Devil's Daughter

by Lisa Kleypas

  “That part isn’t ’til later,” Pandora whispered to him, but it was loud enough that the people around them overheard, and a rustle of laughter swept through the crowd.

  As the pastor began to speak, West glanced discreetly at the pew across the aisle, where the Challons were seated in a row. The duke whispered something in his wife’s ear that made her smile, before he brought her hand up to kiss the backs of her fingers.

  Phoebe sat on the duchess’s other side, with Justin on her lap. The boy leaned back against the soft curves of his mother’s bosom, while he played with a small toy elephant made of leather. The elephant trotted up one of Phoebe’s arms. Gently she pushed the toy back down and tried to direct Justin’s attention to the ceremony. In a moment, however, the elephant crept stealthily up her arm again, past her elbow, up to her shoulder.

  West watched with covert interest, expecting Phoebe to reprimand the child. Instead, she waited until the elephant had almost reached the joint of her neck. Turning her head, she bit it playfully, her white teeth closing on the little trunk. Justin snatched the elephant away with a giggle and subsided in her lap.

  West was struck by how natural and affectionate their interaction was. Clearly this was not the usual upper-class arrangement in which a child was raised by the servants and seldom seen or heard by his mother. Phoebe’s sons meant everything to her. Any candidate for her next husband would have to be ideal father material: wholesome, respectable, and wise.

  God knew that left him out of the running.

  That life—of being Phoebe’s husband, father to her children—was ready-made for someone else. A man who deserved the right to live with her in intimacy and watch her nightly feminine rituals of bathing, slipping on a nightgown, brushing out her hair. He alone would take her to bed, make love to her, and hold her while she slept. Someone out there was destined for all of that.

  Whoever he was, West hated the bastard.

  Chapter 9

  The morning after the wedding, Phoebe waited with her father and son in the front receiving room. Despite her reluctance, she had decided to go on the farm tour after all. There were few other options: it was still quite early, and the houseguests would all be sleeping for hours yet. She had tried to stay abed, but her brain was too restless, and it took more effort to keep her eyes closed than open.

  The bed was comfortable but different from the one at home, the mattress stuffing a bit softer than she preferred.

  Home . . . the word summoned thoughts of her family’s wide, airy, low-slung house by the sea, with arbors of pink roses over the courtyard entrance, and the holloway in the back leading down to the sandy beach. But soon she would have to start thinking of the Clare estate as home, even though when she returned, she would feel nearly as much of a stranger as she’d been on the day Henry had brought her there as his bride.

  She was uneasy about the condition of the land and farms. According to Edward, who sent her quarterly reports on estate business, rental income and crop yields had gone down for the second straight year. And grain prices had fallen. He’d told her that even though the estate had hit a rough patch, everything would eventually go back to the way it had always been. These things were cyclical, he’d said.

  But what if he was wrong?

  Justin charged across the room on his wooden hobbyhorse, made of a wooden stick with a carved horse head on one end and a little set of wheels on the other. “Gramps,” he asked, prancing and trotting around Phoebe’s father, Sebastian, who sat at a small table reading correspondence, “are you very graceful?”

  The duke looked up from the letter in his hand. “Why do you ask, child?”

  The wooden horse reared and turned in a tight circle. “Because everyone always talks about your grace. But why?”

  Sebastian exchanged a laughing glance with Phoebe. “I believe you’re referring to the honorific,” he told Justin. “People call a nonroyal duke or duchess ‘Your Grace’ as a term of respect, not as a reference to personal qualities.” A reflective pause. “Although I do happen to be quite graceful.”

  The child continued to dash about on the hobbyhorse.

  Hearing the metal wheels knock against a table leg, Phoebe winced and said, “Justin, dear, do be careful.”

  “It wasn’t me,” her son protested. “It was Splinter. He has too much energy. He’s hard to control.”

  “Tell him if he doesn’t behave, you’ll have to stable him in a broom closet.”

  “I can’t,” Justin said regretfully. “There are no holes in his ears for the words to go in.”

  As Phoebe watched her son romp out of the room into the entrance hall, she said, “I hope Splinter doesn’t knock over a housemaid or overturn a vase.”

  “Ravenel should be here soon.”

  Phoebe nodded, picking restlessly at a bit of frayed upholstery on the arm of her chair.

  Sebastian’s voice was soft and interested. “What’s troubling you, Redbird?”

  “Oh . . .” Phoebe shrugged and smoothed the upholstery threads repeatedly. “For two years, I’ve given Edward Larson free rein in managing the Clare estate. Now I regret not having taken more of a hand in it. I have to start thinking like a businesswoman—which is about as natural to me as singing opera. I hope I’ll prove equal to the job.”

  “Of course you will. You’re my daughter.”

  She smiled at him, feeling reassured.

  West Ravenel entered the room, dressed in a sack coat, well-worn trousers, and a collarless shirt. The leather boots on his feet were scuffed and scarred to a condition that no amount of polish could ever restore. The sight of him, big and handsome in the rough casual attire, caused a breath to stick in Phoebe’s throat.

  That long, luxurious, strangely intimate dinner now seemed like a dream. She’d been so animated, so chatty—it must have been the wine. She remembered behaving foolishly. Laughing too much. She recalled telling Mr. Ravenel that she no longer took pleasure in eating, after which she’d proceeded to devour a twelve-course meal like a starving London cab horse. God, why hadn’t she behaved with her usual restraint? Why hadn’t she guarded her tongue?

  Her face turned hot, the skin of her cheeks smarting.

  “My lady,” he murmured, and bowed. He turned to her father. “Kingston.”

  “Have you been working already?” Sebastian asked.

  “No, I rode out to the east side to have a look at the quarry. We’re mining a rare deposit of hematite ore, and—” Mr. Ravenel paused as he caught sight of Justin ducking behind a settee with the hobbyhorse. Resting most of his weight on one leg in a relaxed stance, he said with feigned regret, “Someone’s let a horse into the house. What a nuisance. Once they’re inside, it’s impossible to get rid of them. I’ll have to tell the housekeeper to set out some traps and bait them with carrots.”

  The wooden horse peeked out from behind the top edge of the settee and shook his head.

  “Not carrots?” Mr. Ravenel asked, advancing stealthily toward the settee. “What about apples?”

  Another shake.

  “A lump of sugar?”

  “Plum cakes,” came a small, muffled voice.

  “Plum cakes,” Mr. Ravenel repeated in villainous satisfaction. “A horse’s greatest weakness. Soon he’ll be caught in my trap . . . and then . . .” He dove behind the settee, pouncing on Phoebe’s unseen son.

  A shriek tore through the air, followed by a rush of boyish giggles and the sounds of rough-and-tumble play.

  Uneasily Phoebe began to move forward to intervene. Justin wasn’t accustomed to interacting with adult males except for her father and brothers. But her father stopped her with a light touch on her arm, a slight smile on his face.

  Mr. Ravenel rose from behind the settee, disheveled and rumpled. “Pardon,” he said with an air of mild concern, “but do I have something on my coat?” He twisted and turned to look over his shoulder, revealing Justin, who clung to his back like a monkey, short legs clamped around his lean waist.

&
nbsp; Phoebe was both puzzled and disarmed to see her son playing so easily with a virtual stranger. She couldn’t help but compare it to his interactions with Edward Larson, who was not the kind to indulge in spontaneous romping.

  “Shall we be off?” Mr. Ravenel asked her father.

  “I’m coming too,” Phoebe said. “If you have no objections.”

  Mr. Ravenel’s expression was unfathomable. “It would be a pleasure, my lady.”

  “Justin,” Sebastian said, “come walk with me. We’ll let Mr. Ravenel escort Mama.”

  Phoebe shot a vexed glance at her father, who pretended not to notice.

  Mr. Ravenel crouched low for Justin to wriggle down from his back and came to Phoebe.

  She was vaguely aware of her father saying something about taking Justin outside.

  Mr. Ravenel’s quiet voice cut through the kettledrum clamor of her heartbeat. “I hope you haven’t been coerced into this.”

  “No . . . I want to come.”

  A husky laugh rustled across her senses. “Said with all the enthusiasm of a sheep in the middle of its first shearing.”

  Seeing that his expression was friendly rather than mocking, Phoebe relaxed slightly. “I’m embarrassed for you to discover how little I know about any of this,” she admitted. “You’ll think badly of me. You’ll think it was willful ignorance.”

  Mr. Ravenel was silent for a moment. When he replied, his tone was very gentle.

  She blinked in surprise as she felt him touch her chin, angling her face upward. His fingers were dry and warm, textured like sandpaper and silk. The sensation carried and throbbed all through her. Two of his knuckles rested against the front of her throat with gossamer-light pressure. She stared up into his dark blue eyes, while a mysterious awareness brooded between them.

  “You had an invalid husband and a young son to raise,” he said gently. “You had your hands full. Did you think I wouldn’t understand that?”

  Phoebe was sure he could feel the movement of her swallow before his touch was slowly withdrawn. “Thank you,” she managed to say.

  “For what?” He offered his arm, and she took it, her fingers curling over the sleeve of his unlined linen coat.

  “For not criticizing, after I just gave you the perfect opportunity.”

  “A man with my history? I may be a scoundrel, but I’m not a hypocrite.”

  “You’re very hard on yourself. What did you do in the past that was so unforgivable?”

  They left the house and began on a wide gravel path that led behind the manor. “Nothing stands out in particular,” he replied. “Only years of common-run debauchery.”

  “But you’ve changed your ways, haven’t you?”

  A sardonic smile crossed his face. “On the surface.”

  The day was warming fast, the air weighted with the sweetness of clover and grass and pasture scents. A dunnock fluted notes from its perch in an ancient hedge, while robins called from the treetops.

  Her father and Justin had already gone far ahead, veering off the path to investigate the row of four glasshouses beyond the formal gardens. In the distance, a set of farm buildings loomed over rows of stockyards and sheds.

  Phoebe tried to think of what a businesswoman might ask. “Your approach to land management . . . the modern methods, the machinery . . . Edward Larson told me it was called ‘high farming.’ He says it stands for high expenses and high risk, and some of the landowners who’ve tried it have been ruined.”

  “Many have been,” Mr. Ravenel surprised her by admitting. “Mostly because they took foolish risks or made improvements that didn’t need to be made. But that’s not what high farming is about. It’s about scientific methods and common sense.”

  “Mr. Larson says the tried-and-true traditions are all a gentleman farmer needs to know. He says science should be kept apart from nature.”

  Mr. Ravenel stopped in his tracks, obliging Phoebe to turn and face him. His lips parted as if he were about to say something blistering, then closed, and opened again. Eventually he asked, “May I speak plainly, or do I have to be polite?”

  “I prefer politeness.”

  “All right. Your estate is being managed by a damned idiot.”

  “That’s the polite version?” Phoebe asked, mildly startled.

  “To begin with, science isn’t something separate from nature. Science is how nature works. Second, a ‘gentleman farmer’ isn’t a farmer. If you have to preface your occupation with ‘gentleman,’ it’s a hobby. Third—”

  “You know nothing about Edward,” Phoebe protested.

  “I know his kind. He’d rather choose extinction than keep pace with progress. He’ll drag your estate into ruin, just so he doesn’t have to learn new ways of doing things.”

  “Newer isn’t always better.”

  “Neither is older. If doing things the primitive way is so bloody marvelous, why allow the tenants to use a horse-drawn plow? Let’s have them scatter the seeds across the field by hand.”

  “Edward Larson isn’t against progress. He only questions whether a mechanical reaper polluting the fields is better than the wholesome work done by good, strong men with scythes.”

  “Do you know who would ask that question? A man who’s never gone out to a cornfield with a scythe.”

  “No doubt you have,” Phoebe said tartly.

  “As a matter of fact, I have. It’s brutal work. A scythe is weighted to create extra momentum as it cuts through the thicker stalks. You have to twist your torso in a constant motion that makes your sides burn. Every thirty yards, you have to stop to hammer nicks out of the blade and hone it sharp again. I went out with the men one morning, and I lasted less than a day. By noon, every muscle was on fire, and my hands were too blistered and bloody to grip the handle.” Mr. Ravenel paused, looking irate. “The best scythe-man can cut one acre of corn in a day. A mechanical reaper will cut twelve acres in the same amount of time. Did Larson happen to mention that while rhapsodizing about field labor?”

  “He did not,” Phoebe admitted, feeling simultaneously annoyed with herself, Edward, and the man in front of her.

  From a distance, she heard her father’s lazy voice: “Arguing already? We haven’t even reached the barn.”

  “No, Father,” Phoebe called back. “It’s only that Mr. Ravenel is rather passionate on the subject of scything.”

  “Mama,” Justin exclaimed, “come see what we found!”

  “One moment, darling.” Phoebe stared up at Mr. Ravenel with narrowed eyes. He was standing too close to her, his head and shoulders blocking the sunlight. “You should know that looming over me like that doesn’t intimidate me,” she said curtly. “I grew up with two very large brothers.”

  He relaxed his posture instantly, hooking his thumbs in his trouser pockets. “I’m not trying to intimidate you. I’m taller. I can’t help that.”

  Hogwash, Phoebe thought. He knew quite well he’d been standing over her. But she was secretly amused by the sight of him trying so hard not to appear overbearing. “Don’t think I couldn’t cut you down to size,” she warned.

  He gave her an innocent glance. “Just as long as you do it by hand.”

  The smart-aleck remark surprised a laugh from her. Insolent rascal.

  West Ravenel smiled slightly, his gaze holding hers, and for a moment her throat tingled sweetly at the back, as if she’d just swallowed a spoonful of cool honey.

  By tacit agreement, they resumed walking. They caught up to Sebastian and Justin, who had stopped to watch a young cat wandering along the side of the path.

  Justin’s small form was very still with excitement, his attention riveted on the black feline. “Look, Mama!”

  Phoebe glanced at Mr. Ravenel. “Is she feral?”

  “No, but she’s undomesticated. We keep a few barn cats to reduce the rodent and insect population.”

  “Can I pet her?” Justin asked.

  “You could try,” Mr. Ravenel said, “but she won’t come close enough. Barn
cats prefer to keep their distance from people.” His brows lifted as the small black cat made her way to Sebastian and curled around his leg, arching and purring. “With the apparent exception of dukes. My God, she’s a snob.”

  Sebastian lowered to his haunches. “Come here, Justin,” he murmured, gently kneading the cat along its spine to the base of its tail.

  The child approached with his small hand outstretched.

  “Softly,” Sebastian cautioned. “Smooth her fur the same way it grows.”

  Justin stroked the cat carefully, his eyes growing round as her purring grew even louder. “How does she make that sound?”

  “No one has yet found a satisfactory explanation,” Sebastian replied. “Personally, I hope they never do.”

  “Why, Gramps?”

  Sebastian smiled into the small face so close to his. “Sometimes the mystery is more delightful than the answer.”

  As the group continued to the farm buildings, the cat followed.

  The mixed odors of the stockyards hung thick in the air, the sweetness of straw, stored grain and sawdust mingling with the smells of animals, manure, sweat, and lather. There was the acrid bite of carbolic soap, whiffs of fresh paint and turpentine, the dusty richness of a granary, the earthy mustiness of a root house. Instead of the usual haphazard scattering of farm structures, the barns and sheds had been laid out in the shape of an E.

  As Mr. Ravenel led them past barns, workshops, and sheds, a group of workers and stockmen approached him freely. The men snatched off their caps respectfully as they greeted him, but even so, their manner was more familiar than it would have been with the master of the estate. They conferred with him easily, grins appearing as they joked back and forth. Phoebe was close enough to hear a comment about the wedding, followed by an impudent question about whether Mr. Ravenel had found a lady willing to “buckle to” him.

  “Do you think I’d find the makings of a good farm wife in that crowd?” Mr. Ravenel retorted, causing a round of chuckles.