by Lisa Kleypas
“And your father?”
“He was as cool as a cucumber about the whole thing, of course. He spent the afternoon playing billiards with the other gentlemen, and later went up to your room for a rest. But Mama, when he and I walked back to the house this morning, he said some very disagreeable things about Edward Larson—and about Henry!”
“Oh, dear.” Evie had listened sympathetically to her daughter’s account of the conversation and soothed her with a promise to speak to Sebastian and try to soften his views on Edward Larson.
Now Evie hurried upstairs in search of her husband as fast as possible without giving the appearance of haste. She reached their suite, a spacious and well-appointed bedroom with an attached dressing room and a tiny antechamber converted into a lavatory.
Upon entering the main room, Evie discovered her husband lounging in a large, old-fashioned slipper tub. Since the lavatory was too small to allow for a tub, a portable one had to be carried in by footmen and laboriously filled with large cans of hot water brought by housemaids.
Sebastian leaned back with one long leg propped at the far end of the tub, a crystal glass of brandy clasped negligently in one hand. His once tawny amber hair was handsomely silvered at the sides and temples. The daily ritual of a morning swim had kept him fit and limber, his skin glowing as if he existed in perpetual summer. He might have been Apollo lazing on Olympus: a decadent golden sun god utterly lacking in modesty.
His lazy voice meandered through the veil of aromatic steam. “Ah, there you are, pet. Did you enjoy your outing?”
Evie smiled as she went to him. “I did.” She knelt beside the tub so that their faces were level. “F-from what I’ve heard, it wasn’t as eventful as yours.” Since childhood, she had spoken with a stammer, which had lessened over the years but still attached itself to a syllable here or here.
His gaze caressed her face, while a wet forefinger traced a spray of freckles on her upper chest. “You heard about the incident in the paddock.”
“And how you climbed in after Justin.”
“I wasn’t in a moment’s danger. Ravenel was the one who held off a belligerent bull while I fetched the boy.”
Evie closed her eyes briefly at the thought of it and reached for the crystal glass in his hand. She downed what little was left and set the glass on the floor. “You suffered no injuries?”
Two long, wet fingers hooked the top of her neckline and tugged her closer to the side of the bathtub. Sebastian’s eyes were pale, lucent blue, sparkling like winter starlight. “I may have enough of a sprain to require your services.”
A smile curved her lips. “What services?”
“I need a bath maid.” Catching one of her hands, he drew it down into the water. “For my hard-to-reach places.”
Evie resisted with a throaty chuckle, tugging at her imprisoned wrist. “You can reach that by yourself.”
“My sweet,” he said, nuzzling into her neck, “I married you so I wouldn’t have to do it myself. Now . . . tell me where you think my sprain is.”
“Sebastian,” she said, trying to sound severe as his wet hands roved over her bodice, “you’re going to r-ruin my dress.”
“Unless you remove it.” He gave her an expectant glance.
Smiling wryly, Evie pulled away and stood to comply. He had always loved to have her undress for him, especially when the clothing was intricate with many fastenings. Her pink muslin summer dress had been topped with a matching vest fastened all down the front with pearl buttons . . . exactly the style of garment he fancied watching her remove.
“Tell me about the picnic,” her husband said, sliding a bit lower in the water, his gaze moving over her intently.
“It was lovely. We were brought out in wagonettes to a green hill. The footmen spread cloths on the ground and set out picnic hampers and pails of ice . . . and then we were left alone to feast and talk as much we pleased.” Evie worked diligently on the buttons, finding some of them difficult to unfasten. “Daisy told us about her latest trip to New York, and—you’ll never guess—she’s modeling a character in a gothic novel after you. A v-vampire!”
“Hmm. I’m not sure I like the idea of being a creature in a gothic novel. What exactly does he do?”
“He’s a handsome, elegant fiend who bites his wife’s neck every night.”
His brow cleared. “Oh, that’s all right, then.”
“But he never drinks enough of her blood to kill her,” Evie continued.
“I see. He keeps her conveniently on tap.”
“Yes, but he loves her. You make her sound like a cask with a spigot. It’s not as if he wants to do it, but he—did you just ask something?”
“I asked if you can undress any faster.”
Evie huffed with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. “No, I can’t. There are too many b-buttons, and they’re very small.”
“What a pity. Because in thirty seconds, I’m going to rip away whatever clothing you have left.”
Evie knew full well not to take the threat lightly—he’d done it before, on more than one occasion. “Sebastian, no. I like this dress.”
Her husband’s eyes glinted with devilish humor as he watched her increasingly frantic efforts. “No dress is as beautiful as your naked skin. All those sweet freckles scattered over you, like a thousand tiny angel kisses . . . you have twenty seconds left, by the way.”
“You don’t even h-have a clock,” she complained.
“I’m counting by heartbeats. You’d better hurry, love.”
Evie glanced anxiously down at the row of pearl buttons, which seemed to have multiplied. With a defeated sigh, she dropped her arms to her sides. “Just go on and rip it off,” she mumbled.
She heard his silky laugh, and a sluice of water. He stood with streams runneling over the sleek, muscled contours of his body, and Evie gasped as she was pulled into a wet, steaming embrace.
His amused voice curled inside the sensitive shell of her ear. “My poor little put-upon wife. Let me help you. As you may recall, I have a way with buttons . . .”
Later, as Evie lay beside him, deeply relaxed and still tingling in the aftermath of pleasure, she said drowsily, “Phoebe told me about your conversation during the walk back to the house.”
Sebastian was slow to reply, his lips and hands still drifting over her gently. “What did she say?”
“She was unhappy about your opinion of Edward Larson.”
“No more unhappy than I, when I learned he’d broached the subject of marriage with her. Did you know about that?”
“I thought he might have. I wasn’t certain.”
Propping himself up on one elbow, Sebastian looked down at her with a frown. “God spare me from having to call another Larson ‘son-in-law.’”
“But you cared very much for Henry,” Evie said, surprised by the comment.
“Like a son,” he agreed. “However, that never blinded me to the fact that he was far from Phoebe’s ideal partner. There was no balance between them. His force of will never came close to matching hers. To Henry, Phoebe was as much a mother as a wife. I only consented to the match because Phoebe was too bullheaded to consider anyone else. For reasons I still don’t fully understand, she would have Henry or no one.”
Evie played with the light mat of his chest hair. “Whatever Henry’s faults, Phoebe always knew he belonged to her alone. That was worth any sacrifice. She wanted a man whose capacity for love was unqualified.”
“Does she claim to find the same capacity in that spineless prig Larson?”
“I don’t believe so. But her purposes for marriage are different this time.”
“Whatever her purposes, I won’t have my grandsons raised by an invertebrate.’
“Sebastian,” she chided softly, although her lips quivered with amusement.
“I mean for her to partner with Weston Ravenel. A healthy young buck with sharp wits and a full supply of manly vigor. He’ll do her much good.”
“Let’s all
ow Phoebe to decide if she wants him,” Evie suggested.
“She had better decide soon, or Westcliff will snap him up for one of his daughters.”
This was a side of Sebastian—high-handed to the verge of being autocratic—that almost inevitably developed in men of vast wealth and power. Evie had always been careful to curb such tendencies in her husband, occasionally reminding him that he was, after, a mere mortal who had to respect other people’s rights to make their own decisions. He would counter with something like, “Not when they’re obviously wrong,” and she would reply, “Even then,” and eventually he would relent after making a great many caustic observations about the idiocy of people who dared to disagree with him. The fact that he was so often right made Evie’s position difficult, but still, she never backed down.
“I like Mr. Ravenel too,” Evie murmured, “but there’s much about his background we don’t know.”
“Oh, I know everything about him,” Sebastian said with casual arrogance.
Knowing her husband, Evie thought ruefully, he’d read detailed reports on every member of the Ravenel family. “It’s not a given that he and Phoebe are attracted to each other.”
“You didn’t see them together this morning.”
“Sebastian, please don’t meddle.”
“I, meddle?” His brows lifted, and he looked positively indignant. “Evie, what can you be thinking?”
Lowering her face to his chest, she nuzzled the glinting hair. “That you’re meddling.”
“From time to time, I may adjust a situation to achieve a desired outcome for the benefit of my children, but that’s not meddling.”
“What do you call it, then?”
“Parenting,” he said smugly, and kissed her before she could reply.
Chapter 15
The morning after the farm tour, a multitude of carriages and horses crowded the front drive of Eversby Priority as the majority of wedding guests finally departed. The Challons were staying on for another three days to deepen their acquaintance with the Ravenels.
“Darling,” Merritt had entreated Phoebe during breakfast, “are you very sure you won’t come to stay with us at Stony Cross Park? Mr. Sterling and I are going to spend at a least a week there, and we would all love to have you and the children there. Tell me how I can persuade you.”
“Thank you, Merritt, but we’re settled and comfortable here, and . . . I need some quiet time after the wedding and all the socializing.”
A teasing light had appeared in Merritt’s eyes. “It seems my powers of persuasion are no match for a certain blue-eyed charmer.”
“No,” Phoebe had said quickly, “It has nothing to do with him.”
“A little flirtation will do you no harm,” Merritt had pointed out reasonably.
“But it can lead to nothing.”
“Flirtation doesn’t have to lead anywhere. One can simply enjoy it. Think of it as practice for when you start mixing in society again.”
After exchanging farewells with friends and acquaintances, Phoebe had decided to take her children and Nanny Bracegirdle for a morning walk before the heat of the day accumulated. Along the way, they would finally return the little black cat to the barn.
Although Phoebe had meant to take care of that particular errand yesterday, the plan had been derailed when Justin and Ernestine had taken the cat outside to one of the estate gardens to “answer nature’s call.” The creature had disappeared for the better part of the afternoon. Phoebe had joined in the search, but the fugitive was nowhere to be found. Toward evening, however, while changing for dinner, Phoebe had heard a scratching sound, and saw a pair of black paws swiping beneath the closed door. Somehow the cat had managed to slip back into the house.
Taking pity on her, Phoebe had sent for another plate of scraps from the kitchen. The cat had eaten voraciously, practically licking the glaze off the porcelain. Afterward she had stretched out on the carpet, purring with such contentment that Phoebe hadn’t the heart to send her back. The cat had spent the night curled up in Ernestine’s mending basket, and this morning had breakfasted on kippers.
“I don’t think she wants to go back to the barn,” Justin said, glancing up at Phoebe as she held the cat against her shoulder. Nanny walked beside them, pushing Stephen in a sturdy wicker pram with a white cambric parasol cover.
“The barn is her home,” Phoebe replied, “and she’s happy to be returning to her brothers and sisters.”
“She doesn’t look happy,” Justin said.
“She is, though,” Phoebe assured him. “She—ouch!—oh, galoshes—” The cat had climbed higher on her shoulder, its little claws perforating her muslin dress. “Nanny, I do wish you’d let me put her in the pram with Stephen. There’s plenty of room for her to ride near his feet.”
“The cat can’t ride with Baby,” came the adamant reply.
Unfortunately, Phoebe’s plan to return the cat to its proper home was foiled soon after they reached the hay barn. She managed to pry the cat’s claws from her dress and set her on the ground by the barn door. “There’s one of your friends,” Phoebe said, seeing a gray cat loitering near a tool shed. “Go, now . . . shoo! . . . Go and play.”
The gray cat hissed balefully and slunk away. The black cat turned and made to follow Phoebe, her tail raised as if she were tipping a hat in hopeful greeting.
“No,” Phoebe said firmly. “Shoo. You can’t come with us.”
But as they tried to walk away, the black cat followed.
Phoebe caught sight of a workman she recognized. “Good morning, Neddy.”
He approached and touched the brim of his cap. “Milady.”
“We seem to have borrowed one of the barn cats. We’re trying to return her, but she keeps following. I don’t suppose you have advice on how to make a cat stay?”
“If I could make a cat do that, it’d be a dog.”
“Perhaps you might hold her long enough for us to escape?”
“I would, milady, but she’d shred my arms to ribbands.”
Phoebe nodded ruefully and sighed. “You’re probably right. We’ll go on our walk. Hopefully she’ll lose interest and return to the barn.”
To Phoebe’s dismay, the cat kept pace with them, and began to meow uneasily as the barn disappeared from sight. They proceeded along an ancient drove lane, once used for taking cattle on foot between summer and winter pastures. Beech trees shaded the sunken path, which was bordered by hedges and earthen walls. As they neared a small wrought-iron footbridge arching across a stream, the cat’s cries became plaintive.
Phoebe stopped with a groan. “So much for our peaceful stroll out in nature.” She bent to pick up the little feline and winced as the cat dug its claws into her shoulder. Exasperated, she carried it to the pram. Before Nanny could object, she said, “I’ll take charge of Stephen.”
Nanny was expressionless. “You want me to push the cat in the pram, milady?”
“Yes, otherwise I’ll be a sieve by the time we return to Eversby Priory.”
Justin’s face brightened. “Are we going to keep her, Mama?”
“Only until we can find someone else to take her back to the barn.” Phoebe settled the cat on the white silk bedding of the pram. Stephen babbled with excited interest and reached for the furry creature, his little hands opening and closing like hungry starfish. With a laugh, Phoebe scooped him up before he could pull the cat’s tail. “Oh, no you don’t. Be gentle with kitty.”
The cat flattened her ears and gave the baby a baleful glance.
“Kitty!” Stephen exclaimed, leaning heavily in Phoebe’s arms to reach the cat. “Kitty!”
Phoebe lowered him to the ground and kept one of his chubby hands in hers. “Let’s walk beside the pram, darling.”
Eagerly Stephen started forward in his spraddling gait. As Nanny pushed the vehicle along the path, the black cat poked its head over the pram’s wicker edge, calmly viewing the passing scenery. For some reason, the sight of a cat riding in his pram str
uck the baby as uproariously funny, and he burst into giggles. Phoebe and Justin both chuckled, and even Nanny cracked a smile.
Before they crossed the bridge, they went down to have a look at the chalk stream, which was fringed with reeds, watercress, and yellow flag irises. The water flowing gently over the pebbled bed was gin clear, having been filtered through the Hampshire chalk hills.
“Mama, I want to put my feet in the water,” Justin exclaimed.
Phoebe sent Nanny a questioning glance. “Shall we stop here for a few minutes?”
The older woman, who was never averse to the prospect of a rest, nodded at once.
“Lovely,” Phoebe said. “Justin, do you need help with your shoes and stockings?”
“No, I can do it.” But as the boy bent to unfasten the buttons of his kid leather shoes, an unexpected noise caught his attention. He stopped and looked for the source of the sound, which was coming from downstream.
Phoebe frowned as she saw a lone man walking along the bank of the stream, idly whistling a folk tune. A battered hat with a wide brim shaded his face. His build was rangy and athletic, the loose, confident stride curbed by the hint of a strut. Curiously, his loose shirt and cotton canvas trousers looked as if he’d gone swimming in them, the fabric clinging wetly to the hard lines of his body.
“Perhaps we shouldn’t stop after all,” Phoebe murmured, her instincts warning her to leave as quickly as possible. A pair of women and two young children were easy marks for a man that size. “Come with me, Justin.”
To her astonishment, her son ignored the command and ran toward the disreputable-looking stranger with a gleeful yelp.
The man’s head lifted. A husky laugh sent a thrill of recognition along Phoebe’s nerves.
“Oh,” she said softly, watching as West Ravenel settled the battered hat on Justin’s head, lifted him high against his side, and carried him back to her.
Chapter 16
Phoebe hadn’t seen West since she’d visited his room yesterday. Since the unforgettable kiss she was supposed to forget. Except the sensations had somehow become woven into her skin, a subtle but constant stimulation she didn’t know how to erase. Her lips still felt a little swollen, aching to be pressed and stroked and soothed—that was an illusion, she knew—but the feeling only grew stronger as he approached.