Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5)(44)

“I don’t want a man I’d have to manage. I’d like a civilized one who can manage himself.” Phoebe reached over to a patch of wild chamomile and plucked a blossom. Rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger, she inhaled the sweet apple-ish scent. Glancing sideways at the other woman, she added quietly, “Besides, you haven’t forgotten what Henry asked of me.”

“No, milady. Nor have I forgotten that he asked it when he was in his last fading. You’d have promised anything to ease his mind.”

Phoebe felt comfortable discussing Henry with his old nanny, who had loved him from the first day of his life to the last. “Henry gave careful thought to my future,” she said. “He saw the advantages of a match with Edward, who has a fine reputation and a gentlemanly nature, and will set a good example for the boys while they’re growing up.”

“A fine shoe often pinches the foot.”

Phoebe gathered more blossoms to make a tiny bouquet. “I’d have thought you would approve of a match between me and Henry’s cousin. Edward is so very like him.”

“Is he, milady?”

“Yes, you’ve known him since he was a child. He’s very much like Henry, only without the quirks.”

Despite Edward’s relatively young age, he was a gentleman of the old school, courtly and soft-spoken, a man who would never dream of making a scene. In all the years of their acquaintance, Phoebe had never once seen him lose his temper. She wouldn’t have to worry that he would be unfaithful, or cold, or thoughtless: It simply wasn’t in him.

It wasn’t difficult to envision being content with Edward.

The difficult part was trying to imagine sleeping with him. Her mind couldn’t seem to conjure it except in an unfocused way, like watching shadow puppets.

When it came to West Ravenel, however, the problem was exactly the reverse. The idea of sharing a bed with him made her mouth go dry and her pulse race with excitement.

Troubled by the direction of her thoughts, Phoebe wrapped a stem around the little chamomile bouquet and gave it to Nanny. “I should go see what Mr. Ravenel and the children are doing,” she said lightly. “He probably has them playing with knives and sulfur matches by now.”

She found West and the children on a low bank of the stream, all three of them muddy and disheveled. Stephen was perched in West’s lap, his white linen smock positively filthy. They appeared to have made a project of stacking flat river stones into towers. Justin had used his stick to dig a channel in the sandy silt and was transferring water from the stream with his cupped hands.

Phoebe’s brows flew upward. “I took a rock away from the baby,” she asked West, “and you gave him a dozen more?”

“Shhh,” West said without looking at her. A corner of his mouth twitched as he continued, “Don’t interrupt a man while he’s working.”

Stephen clutched a flat stone with both hands, guiding it to a stack with wobbly determination. He pressed it on top of the other stones and held it there while West gently adjusted its position.

“Well done,” West said.

Justin offered Stephen another stone, and Stephen took it with a grunt of enthusiasm. His small face was comically serious as he maneuvered the stone to the top of the stack. Phoebe watched intently, struck by how excited and interested he was in the project.

Since the death of the father who’d never seen him, she had sheltered and coddled her youngest child as much as possible. She had filled his world with soft, pretty objects and endless comfort. It hadn’t occurred to her that he might want—or need—to play with rocks, sticks, and mud.

“He’s going to be a builder,” West said. “Or an excavator.”

“Lucky Stephen,” Justin said, surprising Phoebe. “I wish I could have a job someday.”

“Why can’t you?” West asked.

“I’m a viscount. And they won’t let you quit even if you want to.”

“A viscount can have another job as well.”

Justin paused in his digging to look up at him hopefully. “I can?”

“Perhaps if it’s one of the honorable professions,” Phoebe interceded gently, “such as diplomacy or the law.”

West sent her a sardonic glance. “His grandfather spent years running a gaming club in London. As I understand it, he was personally involved in its day-to-day management. Is that on your list of honorable professions?”

“Are you criticizing my father?” Phoebe asked, nettled.

“Just the opposite. Had the duke allowed himself to be hamstrung by the expectations of nobility, he probably wouldn’t have a shilling to his name.” He paused to adjust the pile of stones as Stephen stacked another one. “The point is, he ran the club, and ended up a duke all the same. Which means when Justin comes of age, he can choose any occupation he likes. Even a ‘dishonorable’ one.”

“I want to be a geologist,” Justin volunteered. “Or an elephant trainer.”

Phoebe looked at West and asked indignantly, “And who will look after the Clare estate?”

“Perhaps Stephen. Or you.” He grinned at her expression. “That reminds me: tomorrow I have to do some bookkeeping. Would you like to take a look at the estate account ledgers?

Phoebe hesitated, torn between wanting to chide him for putting ideas in her son’s head, and wanting to accept the offer. It would be enormously helpful to learn the estate farm’s accounting system, and she knew he could explain it in a way she could understand.