Chapter 5

5

L ord Rockliffe , it appeared, spent his early mornings riding. A fact that presented itself as the sound of pounding hooves drew Phoebe to Lady Emily’s bedchamber window that overlooked the stables, and a powerful figure on horseback—one who was becoming all too familiar—slowed to a halt before a waiting groom.

Was the universe taunting her? She swallowed, her pulse quickening as the marquess jumped to the ground, his muscles taut beneath his tan riding breeches. Why did the scene seem determined to keep repeating itself in her view? And why did it continue to affect her? Even when she had half a mind to be angry with him.

Her face heated as memories of the previous night rushed through her head. The feeling of his blue gaze boring into her as she leaned down to sign the contract. The way he’d recoiled from her invitation and whisked himself away like a man haunted.

She should have stayed, explained herself better, tried additional powers of persuasion. Except she couldn’t. Not after the library incident had thrown her too off balance to think straight.

Her skin grew hotter still, making it feel like tiny flames shot down her body, searing her with their caress. She hadn’t intended any wrongdoing by going to the library late at night and sifting through the bookshelves. On the contrary, after Mrs . Connelly had given her a tour of the house and mentioned in passing that Lady Emily enjoyed reading, Phoebe thought she did right by seeking out a book for her new pupil. Given the hour, she hadn’t anticipated encountering anyone, and it provided a good opportunity to choose a book for herself as well, to help pass the time as she lay sleepless in a new bed in a strange house.

Perhaps she had herself to blame for opting to stand on tiptoe to explore books she could barely reach. Yet something about the crimson spine near the center of that high-up shelf had caught her interest, and she’d pulled it down, flipping the book open to a page near the middle.

And had promptly startled, making it jerk beneath her fingertips. The page contained an illustration. A little text, too, but her mind hadn’t processed it, remaining trained on the image of the woman who leaned, without a scrap of clothing, against a door, while a man knelt before her, his face buried between her thighs. With a trembling hand, Phoebe had flicked to the next page, and then, to the ones beyond. They were all of the same nature, illustration after illustration of a man and woman twined together in the throes of passion, in positions she couldn’t have dreamed.

She should have thrown the book back on the shelf at once and fled to the safety of her bedchamber before more trouble could find her. But she hadn’t. Somehow , she couldn’t let it go.

With a racing heart, she’d flipped through the pages, moving the book close to her candle so light flickered over the details of each scene. The woman with her elbows on the floor while the man supported her legs, entering her from behind. The man who reclined on a bed while a woman stood over him, lowering herself onto his arousal . Her eyes had stayed glued to the images like she’d fallen into a trance, while delicious heat built between her thighs.

Until suddenly, a masculine growl had come from behind her, and it all came crashing down. She’d had no time to think, to do anything but shove the book under her sleeve and pretend she hadn’t been viewing erotic illustrations on her first night in Lord Rockliffe’s employ. The book had stayed with her as she’d signed the contract. As she’d spoken to the marquess. As she’d turned to leave and then dropped it—blast her clumsiness—forcing her to pray harder than she’d ever prayed for anything that he didn’t realize the nature of what she concealed. The book remained in her bedchamber even now, buried beneath the stockings in her clothespress, because she didn’t know how to return it without the possibility of Lord Rockliffe creeping up on her again. And because, maybe, I don’t want to return it yet.

“ Miss Windham ?”

Phoebe’s head darted to the side, her body giving a small start. She hadn’t heard Emily approach, had thought she was still breaking her fast, but here the girl was, peering out the window alongside her.

With a movement as abrupt as Phoebe’s own, Emily turned from the window, bringing her amber gaze to Phoebe . “ Are we still going to have a picnic today?”

Phoebe smoothed down her thick black skirt, taking a moment to reorient herself in the room. Sure enough, Emily’s teacup and plate now rested empty atop the small table where they’d breakfasted, and Marigold sat in the chair she’d previously occupied, sniffing the crumbs at the edge of the tablecloth.

“ Certainly . We’ll leave shortly.” The sooner the better . Phoebe hurried over to the end table, collecting the blanket she’d set aside for the excursion. “ Why don’t you fetch a favorite book or two to bring along? Or perhaps your watercolors? I’ll go down to the kitchens and ask to have a basket prepared.”

She offered Emily a smile, and at her nod of agreement, Phoebe departed, putting thoughts of marquesses on horseback—and of certain books—soundly out of mind. With any luck, the time outdoors would do them both good. Perhaps the summer sunshine would bring color back to Emily’s wan face, and the fresh air would help Phoebe clear her head. Yes , the picnic involved establishing themselves near the lake . But she would forbid herself from thinking of past events in that location. Emily deserved her full attention, and in granting it, Phoebe would be much better off as well.

She proceeded with the best of intentions. And she would have fulfilled them, surely, had the sight that greeted her in the kitchen not been that of a tousled, panting Lord Rockliffe .

He stood at the worktable with his back turned to her, his shoulders heaving from the aftereffects of the ride. He’d doffed his coat, and his shirtsleeves clung to him, revealing the muscular contours beneath. As for the breeches hugging his thighs, the angle at which she stood granted her a particularly advantageous view?—

She gave a little jolt and then froze. These were the very things she wasn’t supposed to think of, and here she was, woolgathering.

Well , no more. Mrs . Hodges , the cook, bustled over to the worktable with a mug and a plate of … preserves, it looked like, to give to the marquess, effectively holding his attention. Perhaps Phoebe could back away slowly without detection, then return at a more opportune time?—

“ Oh , good morning, Miss Windham .” The cheery cook’s eyes fell upon the doorway, making Phoebe’s plans for escape vanish like smoke flying up a chimney. “ Does Lady Emily require something else for her breakfast?”

“ Good morning, Mrs . Hodges . And , uh, no.” Blast , why did her voice sound like a squeak? She forced herself to step into the kitchen and approach the worktable, and with her eyes resting on the cook—solely on the cook—she cleared her throat. Attempted to look pleasant and even-tempered. “ However , if you could pack a few things into a picnic basket for us, I would be much obliged.”

Mrs . Hodges was quick to acquiesce, moving to the other end of the kitchen and gathering up items with remarkable efficiency.

Meaning there was naught left for Phoebe to do but acknowledge the other person in the room, who had since spun in her direction with the mug pressed to his lips.

“ Good morning, my lord.” Thankfully , her voice regained its usual volume, and she successfully bobbed into a swift curtsey. She seemed to be growing skilled in that regard—offering a prompt and respectful greeting while pretending the sight of him didn’t affect her. For as long as they lived under the same roof, she’d do well to bolster her skills until her nonchalance was no longer feigned but real.

“ Miss Windham .” He set the mug back on the worktable and curtly inclined his head, a windswept auburn lock tumbling over his perspiration-sheened forehead. Not that she noticed.

She intended to utter a remark about returning to Lady Emily and use it as reason to abscond. She certainly did not intend to take another step closer to the worktable and gawk. However , something had appeared on Lord Rockliffe’s face. A white line that stretched above his upper lip.

Her eyes flitted down to the mug upon the worktable, empty but for a thin layer of white that coated the sides and pooled at the bottom. Milk . The marquess had just downed a mug of milk, the remnants lingering upon his skin.

She bit down on her lip, pressing her mouth into a tight line, although the corners seemed determined to slant upward despite her best efforts to keep them contained. His terse dismissal from the night before still grated. The thought of the pilfered book in her clothespress continued to make her heart beat faster and her stomach twist in knots. He was standing before her, as large and commanding as ever, close enough that she could smell the freshness of the outdoors on him, along with a heady scent that could only be described as male .

And even so. Something about the white mark on his neatly shaven visage proved so incredibly … funny.

“ Do you find something amusing about scones, Miss Windham ?” His clipped question pulled her out of yet another daydream, and he grabbed the plate which, now that he mentioned it, appeared to contain a scone beneath the abundant heap of preserves.

“ Not in the least,” she answered promptly, finding herself the recipient of a potent stare that looked dangerously close to becoming a glower—even if the effect was marred by the blatant white slash above his mouth. She swallowed, attempting to think sobering thoughts, to appear every bit as austere as the marquess himself. Yet her efforts did nothing to stop her errant lips from twitching and an unsolicited rejoinder to push its way to the forefront of her thoughts. “ Milk , on the other hand …”

Oh . Oh , no . She’d just said that aloud, hadn’t she? Which was preferable, perhaps, to laughing outright, except now, he frowned at her in silence. Causing the white stripe to dip.

Until all at once, his brows shot up in understanding, his hand rapidly swiping along his mouth. Making his other hand—the one holding the plate—jerk along with it and a splotch of red fly through the air.

And land soundly upon the middle of her bodice.

She peered down, feeling her jaw slacken. Her brow crease. The bombazine was too thick to allow the substance to permeate to her skin, yet it remained upon her gown, plain as day. A sticky red spot containing small pieces of—strawberry, it seemed.

Very slowly, she raised her head, as if she didn’t quite remember how to move. Lord Rockliffe was staring at her again, his chin cocked to the side, his blue eyes particularly wide. Their gazes locked, and for a moment, there was only stillness, in which the air between them felt heavy enough to break like a thundercloud releasing a deluge.

Yet suddenly, he snapped his neck upright, his spotless lips compressing into a line. Without a word, he reached for the kitchen towel that lay on the edge of the worktable, holding it out to her with all the solemnity the occasion afforded. However , she didn’t miss the spark in his eye. The way his mouth became the one that tried, and failed, not to twitch upward.

She accepted the towel with as much dignity as she could muster, silently dabbing at the stain. As she worked, the weight of his gaze stayed upon her, filled with intensity and poorly concealed mirth. Which , very well, she supposed she deserved. Be that as it may, the sensation built, and finally, she could stand it no longer, blurting out the first thing that came to mind. “ That is an obscene amount of preserves.”

She eyed his plate, trying to sound cross. In truth, humor spread like a contagion, making genuine displeasure impossible. Indeed , how could she feel perturbed when Lord Rockliffe’s features had become noticeably brighter, the tense lines in his forehead fading away?

For a moment, it looked like he would free his lip and give her a true smile. A transformation that would no doubt stay in her memory for days—months—to come.

He didn’t smile, though, not really. Rather , the twist of his mouth was … sly. The glint in his eyes knowing. “ We all have our indulgences, do we not?”

Oh , Lord . Why did the lilt to his words make her think of things far beyond the realm of food? Such as explicitly illustrated books .

No . She refused to let her thoughts meander in that direction again. They were speaking of preserves. Only preserves. “ I prefer gooseberry, myself,” she muttered, glancing down at the small wet patch against her bodice that wouldn’t come clean.

He made a sound she would almost call a laugh, his body moving a little closer. Brushing against the folds of her black bombazine. “ That could only be because you’ve never had a Beaumont -grown strawberry. A situation that requires urgent remediation.”

The plate containing the untouched scone and mound of preserves appeared beneath her nose. A peace offering, perhaps. And while maybe she should have replied that she would keep to gooseberry, thank you very much, she didn’t. She tossed aside the kitchen towel and accepted the plate, their fingers brushing as he transferred it into her grasp.

His palm was scarred, she registered with a start, marked by jagged, pink-white lines. A fact that hadn’t been visible beneath his gloves or from afar, that she hadn’t noticed after the initial shock of being pelted with preserves. However , she didn’t spend any further time studying his hands, or her own, which still tingled from the heat of his skin, the coolness of his signet ring. Instead , she held the plate before her eyes, assessing how best to pick up the scone without making a mess.

Which was looking increasingly like an impossible feat. And so, she simply dove in, her fingertips sinking into preserves as she lifted the scone to her mouth and took a bite.

A mixture of sweet and tart burst onto her tongue, a flavor reminiscent of the height of summer. She’d never eaten preserves to such excess and could suddenly see how he would derive pleasure from it. Although did her pleasure truly come from the indulgence? Or was it amplified by the way his pupils grew large as he watched her? By the way he made a low, barely perceptible sound as she licked a dab of preserves from the edge of her lip.

With a motion that proved not entirely steady, she set the plate back on the worktable, wiping her fingers upon the towel. Now that she’d finished eating, the time had come for her to say something. Unfortunate , given how her head whirled with the effects of sugar. Sugar , or his masculine scent, blue eyes, and the piece of hair that toppled across his brow.

She swallowed again, her throat covered in sweetness. “ It’s … oh!”

Something swept along her leg, and she lurched in surprise, her gaze shooting downward and encountering Marigold , who sniffed around the floor at her feet. The cat, despite her size, was so stealthy that one rarely heard her enter a room. And if Marigold was here?—

Phoebe jerked her head back up, scanning the kitchen to find Mrs . Hodges standing near the other end of the worktable with the requested basket in hand. Emily hovering in the doorway with two books clutched to her chest. Both staring at the scene in wide-eyed silence.

Phoebe’s cheeks heated, and she could only hope their color didn’t resemble that of the strawberry preserves. Just as she hoped the strawberry stain upon her dress didn’t command attention. Black concealed it well, didn’t it?

Whatever the case, it was time to put the incident out of mind. She stepped over Marigold , rushing to take the basket from Mrs . Hodges , the unexpected weight of it making her arm drop.

“ Thank you, Mrs . Hodges , you’ve outdone yourself,” she said, hefting the basket onto the worktable and motioning for Emily to join her as she peeked at its contents.

The girl obliged, her footfalls against the kitchen floor every bit as furtive as Marigold’s . However , when she arrived at the worktable, she didn’t look in the basket but at her father, fixing him, not for the first time in Phoebe’s experience, with an unreadable stare. Letting his sparse good morning go unanswered but not looking away.

Phoebe’s heart didn’t seem to be beating at a normal rhythm, and she couldn’t rid herself of the taste of strawberry. But suddenly, none of that mattered. She had a purpose in this house that did not involve lusting after Lord Rockliffe , and that purpose—nothing more—required her full concentration.

She replaced the lid over the abundance of fruit, sandwiches, and pastries, then dared to look at the marquess. Even drummed up a half-smile. “ There’s far more here than two people can eat.”

She remembered full well how rapidly he’d dismissed her suggestion last night of joining them for the picnic. Did he not feel differently, though, in the light of day when his daughter stood before him?

However , Emily no longer looked at him but at the floor, her attention on Marigold as the cat wove in and out between her feet. Neither of them the least bit interested in acknowledging the marquess’s presence.

As for Lord Rockliffe , his jaw tightened, as if the flashes of lightness upon his countenance had been only an illusion. “ Yes . Well , I wish you both a pleasant day.” He pushed himself away from the worktable, turning in the direction of the corridor.

Phoebe opened her mouth, her chest swelling with the beginning of a protest. But before she could utter a word, Emily took the lead, tugging on Phoebe’s arm to guide her toward the kitchen door that led out to the garden. Leaving the marquess swiftly behind before he had a chance to leave them.

So much for well-practiced manners and nonchalance, for Phoebe didn’t even have the presence of mind to issue a farewell. All she knew was that Marigold let out a hiss, and in the next moment, the door banged open, and Emily dragged her out into the sunshine.

Fortunately , Emily didn’t take it in her head to run about wildly—they’d both done more than enough of that the day before. But nor did she adopt the languid pace of an invalid, instead moving along the grass with steady, determined strides, her cheeks flushing from the effort.

Phoebe didn’t try to engage her in conversation as they walked. She had a feeling such efforts wouldn’t be welcome; not to mention, the scene in the kitchen had given her a great deal to reflect upon in silence.

It was the oddest thing. She’d seen the way Emily looked at her father. Yesterday in the field. Just now in the kitchen. Before that in her bedchamber window. Always taking stock of his presence. Likewise , there’d been no mistaking Lord Rockliffe’s expression of alarm that changed to relief when he came upon his runaway daughter beneath the tree. Nor could Phoebe forget the sentiments he’d expressed, in a gentler tone than all his other directives, when he offered the governess position. I just want her to have a companion who will make her happy again .

Despite how they both possessed a stony exterior, the marquess cared for his daughter deeply, and she returned his affection; Phoebe would stake her life on it. Yet , for whatever reason, Emily shut him down the instant he came too close, and he, in turn, was quick to recoil.

For Phoebe’s part, staying out of the marquess’s company would make matters much, much easier. However , her own silly sentiments meant nothing compared to those of a young girl grieving her mother and a husband grieving his wife. Having one’s life turned upside down could cause a person to act in illogical ways, as she well knew, and she’d felt so certain that if she gave Emily and the marquess just a little push together, they could find comfort in one another as they dealt with their loss.

Instead , her efforts had been met with Lord Rockliffe’s immediate dismissal while leaving Emily more flint-faced than ever.

Phoebe kicked a stone with the toe of her half-boot and drew in a long inhale, the air especially fragrant now that they neared a cluster of blooming pink shrubs beside the lake. Had she misjudged something about the situation? Yes , perhaps she had, but that didn’t mean she should give up. She still knew so little of Lord Rockliffe and Lady Emily’s circumstances prior to their return to England , and if Emily took issue with him for some reason, she wanted to understand what it was.

She waited until they’d spread their blanket beneath the shade of an oak tree and each had a glass of lemonade before she tried broaching the subject. It was imperative she proceed with the utmost caution, for she and Emily were still little more than acquaintances, and she couldn’t risk the girl shutting her out just as she did the marquess. However , as Emily reclined against the tree trunk, recovering from the effort of their walk and even smiling a little as she watched Marigold chase a butterfly, Phoebe decided it was as good a time as any.

“ Are you happy to be back in England , Lady Emily ?” she asked casually, reaching for her glass to refill it with lemonade.

For a moment, she didn’t know if she’d receive a response, for Emily didn’t acknowledge the question but continued to peer out at their surroundings. The tiny ripples drifting across the lake. Marigold crouching in the grass along the shore. Emily’s solemn amber eyes took it all in, and the only part of her that moved was the end of her dark braid fluttering in the breeze. Until out of nowhere, her quiet voice emerged, scarcely distinguishable above the rustle of grass and leaves. “ Yes , I’m glad. I didn’t want to go to India .”

“ India ?” Phoebe couldn’t hold back her surprise. She supposed she hadn’t given much thought to their destination, and she certainly hadn’t pictured a place that far away. “ That’s quite a voyage.”

“ Yes .” Emily shifted, not toward Phoebe but to press her cheek against the rough surface of the tree trunk. “ We didn’t make it to India , though. When Mama got sick, we had to disembark in Saint Helena . I didn’t want to go there, either.”

“ I’m very sorry.” Phoebe had far more questions than answers, but those would have to wait. For now, she reached for Emily’s hand, and the girl’s slender fingers returned the pressure of her own. “ I know how difficult that must have been for you and your papa.”

“ Papa wasn’t there. Not at first.” Emily stiffened, her fingernails grazing the surface of Phoebe’s palm. “ It was just Mama , me, and Mr . Mowbray . And given how things turned out, Papa may as well have spared himself a trip and stayed home.”

Phoebe felt her mouth gaping, the power of speech temporarily knocked from her body. It was becoming more apparent by the second that the story of Lord Rockliffe , his wife, and their ill-fated journey held depths she hadn’t begun to fathom. But what did it matter when, in the midst of it all, there remained a girl harboring a deep-rooted hurt? Phoebe may not realize the details of what happened, but she at least had to take what she did know and use it to assuage Emily’s misbeliefs. “ Of course he wouldn’t stay home. I’m sure he was very worried about you when you were ill, and he would never leave you to travel without a guardian?—”

“ Because he had no choice!”

Phoebe gasped at the sudden burst of vehemence in Emily’s voice. “ I’m certain he didn’t do it out of obligation, but out of care and lo?—”

“ What do you know about it?” At last, Emily snapped her head away from the tree trunk to look at Phoebe , but her eyes were steely, and her slender chin quivered below her clenched teeth. “ You’ve only been here a day, and you know nothing .”

Again , Phoebe found herself struggling for words, her body stiff and ill-at-ease. As a governess, she should never permit that sort of rejoinder—her own childhood governess would have rapped her knuckles for far less. However , as she peered wordlessly into Emily’s thin, trembling face, she found it difficult to see impudence. All that stood out to her was hurt.

“ You’re right,” Phoebe conceded quietly, all too aware that she rested on shaky ground. “ I do have very little knowledge of what happened, but?—”

“ Do you think we could read now, Miss Windham ?” Emily cut her off and then sank back against the tree, her eyes appearing sorrowful. Pleading . It was as if in the span of an instant, all the fight had drained from her body.

“ Yes .” Phoebe stretched across the blanket, retrieving one of the books Emily had set down near the picnic basket. “ Yes , of course. Why don’t I read aloud?”

What other answer could she give? Lord Rockliffe had hired her to make his daughter happy, and she wanted so much to accomplish that. But how would that happiness become anything but fleeting when Emily kept so much unspoken heartache concealed below the surface?

A small hand fell upon Phoebe’s arm as she opened the book, and Emily shuffled forward, nestling herself beside Phoebe and resting her head atop her shoulder.

Phoebe swallowed, pushing down the choking sensation in her throat so she could manage the first word upon the page. “ I - Introduction .” She had no question she’d done right by putting the outburst behind them, for in doing so, she appeared to have gained Lady Emily’s trust and affection. For some reason, the thought made her eyes sting.

That didn’t mean this was over, though. She kept reading, line after line, not missing a beat. Her mind, however, was elsewhere.

Her resolution remained unchanged; in fact, it had only grown more pressing. Emily had almost seemed to suggest that her father viewed her as a burden, and Phoebe couldn’t let that assumption lie. She would find the reason for the distance between Lord Rockliffe and his daughter, and then, she would help bridge the gap.

And if she couldn’t speak of it to Emily …

She chanced a glance upward to the crystalline water lapping at the shore.

If she couldn’t speak to Emily , it would seem she needed to have a conversation with the marquess.