Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5)(3)

In the periphery of her vision, she saw Justin trotting up the front steps unaccompanied. Aware of Nanny starting forward, Phoebe touched her arm lightly. “I’ll run after him,” she murmured.

“Yes, milady,” Nanny said, relieved.

Phoebe was actually glad Justin had wandered inside the house—it gave her an excuse to avoid the gauntlet of guests being received.

The entrance hall was busy, but it was calmer and quieter than outside. A man directed the tumult of activity, giving instructions to passing servants. His hair, a shade of brown so dark it could easily have been mistaken for black, gleamed like liquid as the light moved over it. The man listened closely to the housekeeper as she explained something about the arrangement of guest bedrooms. Simultaneously he tossed a key to an approaching under-butler, who caught it with a raised hand and dashed off on some errand. A hall boy carrying a tower of hatboxes stumbled, and the dark-haired man reached out to steady him. After adjusting the stack of boxes, he sent the boy on his way.

The man radiated a crisp masculine vitality that seized Phoebe’s attention. He was easily over six feet tall, with the athletic brawn and the sun-bronzed complexion of a man who spent a great deal of time outdoors. But he wore a well-tailored suit of clothes. How curious. Perhaps he was an estate manager?

Her thoughts were interrupted as she noticed her son had gone to investigate the elaborate wood carving on one side of the grand double staircase. She followed him quickly. “Justin, you mustn’t wander off without telling me or Nanny.”

“Look, Mama.”

Her gaze followed the direction of his small forefinger. She saw a carving of a little nest of mice at the base of the balustrades. It was a playful and unexpected touch amid the grandeur of the staircase. A smile spread across her face. “I like that.”

“Me too.”

As Justin crouched to stare at the carving more closely, a glass marble dropped out of his pocket and hit the inlaid parquet floor. Dismayed, Phoebe and Justin watched the little sphere roll away rapidly.

But its momentum was brought to an abrupt halt as the dark-haired man pinned it with the tip of his shoe in display of perfect timing. As he finished his conversation, he bent to pick up the marble. The housekeeper bustled away, and the man turned his attention to Phoebe and Justin.

His eyes were shockingly blue in that suntanned face, his brief smile a dazzling flash of white. He was very handsome, his features strong and even, with faint, pale whisks of laugh lines radiating from the outer corners of his eyes. He seemed like someone who would be irreverent and amusing, but there was also something shrewd about him, something a bit flinty. As if he’d had his share of experience in the world, and had few illusions left. Somehow that made him even more attractive.

He came to them without haste. A pleasant outdoors scent clung to him: sun and air, a dusty, sedgelike sweetness and a hint of smoke, as if he’d been standing near a peat fire. His eyes were the darkest blue she’d ever seen, the irises rimmed with black. It had been a long time since a man had looked at Phoebe like this, direct and interested, and the slightest bit flirty. The strangest feeling came over her, something that reminded her a little of the early days of her marriage to Henry . . . that shaky, embarrassing, inexplicable desire to press her body intimately against someone else’s. Until now, she’d never felt it for anyone but her husband, and never anything like this fire-and-ice jolt of awareness.

Feeling guilty and confused, Phoebe backed away a step, trying to pull Justin with her.

But Justin resisted, evidently feeling it had fallen to him to begin the introductions. “I’m Justin, Lord Clare,” he announced. “This is Mama. Papa isn’t here with us because he’s dead.”

Phoebe was aware of a brilliant pink flush racing from her scalp down to her toes.

The man didn’t seem a bit flustered, only sank to his haunches to bring his face level with Justin’s. His low-pitched voice made Phoebe feel as if she were stretching across a deep feather mattress.

“I lost my father when I wasn’t much older than you,” he said to Justin.

“Oh, I didn’t lose mine,” came the child’s earnest reply. “I know exactly where he is. Heaven.”

The stranger smiled. “A pleasure to meet you, Lord Clare.” The two shook hands ceremoniously. He held the marble up to the light, viewing the tiny porcelain figure of a sheep embedded into the clear glass marble. “A fine piece,” he remarked, and handed it to Justin before standing up. “Do you play Ring Taw?”

“Oh, yes,” the boy replied. It was a common game in which players tried to knock each other’s marbles out of a circle.

“Double Castle?”

Looking intrigued, Justin shook his head. “I don’t know that one.”

“We’ll play a game or two during your visit, if Mama doesn’t object.” The man gave Phoebe a questioning glance.

Phoebe was mortified by her inability to speak. Her heartbeat was stampeding out of control.

“Mama isn’t used to talking to grown-ups,” Justin said. “She likes children better.”

“I’m very childlike,” the man said promptly. “Ask anyone around here.”

Phoebe found herself smiling up at him. “You’re the estate manager?” she asked.

“Most of the time. But there’s no job at this estate, scullery maid included, that I haven’t tried at least once, to gain at least some small understanding of it.”