who he meant.

***

Phoebe and Davis made their way toward the entry hall a short time later. Paul had offered to accompany her, but Phoebe wanted a few minutes alone with her mother before releasing the countess on her poor husband.

"I'm terribly sorry that I was not ready for her, my lady. I'm afraid I thought the countess would not arrive until Friday."

Phoebe bit back a bitter snort. Davis didn't deserve a moody response from her, after all. It was her mother who deserved her ire. What sort of guest showed up a full four days before they were expected?

"It is not your fault, Davis. My mother is early."

"I have sent Becky and Dora up to give her chambers a quick freshening and light fires in all the rooms."

"Thank you. She is bringing a companion with her, a Miss"—Phoebe chewed her lip. What was the woman's—

"Miss Eustacia Martin, my lady. A guest suite not far from your mother's is ready for her, as you instructed."

"Thank you, Davis. I can see you are already well prepared."

It was the first time in years that all the Bellamy siblings would be celebrating Christmas in their ancestral home. Even Aurelia would be making the long journey south with her new husband, stepdaughter, and other interesting guests. Phoebe had kept that information to herself, other than sharing it with Paul, of course. She had wanted to surprise her other siblings, who all believed that Aurelia wouldn't be able to join them this year.

And now her mother had arrived early and would spoil their reunion.

Phoebe has specifically given the countess an arrival date that was four days after that of her brother and sisters. It had pained her to do so, but she'd consulted Hyacinth, Aurelia, and Selina—the three oldest—and they had all agreed they should carve out some time without either of their parents in attendance. Because once the earl and countess arrived…

Well, suffice it to say there would be little chance for any of them to relax.

Her father's careless cancellation was insulting, but she could not help being glad. Her parents hated each other and usually did very little to hide their animosity. In addition to her immediate family, there would be two dozen other guests and the last thing she wanted was to provide them all with entertainment in the form of her bickering parents.

Phoebe felt a pang of guilt at the resentment she felt toward the countess. It was true that Lady Addiscombe could be difficult, but she was still her mother and deserved her respect.

Difficult ? a voice in her head scoffed. In the animal kingdom the countess is the sort of mother who routinely eats her own young.

Phoebe snorted and then tried to hide it with a cough.

When they reached the great hall Phoebe was amused to see one of the footmen holding a heavy fur-lined cloak at the ready in case her mother might be cold.

She turned to Davis. "Do you think of everything?"

"I aspire to, my lady."

Phoebe laughed. But her laughter dried up faster than a drop of water on a hot stove when Arnold—one of her favorite footmen—opened the massive metal-strapped door and her mother's voice pierced the chill December air like a cutlass through flesh.

"—what could you have been thinking to leave behind that bag, Martin?"

"I'm so sorry, my lady, I thought—"

"I am sure that I do not care about your addled mental processes. Just fetch the bag. Right now. "

Phoebe took a deep breath, fixed a smile on her face, and stepped out into the frosty air to greet the first of her guests.

"Mama," she said, hurrying through the chill afternoon to embrace her mother. "I am so sorry nobody was out here to meet you. We thought—"

"Phoebe!" her mother shrieked. "What in the world are you doing outside looking like that?"

"Uh—"

"You are as big as a house!" The countess's gaze slewed left and then right. "What if somebody were to see you in such a condition? Get inside immedia —"

"Mama." Phoebe spoke the word quietly but firmly. "I am not hiding myself away because I am pregnant"—her mother hissed at the word, as if it were a vile curse, but Phoebe ignored it. "You had best become accustomed to my presence in public over the coming days."

The countess blinked, for once at a loss for words.

"You must be chilled to the bone, Mama." Phoebe gestured for the footman to bring the fur cloak. The servant hurried over and draped the luxurious garment over her mother's shoulders. The countess eyed the costly cloak as if it were a live animal. For a moment Phoebe thought her mother would reject the thoughtful gesture.

Instead, she pursed her lips into a sour scowl and then strode toward the foyer without a word of thanks.

Phoebe turned and saw a slight figure hurrying toward them, laden with baggage. At first she thought her mother had brought a girl, the person was so small. But as she came closer Phoebe realized she was a full-grown woman. She was even shorter than she first appeared given that her head was piled with masses and masses of dark brown hair.

"Welcome, Miss Martin," Phoebe said, having to look down—albeit not by much—to smile at the other woman.

"Thank you," she said in a breathy voice.

Arnold reached for the bags in her hands. "Let me take those, Miss."

Miss Martin opened her mouth, but before she could speak the countess barked, "Do not touch that!" She jabbed a finger at the smaller of the two valises. "It contains delicate items, and I don't want a clumsy oaf dropping it. You carry that one, Martin. Come along now, quit dawdling."

"Yes, my lady," Miss Martin said, giving Phoebe a shy smile and deep curtsey before hurrying after her mistress.

"I will show you to your rooms," Phoebe murmured, her face hot with shame at the way her mother had spoken to the obviously genteel young woman.

The countess's head swiveled from side to side as Phoebe led her through the massive entry hall.

" Hmmph ," she muttered as they ascended the main staircase, which had been built in the late thirteen hundreds. "I see that some thing has been done about the wood rot." Her words might have been taken as a compliment if her tone had not been so reproachful.

"Needham found woodworkers who'd done work on the great cathedral in York, and they recreated several new sections," Phoebe said. The amount of money her husband had spent on Wych House continued to flabbergast her. Especially considering they were only leasing the house while their own was being constructed a few miles away.

As if her mother had read her thoughts, she said, "I saw the monstrosity Needham is having built."

Stay calm , Phoebe counseled herself.

"But your route from Bath should not have taken you past Needham Park."

" Needham Park ," her mother repeated with a snide huff. "It looked to have at least fifty rooms."

"There are seventy-one," Phoebe corrected.

The countess scowled. "You are determined to make spectacles of yourselves."

Phoebe smiled serenely, refusing to be drawn.

"I see you are taking me to the east wing," her mother said when Phoebe did not respond. "I do hope Needham has had the sense to fix that wretched draught that howls down the corridor."

"Indeed, he has. I think you will be pleased." Although Phoebe doubted it. Had she ever seen her mother pleased about anything? If she had, she could not remember it.

" Hmph ," the countess muttered.

Phoebe's smile frayed around the edges. It was going to be a long day.

***

Stacia smiled as she looked around the luxurious suite of rooms. "This is lovely, my lady."

"I am pleased you like it," Lady Needham replied, her good-humored smile so different from any expression that Stacia had ever seen on the countess's face that she might not have believed the two women were related, if not for the physical resemblance.

"Blue is my favorite color," Stacia blurted like a fool.

"It is my husband's, too," the viscountess admitted. "Whenever I was at a standstill when it came to the decoration of yet another suite of rooms and consulted him, his suggestion was invariably make it blue ." She chuckled. "So there are at least ten blue bedchambers, which makes it difficult to decide which one of them is the real blue suite ."

Stacia felt her face creasing into an expression that hadn't happened very often of late: a genuine smile.

"I have assigned a maid to you—Dora is her name—so please do feel free to call on her services."

"Thank you, my lady. That is most generous."

"If you need anything, please don't hesitate to—" She stopped when Miss Ackers, the countess's maid, appeared in the doorway.

The older woman curtsied to the viscountess. "I beg your pardon, my lady, but Lady Addiscombe wants Miss Martin." She cleared her throat and added, "Immediately."

"Oh." Lady Needham looked nonplussed.

"Thank you, Miss Ackers. I will be right there," Stacia murmured and then turned to her hostess. "I am sorry to run off, but—"

"It is wise not to keep my mother waiting. We shall all assemble in the drawing room a half hour before dinner. I shall see you there, if not before."

Stacia waited until the other woman had left the room before untying her cloak, stripping off her gloves and bonnet, and then hurrying toward the suite where they had left her ladyship a mere five minutes earlier.

Just because her hostess had put Stacia into a guest room and was treating her like a guest did not mean she was a guest.

Stacia was there to serve Lady Addiscombe, and she would do well not to forget that.