Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5)(23)

“As have you.”

West responded with a snort of amusement. “I’m the one who told you to wash your hands of the entire mess and walk away.”

“But you agreed to help anyway. You took on more grueling work than anyone else, including me. I could argue that you’ve done the greater part of saving the estate.”

“Good God. Let’s not make too much of some half-competent land management.”

“The land is the estate. Without it, the family name and the earldom are meaningless. Because of you, we may turn a profit for the first time in a decade. And by some miracle you’ve managed to drag some of the tenants into the era of modern agriculture.”

“Kicking and screaming the entire way,” West added dryly. He sat beside his brother and glanced at the notes. “The broken pew in the chapel has been repaired—you can cross that off the list. The keg of caviar arrived yesterday. It’s in the icehouse. I don’t know whether the extra camp chairs are here yet. I’ll ask Sims.” He paused to drink half his coffee in one swallow. “Where’s Kathleen? Still abed?”

“Are you joking? She’s been awake for hours. At the moment she’s with the housekeeper, showing deliverymen where to set the flower arrangements.” A fond smile crossed Devon’s lips as he rolled the pencil against the tabletop with the flat of his hand. “You know my wife—every detail has to be perfect.”

“It’s like staging a production at St. James’s Music Hall. Without, sadly, the chorus girls in pink tights.” West drained the rest of his coffee. “My God, will this day never end?”

“It’s only six o’clock in the morning,” Devon pointed out.

They both sighed.

“I’ve never thanked you properly for marrying Kathleen at the registrar’s office,” West commented. “I want you to know how much I enjoyed it.”

“You weren’t there.”

“That’s why I enjoyed it.”

Devon’s lips twitched. “I was glad not to have to wait,” he said. “But had there been more time, I wouldn’t have minded going through a more elaborate ceremony for Kathleen’s sake.”

“Please. Shovel that manure in someone else’s direction.”

Devon grinned and pushed back from the table, taking his cup to the sideboard for more coffee. “I thought last night went well,” he remarked over his shoulder. “You and Lady Clare appeared to hit it off.”

“How did you arrive at that conclusion?” West asked, trying his best to sound indifferent.

“For most of the dinner, you stared at her as if she were the dessert course.”

Making his face expressionless, West leaned back in his chair and regarded his empty cup. He could barely wedge one fingertip through the ornate loop. “Why are the handles on these teacups so small? Were they made for babies?”

“It’s French porcelain. Kathleen says we’re supposed to pinch the handle between the thumb and forefinger.”

“What’s wrong with adult-sized cups?”

Unfortunately, the diversionary tactic didn’t budge Devon from his original subject. “I wasn’t the only one to notice the attraction between you and Lady Clare.”

“At the moment,” West said, “I’d be attracted to any available woman under the age of ninety. The spring breeding season hasn’t yet finished, and every creature on this estate has been happily fornicating for weeks. Except me. Do you know how long I’ve been celibate? Every morning I wake up in a state of medical crisis.”

“I should think an attractive young widow would be able to help with that,” Devon said, resuming his seat.

“You must still be half crocked from all the wine last night. There’s no possibility a woman like Lady Clare would take a serious interest in me. Nor would I want her to.”

Devon gave him an astute glance. “You think her too far above you?”

Fiddling with the teacup handle, West accidentally caught a fingertip in it. “I don’t think it. She is too far above me—morally, financially, socially, and any other ‘ly’ you can think of. Besides, as I’ve said many times before, I’m not the marrying kind.”

“If you’re trying to hang on to your carefree bachelor’s existence,” Devon said, “it died approximately two years ago. You might as well accept that and settle down.”

“I would show you the appropriate finger,” West muttered, “if it weren’t stuck in this baby handle.” He tugged at his imprisoned middle digit, trying to free it without snapping the teacup’s porcelain loop.

“If a woman like Lady Clare has even the slightest interest in you, you don’t slink away. You fall to your knees in gratitude.”

“For the first half of our lives,” West retorted, “you and I were at everyone’s mercy. Pushed, pulled, and manipulated by relations who made our lives pure misery. We were puppets on strings. I won’t live like that again.”

He would never forget those years of being desperately poor and powerless. He and Devon had been outsiders at boarding school, where the other boys had all seemed to know each other. They had all been to the right places, and made jokes he hadn’t understood, and he’d envied their ease with themselves and each other. He’d hated feeling different, always out of place. Devon had quickly learned how to adjust to his circumstances. West, on the other hand, had been angry, awkward, and chubby. His only defense had been to turn into a crass, sneering bully.