With whoops of joy the boys raced for the front door, Juno plunging ahead of them. A manservant moved with alacrity to let them out.

A nursemaid was coming down the stairs, a baby in her arms. Portia took the infant, who had stopped wailing and was regarding the occupants of the hall with grave blue eyes. His hair was as red as his father’s.

“This is Viscount Decatur, sir.” Portia introduced her infant with maternal pride.

So Rufus Decatur had a legitimate heir. Cato felt the sharp stab of envy. He glanced at Phoebe, whose speedwell blue eyes returned his look without so much as a flash of self-consciousness.

“A handsome child,” he said with as much warmth as he could muster. “I’m glad you’ve had company in my absence, Phoebe. Is there anything else I should know about?”

“Ah, well, yes…” Phoebe began with enthusiasm. “Gypsies. You should know about the gypsies, sir.”

“And what should I know about them?”

“I found two of their orphaned children in a ditch.”

“A ditch?”

“Yes, it’s a little complicated.” Phoebe pushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. “But I know you’ll agree that I did the only thing I could do.”

Cato remembered the cabbages. “Were you perhaps digging in this ditch when you found these orphans?”

“No, of course not,” Phoebe said with some heat. “It was a ditch on the home farm and it was full of mud and water.”

“Ditches do tend to be,” Cato murmured.

“You are not being serious, sir,” Phoebe accused with that militant gleam in her eye again. “It’s a very serious matter.”

Cato ran his hand through his hair, ruffling the crisp dark thatch from the widow’s peak to his nape with the familiar gesture that as always made Phoebe’s belly lurch with desire.

“I stand corrected,” he said dryly. “Perhaps we should continue this in my study.”

He moved away from her across the hall to the door to his sanctum. Phoebe followed with impetuous step, her words preceding her.

“You see, as I understand it, there had been a fight for leadership in the tribe, and the children’s father, who had been the chief, was overthrown in a knife battle and he died of his wounds. So his children were left in the ditch, because the new chief took his enemy’s wife for his own and he didn’t want the other children to be a threat… in case one of the other families in the tribe decided to challenge his leadership. Like Romulus and Remus exposed outside Rome.”

Cato closed the door. “Why is my wife concerning herself with internecine strife among the Romanies?”

“I could hardly leave the poor little things to die in the ditch,” Phoebe pointed out. “They were on your land, my lord, apart from any humanitarian considerations. You wouldn’t wish it said that-”

“Now, just a minute, Phoebe. These are gypsies. They are not my tenants and they have no claims on my charity.”

“Well, what’s that got to do with it?” Phoebe demanded. “They’re little children. Of course I had to help them.”

“And just how did you help them?” Cato went to the sideboard to pour himself wine.

“I fostered them in the village, but I had to promise that we would pay for their keep. No one has enough to spare for two more mouths. But you do.” She regarded him with the air of one who has delivered the coup de grace.

“I don’t care for your tone, Phoebe, I’ve told you that before,” Cato said coldly.

“Then I ask pardon, my lord. But when you seem not to understand the importance, how else can I make you see what has to be done?” Phoebe met his frigid gaze steadily.

“And you are to be a judge of my actions, of course,” Cato said. “I think you have said all you can possibly have to say.” He bestowed a curt nod upon her and very deliberately picked up some papers on his desk.

Phoebe hesitated, then she accepted her dismissal and left the study, closing the door with exaggerated care behind her.

Cato let the papers fall to the desk. He felt as if he’d been run over by a juggernaut. Pathetic, starving, homeless orphans in a ditch! For God’s sake!

He reached for the bellpull and paced the study until the summons was answered.

“Send for the bailiff at once,” he ordered curtly. Presumably Phoebe would have informed the bailiff of her actions. The man would know where the children were housed and what outlay was necessary to keep them clothed and fed.

Phoebe stood in the hall for a minute, wondering if she’d made any impact on Cato. But he’d dismissed her so firmly there wasn’t much else she could do at present. Where were Olivia and Portia?

Portia was probably feeding the hungry Alex in the parlor. She ran up the stairs to the bedchamber, where she scrubbed the ink from her mouth with ferocious vigor. Then she made her way to the square parlor at the back of the house.

Portia was ensconced on the deep window seat, Alex contentedly nuzzling her breast. Eve was sucking her thumb dreamily, leaning against her mother’s drawn-up knees.

“This would be the very picture of a maternal idyll if you didn’t look so unlikely,” Phoebe observed. “Do you never wear dresses anymore?”

“Only if Rufus expresses a preference,” Portia said with a wicked little grin. She moved Alex to her other breast.

“Where’s Olivia?”

“In her chamber reading Pliny, I believe.” Portia cast Phoebe a shrewd look as the other woman paced restlessly from the fireplace to the door and back again.

“So, what do you think of the state of matrimony, then, duckie?” Portia inquired. “As I recall, you were as much against it as I was.”

“I still am,” Phoebe stated. “It’s damnable not to be your own person anymore, Portia. To belong to a husband.”

Portia nodded her understanding. “Laws made by men are going to favor men,” she observed with a cynical smile. “But we aren’t helpless, you know. Even husbands can be cut to fit.”

“Maybe… if they notice you exist,” Phoebe said tightly, coming to a halt by a worktable. She flipped open the lacquered lid of the workbox and began to trawl through embroidery silks with her fingers, not looking at Portia.

“What do you mean?” Portia lifted the satiated baby and held him against her shoulder, patting his back.

Phoebe’s color was high, but there was no one but Portia in whom she could confide.

“Do people always make love in the dark, with the curtains closed, and they don’t say anything, and it’s all over so quickly, you barely realize it’s happened, and…?”

“Wait! Wait a minute!” Portia interrupted the flow. “Is that what happens?”

“Every night,” Phoebe said dismally. “And it’ll happen every night just like that until I conceive. He doesn’t find me appealing, don’t you see. How could he after Diana?”

“Diana was a bitch… hard as nails,” Portia stated. “I expect she preferred the dark. She probably would have preferred it if it could have happened in her sleep when she didn’t know anything about it.” Her lip curled with scorn.

This struck Phoebe as remarkably shrewd. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she said. “Maybe Cato thinks I’m the same.”

“But you’re not?” It was clearly a question.

“No!” Phoebe cried. “No, I’m not. I ache, Portia. I’m so hungry for him to touch me. I want to see him naked, I want to touch him, every inch of him. I could eat him,” she added with another wail. “It’s such torment.”

Portia’s jaw dropped slightly. It wasn’t that she didn’t understand the need, it just surprised her coming from Phoebe. “Are you saying you love Cato?”

“Love, lust, I don’t know!” Phoebe dropped the lid of the workbox with a clatter. “All I know is that when I hear his footstep, my stomach drops. When he pushes his hair back with his hand in the way he does, my thighs go all quivery, and when he touches me, even accidentally, I start to thrum like a plucked lute. I turn into a jelly. I want him… all of him.”