by Lisa Kleypas
“I know, sweetheart.” A shadow came over West’s expression. “But you won’t want both of us in the same vicinity for long, or the situation will turn into a powder keg.”
“That doesn’t worry me.”
“It does me,” he said quietly. “I’ve caused too many disgraceful scenes and left behind enough unhappy wreckage for a lifetime. I don’t want reminders. Sometimes I fear . . .” He paused. “You don’t understand how thin the veil is that separates me from what I used to be.”
Phoebe did understand. Or rather, she understood that was what he believed. Staring at him compassionately, she laid her hands on either side of his face. With all his remarkable qualities, West also had his own vulnerabilities . . . fragile places that needed to be safeguarded. Very well—she would shield him from any ugly scenes involving herself and Edward.
“Regardless of how long you stay,” she said, “I’m glad you’re here now.”
West’s forehead lowered to hers, and the heat of his whisper caressed her lips. “God, so am I.”
In the days that followed, the decorum of Clare Manor was disrupted by the vigorous presence of West Ravenel, and the sounds of his booted feet on the stairs, and his deep voice and rumbling laugh. He chased the children through the hallways and made them squeal, and took them out to romp outside, tracking dirt and pebbles on the carpet as they came back in. He investigated every corner of the house, learned the names of the servants, and asked innumerable questions of everyone. Charmed by his quick humor and affable manner, the staff obligingly paused in their labors to tell him anything he wanted to know. The old master gardener was delighted by West’s ability to discuss the intricacies of weather and how best to defeat plant-destroying caterpillars. The cook was flattered by his hearty appetite. Nanny Bracegirdle enjoyed herself to no end lecturing him about having allowed Justin to jump in puddles after a rain shower and ruining his good shoes.
One afternoon, Phoebe went in search of West and discovered him reshaping the topiaries in the formal garden, which had gone untended since the old gardener’s onset of rheumatism. Pausing at the threshold of a set of open French doors, she took in the scene with an absent smile. West had climbed an orchard ladder and was clipping the tree with shears at the direction of the old gardener who stood below.
“What do you think?” West called down to Justin, who was gathering twigs and branches into a pile as they fell.
The child viewed the topiary critically. “Still looks like a turnip.”
“It’s a perfectly recognizable duck,” West protested. “There’s the body, and this is the bill.”
“It has no neck. A duck needs a neck, or he can’t quack.”
“I can’t argue with that,” West said ruefully, turning back to clip more leaves.
Laughing to herself, Phoebe withdrew back into the house. But the image of it stayed with her: West, tending Henry’s beloved topiary trees, spending time with his son.
Thank God Georgiana was away for the winter: she would have been appalled by the way West’s presence had dispelled any lingering sense that this was a house of mourning. Not that Henry was forgotten: far from it. But now the reminders of him were no longer anchored to gloom and sadness. His memory was being honored, while a breath of new life had swept into Clare Manor. He had not been replaced, but there was room for more love here. A heart could make as much room as love needed.
In the mornings, West liked to have a large, early breakfast, after which he would ride out to some of the tenant farms. Phoebe had gone with him the first day, but it had quickly become apparent that her presence unnerved the tenants, who were overawed and nervous around her. “Much as I love your company,” West had told her, “you may have to let me approach them alone. After years of no direct interaction with any of the Larsons, the last thing they’ll do is speak freely in front of the lady of the manor.”
The next day, when he’d gone out on his own, the results were much better. West had met with three of the estate’s largest leaseholders, who had shared a great deal of information and shed some light on a particular accounting mystery.
“Your estate has some interesting problems,” West told Phoebe when he returned in the afternoon, finding her in the winter garden with the cats. He was in a buoyant mood, having been out riding and walking in the fields. He smelled like autumn air, sweat, soil, and horses, a pleasantly earthy mixture.
“I don’t think I want interesting problems,” Phoebe said, going to a tray table to pour a glass of water for him. “I’d rather have ordinary ones.”
West took the water with a murmur of thanks and drained it thirstily, a few drops sliding down the rippling front of his neck. Phoebe was briefly transfixed by the movements of that strong throat, remembering a moment the night before when he’d arched over her, his shoulders and back lifting as his muscles had bunched with pleasure.
“I saw some damned beautiful land today,” he said, setting the empty glass on the tray table. “Now I understand why your crop yields are better than I would have expected, despite the primitive farming methods the tenants use. But there’s no way to avoid it—you’re going to have to invest in miles of field drainage and hire a steam-powered machine with rotary diggers to loosen up all that heavy clay. None of your fields have ever been cultivated deeper than a wineglass. The soil has been trodden by horses and compacted by its own weight for centuries, so it’s a struggle for plants to sink their roots into it. The good news is, once the ground is loosened and aerated, that alone will likely double your production.”
“Lovely,” Phoebe exclaimed, pleased. “Is that the interesting problem?”
“No, I’m about to tell you that. Do you recall those puzzling entries in the crop book, in which some of the tenants give four different numbers for their crop yields?
“Yes.”
“It’s because many of your leaseholds are still laid out in an open-field system, the way they were back in medieval times.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means a farm like Mr. Morton’s, which I visited today, is divided into four strips, and they’re scattered over an area of four square miles. He has to travel separately to farm each strip.”
“But that’s absurd!”
“It’s impossible. Which is why most large landowners did away with the open-field system long ago. You’re going to have to find a way to put all the acreage together and redistribute it so each tenant can have one good-sized plot of land. But that won’t be as easy as it may sound.”
“It doesn’t sound easy at all,” Phoebe said glumly. “The estate would have to renegotiate all the lease agreements.”
“I’ll find an experienced arbiter for you.”
“Many of the tenants will refuse to take a plot that’s inferior to someone else’s.”
“Persuade them to start raising livestock instead of corn growing. They would make higher profits than they’re making now. Nowadays there’s more money in milk and meat than grain.”
Phoebe sighed, feeling anxious and irritable. “Obviously Edward and his father aren’t the ones to handle any of this, since neither of them saw fit to bring it up to me in the first place.” She made a face and looked up at him. “I wish you would do it. Couldn’t I hire you? Indefinitely? How expensive are you?”
His mouth quirked, his eyes suddenly hard and humorless. “At face value, I’m cheap. But I come with hidden costs.”
Drawing closer, Phoebe hugged herself to him and laid her head against his chest.
Eventually his arms lifted around her, and the pressure of his cheek came to her hair. “I’ll help you,” he said. “I’ll make sure you have whatever you need.”
You’re what I need, she thought. She let her hands move over his spectacular body, so familiar to her now. Daringly she drew a hand down his front, her palm skimming over the fly of his trousers, where a firm bulge distended the soft woven fabric. His breathing changed. When she looked up at his face, she saw that his eyes had turned w
arm again, his features relaxed and lust drowsed.
“I wish we didn’t have to wait until tonight,” she said, a catch in her voice. In the evenings, after dinner, they relaxed with the children in the family parlor, playing games and reading until the boys were taken up to bed. Then West would retire to the guest house, where Phoebe would later join him under cover of darkness. In the single flame of an oil lamp, he would undress her beside the bed, his hands and mouth sweetly tormenting every inch of newly revealed flesh.
That would be hours from now.
“We don’t have to wait,” he said.
His head bent. His mouth came to hers, his tongue a gentle, exquisite invasion that caused a sympathetic quiver in a place lower down that also yearned to be invaded. But . . . here? In the winter garden in broad daylight? . . .
Yes. Anything he wanted. Anything.
Chapter 28
In a few minutes, West had pinned Phoebe against a corner wall of the winter garden, in a sheltered space of stone and feathery leaves. He possessed her with passion-roughened kisses, almost eating at her mouth, greedily drawing in the honeysuckle taste of her. Her skin was milk-white with golden flecks, smoothness quivering at the stroke of his tongue. With one hand, he held the front of her skirts up at her waist, and with the other he reached inside her drawers, his fingers parting the soft lips. He played with her, flicking and stroking, his fingers sinking into her wet, gripping depths. It aroused him to see how hard she was trying to be quiet and couldn’t quite manage it, strangled moans and gasps slipping out.
After unbuttoning his trousers and freeing his erection, West braced Phoebe up against the wall and entered her. She let out a cry of surprise at finding herself mounted on his hips, her legs dangling helplessly. Keeping her supported, he began to thrust, letting the hardness of his pubic bone nudge against the bud of her sex with every upward plunge.
“Is this good?” he asked gruffly, even though he could feel her throbbing response.
“Yes.”
“Too deep?”
“No. No. Keep doing that.” She clutched at his shoulders, her pleasure rising rapidly toward climax.
But when West felt her clamping on him, her body tensing in readiness for completion, he forced himself to stop. Ignoring her groans and squirms, he waited until the need for release had subsided. Then he began the rhythm again, took her to the edge and retreated, and laughed softly as she whined and protested.
“West . . . I was just about to . . .” She paused, still too modest to say it aloud. He adored that.
“I know,” West whispered. “I felt it. I felt you clenching on me.” He rolled his hips, pumping slowly. He was barely aware of what he was saying, only let the words fall over her like a cascade of flower petals. “You’re like silk. Every part of you is so fine . . . so sweet. I won’t stop next time. I love to watch when you reach the peak . . . the look on your face . . . always a little surprised . . . as if it’s something you’ve never felt before. You blush the color of a wild rose, everywhere . . . your little red ears turn so hot, and your lips tremble . . . yes, just like that . . .”
He kissed her panting mouth, loving the damp, satiny insides of her lips, the little velvety tongue lapping at his. Every time he drew his cock partially out, her muscles worked frantically to close on him, tug him back inside. The delight was so intense, he was half afraid his essence was leaking from him, seeping into that lively, luscious channel. She was coming now, tightening, pulsing, milking his hard-swollen flesh, while he fought to keep every movement steady and controlled, to make it good for her. The weight of his bollocks drew up tight and heavy, his body primed for release. He held on, stroking hard and deep, making her ride the movement until she had stopped spasming.
Now it would be his turn. Except he hadn’t exactly prepared for this. He had no sheath, nothing to contain his seed.
“Phoebe,” he rasped, still thrusting, “Which pocket do you keep your handkerchiefs in?”
It took her a moment to reply. “This dress has no pockets,” she said weakly.
West went still, gritting his teeth at the sharp, protesting twinges in his groin. “You don’t have even one handkerchief?”
Looking apologetic, she shook her head.
He let out a guttural curse. Slowly he lowered her feet to the floor and eased his aching shaft out of her warm, succulent depths, his body aching in anguish.
“Why can’t you . . .” Phoebe began, and then understanding dawned. “Oh.”
Bracing his hands on the wall, West closed his eyes. “Give me a few minutes,” he said curtly.
He heard the sounds of Phoebe straightening her clothes. After a moment, he heard her say, “I think I can help.”
“There’s nothing you can do.”
Strangely, Phoebe’s faintly amused voice seemed to come from below him. “I may never have seen any erotic postcards, but I’m sure there’s something I can do.”
West’s eyes opened, and he froze in amazement as he saw her kneeling between his thighs. He couldn’t make a single sound as she grasped his shaft in her hands, graceful and ladylike. Her head bent, and her beautiful mouth was on him, full lips parting carefully as she took him inside. Her tongue stroked and circled, painting wetness on the sensitive tip, and in a matter of seconds he cried out in ecstasy, delivered and overpowered by her . . . possessed by her. Owned for life.
Phoebe yawned as she came upstairs from the housekeeper’s room, where they had spent the morning going over the monthly household inventory. There had been a discussion of missing dinner napkins—two had been scorched by an inexperienced housemaid and another was suspected to have blown off the line on a windy day. A concern over the new laundry-washing mixture had been broached—too high a proportion of soda was making the linens thin. The coal bill was acceptable. The grocer’s bill had been a bit high.
The task of doing household inventory was always tedious, but it had been especially worse since Phoebe had had so little sleep the night before. West had made love to her for what had seemed to be hours, arranging her in one new position after another, exploring gently, patiently, until she’d been exhausted from too many wrenching climaxes and had begged him to stop.
Perhaps she should go up to her room for a short nap. The house was quiet. West was nowhere to be seen. He must have gone somewhere, or . . . no, he hadn’t. She paused in the main hall as she caught a glimpse of his lean, powerful form in the front receiving room. He stood at one of the windows, looking out at the main drive with his head slightly tilted in that way he had. The sight him of him made her feel warm all over and sent a quick flutter of happiness through her stomach.
Walking quietly in her thin-soled slippers, she stole into the receiving room and sneaked up behind him while he was still at the window. Standing on tiptoe, she pressed her breasts against his back and whispered near his ear, “Come with me, and we’ll—”
The room spun around her with stunning force. Before she could even finish the sentence, she had been seized and pinned against the wall. One of his hands clasped her wrists over her head, while the other was drawn back as if he were about to strike her. Oddly, the sight of that lethal upraised fist didn’t frighten her nearly as much as his eyes, hard and bright like the gleam of light on a knife blade.
Not West, her disoriented brain told her.
But this hostile stranger’s physical similarities to West alarmed her even more.
A high-pitched yelp jolted from her as soon as her shoulders encountered the wall.
The man’s face softened instantly, his fist dropping, all threat of violence disappearing. He released her wrists and gave her a remorseful glance. “I beg your pardon sincerely, my lady,” he said in an Irish brogue. “Whenever someone approaches me from behind, I . . . a reflex action, is what they call it.”
“I beg your pardon,” Phoebe said breathlessly, inching away from him. “I thought you were s-someone else.” His eyes were identical to West’s, a singular shade of dark blue rimme
d with black, surmounted by the same thick brows. But his complexion was fair-skinned, and his features were more narrow, and there was a thickness at the bridge of his nose where it had once been broken.
They both turned as West came into the room with swift, ground-eating strides, heading straight to Phoebe. He took her by the shoulders, his gaze raking over her. “Are you hurt?” he asked shortly.
The intense concern in his eyes and the familiar gentleness of his touch relaxed her immediately. “No, just startled. But it was my fault. I approached him from behind.”
West eased her close and ran his hand up and down along her spine in slow, calming strokes. He glanced over his shoulder at the butler, who must have gone to inform him of the visitor’s arrival. “That will be all, Hodgson.” Turning back to the stranger, he spoke in a pleasant voice, his gaze murderous. “Is this how you introduce yourself to aristocratic ladies, Ransom? A word of advice: generally they prefer a polite bow and ‘How do you do’ to being thrown about like a parcel post delivery.”
Ethan Ransom spoke to Phoebe penitently. “A thousand apologies, my lady. On my honor, it won’t happen again.”
“It won’t,” West agreed, “or I’ll come after you with a reaping hook.”
Despite the lethal sincerity in West’s tone, Ransom didn’t seem at all cowed, only grinned at him and came forward for a handshake. “My nerves are still a bit dodgy after this summer.”
“As usual,” West said, gripping the other man’s hand, “a visit from you is as soothing as a blister.”
Phoebe was struck by the easy familiarity between the two, as if they had known each other for years instead of months. “Mr. Ransom,” she said, “I do hope we’ll have the pleasure of your company for dinner. You’re welcome to stay the night, if you wish.”
“I’m obliged, milady, but I have to be back on the next train for London.” Ransom went to retrieve a small traveling bag that had been set beside a chair. “I’ve brought some materials for you to have a glance at. Make all the notes you like, but I have to take the original documents back with me and replace them before anyone notices they’re missing.”