Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5)(46)

West glanced at him quizzically. “What the devil would I do with it?”

“You could make it your home. The house is in good condition, and the land is suited for the kind of experimental farm you said you’d like to start someday. You could attract new tenants to bring in revenue. If you want it, it’s yours.”

A smile came to West’s face. He would never cease to be grateful for his brother’s generosity. Perhaps if Devon had been raised as a privileged scion and heir, he would have behaved like an entitled jackass. Instead, he was unsparing with praise and rewards, recompensing West handsomely for his contributions to the estate’s success.

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” West asked lightly.

“Never.” Devon’s gaze was warm and steady. For years, all they’d had was each other—their bond was unbreakable. “But it occurs to me that you may want your own life someday. The privacy of your own house. A wife and children.”

“As much as I appreciate the gift of your tax liability . . .” West began dryly.

‘I’ll assume the tax burden until you start to turn a profit. Even after you hire an assistant manager to undertake your work here, you would continue earning a percentage of gross income in lieu of management fees. Obviously, we’ll still need as much oversight as you can spare—”

“Devon. You don’t owe me that.”

“I owe you my life, in the most literal sense.” Devon paused, his voice softening. “I want your life to be no less full than mine. You should have your own family.”

West shook his head. “The day I decide to marry will be long in coming.”

“What about Lady Clare?”

“I might have an affair with her in five or ten years,” West said, “after her next husband starts to bore her. For now, however, she’s not seasoned enough for my taste.”

“Every time she enters the room, we can all hear your heart beating.”

West felt his color heighten. “Bugger off.”

Devon wore an expression of concern blended with a touch of exasperation. It was the same older-brother look he’d given West whenever he’d had been caught bullying or cheating back in their school days. “For our entire lives, West, I’ve always taken your side. You’ve nothing to lose by telling me the truth.”

Folding his arms on the table, West rested his chin on them and glowered at the bookshelves. “I think I’m in love with her. Either that, or I have a stomach disease with a side effect of uncontrollable sweating. But there’s no doubt about one thing: I have no business marrying and reproducing. Somehow, you’ve managed to rise above our upbringing. You’re a good husband, and by some miracle you’re a good father. I won’t tempt fate by trying to follow suit.”

“What’s stopping you? The fact that you used to be a rake?”

“You were a rake. I was a wreck. Two years of moderately decent behavior doesn’t wipe away an entire personal history.”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

“It will. Imagine Justin a few years from now, meeting another boy whose family was ruined because I once had an affair with his mother. Or when someone tells him about a formal party at which I turned up too drunk to walk straight. Or the charming fact that I was booted out of Oxford because I set fire to my room. Or how about this?—Imagine the moment I have to tell him that his father hated me to his dying day for bullying him at boarding school.”

“If his mother forgave you, don’t you think he’ll be able to?”

“Forgiveness be damned. It doesn’t make any of it go away.”

“I think you’re missing the point of forgiveness.”

Lifting his head, West said bleakly, “We have to stop talking about this; Phoebe will be here soon to look at the farm account ledgers.” He sorely regretted inviting her. It had been a stupid impulse.

Sighing, Devon stood. “Before I leave, let me share a piece of hard-won wisdom about women.”

“God, must you?”

“It’s not all about what you want. It’s also about what she wants. No matter what your intentions, most women don’t like it when you make their decisions for them.”



Phoebe came to the door of the study, which had been left partially ajar, and knocked on the doorjamb. It reminded her of when she’d walked into West’s bedroom and found him half naked, and she felt a pang of nerves.

“Lady Clare.” West appeared at the threshold, looking polished and handsome in a dark suit of clothes and a conservative striped necktie. His hair was neatly brushed back and his face close-shaven. One would never suspect what was beneath all those civilized layers, Phoebe thought, and blushed because she knew there were stitches above his left hip, and a bruise left by a sheep’s hoof on his right forearm, and a tan line below the waist, and a hairy chest that intrigued her more every time she thought about it.

After welcoming her into the study, West seated her at a table pilled with books.

“What a refreshing change to see you fully dressed,” Phoebe said lightly.

West turned and leaned back against the table, smiling down at her. “Are we going to start by flirting?”

“I wasn’t flirting.”

“Let’s not deceive ourselves, madam: your allusion to my clothing and my previous lack thereof was definitely flirting.”