Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5)(22)

“He does if he wants to talk to them. These men and their wives don’t have time to set aside their labors for a leisurely cup of tea at midmorning. But they’re willing to have a conversation while I help repair a broken fence or take part in brick making. It’s easier for them to trust a man with a bit of sweat on his brow and calluses on his hands. Work is a kind of language—we understand each other better afterward.”

Phoebe listened carefully, perceiving that not only did he respect the estate tenants, he sincerely liked them. He was so very different from what she’d expected. No matter what he had once been, the cruel and unhappy boy seemed to have made himself into someone capable of empathy and understanding. Not a brute. Not a bad man at all.

Henry, she thought ruefully, our enemy is turning out to be awfully difficult to hate.





Chapter 8




Usually West awakened feeling refreshed and ready to begin the day. This morning, however, the rooster’s crowing seemed to scrape his nerves raw. He’d slept badly from too much food and wine, and too much stimulation in the form of Phoebe, Lady Clare. His broken sleep had been filled with dreams of her, in his bed, involved in a variety of sexual acts he was willing to bet she’d never consent to. Now he was frustrated, surly, and as randy as a roebuck.

West had always congratulated himself on being too clever to desire a woman he couldn’t have. But Phoebe was as rare as a year with two blue moons. All through dinner, he’d marveled at how beautiful she was, the candlelight striking gleams from her hair and skin like rubies and pearls. She was clever, perceptive, quick as a whip. There had been hints of an absolutely lacerating wit, which he loved, but there were also touches of shyness and melancholy that went straight to his heart. She was a woman who badly needed to enjoy herself, and he wanted to indulge her in some thoroughly adult fun.

But Phoebe, Lady Clare, wasn’t meant for him. He was a former wastrel with no property, no title, and no wealth. She was a highborn widow with two young sons. She needed a proper, well-heeled husband, not a scandalous affair.

That didn’t stop West from imagining it, however. That red hair, loose and flowing across the pillow. Her mouth, kiss-swollen and open under his. Naked skin, all ivory and pink. The warm hollows of her elbows, the smooth, cool curves of her breasts. A little triangle of fiery curls for him to play with . . .

With a faint groan, West rolled to his stomach and buried his face in his pillow. He was suffused with an excited but wretched hot-and-cold feeling. He thought he might be feverish. Maybe it had something to do with his prolonged period of abstinence. Going without physical release was said to be bad for a man’s health. It must be that he was suffering from a dangerous buildup of male essence.

With a muffled curse, he left the bed and went to wash in cold water.

As he dressed in his everyday clothes, West could hear the bustle of busy servants trying not to wake the guests. Doors opened and closed, voices murmured quietly. Unidentifiable clinkings and clankings littered the air. He could hear horses and vehicles outside on the gravel drive, having come with deliveries from the florist, the baker, the confectioner, the wine merchant.

The wedding would take place in approximately five hours, followed by an extravagant breakfast attended not only by the guests from last night, but also the local gentry, townspeople, and Eversby Priory tenants. The crowd would overflow from the house to the gardens, where rented folding tables and camp chairs had been set up. Musicians had been hired for the ceremony and breakfast, and an incredible amount of champagne had been ordered. The event had cost a bloody fortune. Thankfully that was Devon’s concern, not his.

After brushing his teeth and combing back his damp hair, West went downstairs. Later, with the assistance of Devon’s valet, Sutton, he would shave and put on his wedding attire and morning coat. For now, he had to make certain everything was proceeding as planned.

Devon was the only person in the morning room, sitting at one of the round tables with a page or two of notes and a cup of coffee. Ironically, even though he didn’t usually arise at this hour, he looked fresh and rested, whereas West felt tired and irritable.

His older brother looked up from his notes and smiled. “Good morning.”

“What are you so bloody pleased about?” West went to the sideboard and helped himself to coffee from a steaming silver urn.

“After today, Cassandra will be the only unmarried sister left.”

Not long ago, without warning, Devon had inherited a wreck of an estate with its finances in shambles, as well as the responsibility for two hundred tenants, an aging staff of fifty servants, and three young, unworldly Ravenel sisters. He could have easily sold everything that wasn’t entailed and razed the manor house to the ground. He could have told everyone who lived at Eversby Priory—including the Ravenel sisters—to fend for themselves.

However, for reasons West would never entirely understand, Devon had taken on the overwhelming burden. With hard work and some luck, he had managed to stop the estate’s downward spiral. Now the manor house was in the process of restoration, their balance sheet was in order, and the farms yields would actually turn a small profit this year. Helen, the oldest sister, had married Rhys Winterborne, who owned a department-store empire, and Pandora was, improbably, about to marry the heir to a dukedom.

“You’ve worried over those girls for two years, haven’t you?” West asked. “A damn sight more than their own father and brother ever did. You’ve done well by them, Devon.”