Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5)(52)

He couldn’t let Phoebe leave like this, hating him, thinking the worst of him. He didn’t know how things should be left between them, but not this way.

He thought of what Pandora had told him the day before the wedding, that she didn’t feel she deserved to marry a man like Lord St. Vincent. “There’s nothing better than having something you don’t deserve,” he’d replied.

What a flippant ass he’d been. Now he understood the terrible risk and pain of wanting someone far above your reach.

West went downstairs to the study, where the books he had shown Phoebe yesterday had been arranged in stacks on the table. Sorting through the volumes, he found the one he wanted and pulled it out. He sat at the table and reached for a pen and inkwell.

Fifteen minutes later, he headed back upstairs with the book in hand. He didn’t stop until he had reached the threshold of Phoebe’s room. There were noises from within, drawers opening and closing, a trunk lid banging on the floor. He heard Phoebe’s muffled voice as she spoke to her maid.

His heart was thrashing like a caged lark. Gingerly he knocked at the door. The sounds inside the room stopped.

Soon the door opened, and a lady’s maid regarded him with raised brows. “Sir?”

West cleared his throat before saying gruffly, “I’d like to speak with Lady Clare—briefly—if I may.” After a pause, he added, “I have something to give her.”

“One moment, sir.” The door closed.

Almost a full minute passed before the door opened again. This time it was Phoebe. She was dressed in traveling clothes, her hair drawn up tightly and pinned in an intricately braided coil high at the back of her head. She looked tense and tired, her complexion ghost pale except for the flags of bright pink at the crest of each cheek. The lack of color only served to emphasize the striking angles of her jaw and cheekbones. People would fall in love with that remarkable face before they even realized how much more there was to love beneath the fa?ade.

“Mr. Ravenel,” she said coolly, without quite meeting his gaze.

Feeling like an idiot, he extended the book to her. “For you to keep.”

Phoebe took it and glanced down at the title. “The Modern Handbook for Landed Proprietors,” she read in a monotone.

“It’s full of good information.”

“Thank you, how thoughtful,” she said distantly. “If you’ll excuse me, I must finish packing—”

“What happened yesterday—” West interrupted and had to pause for an extra breath. His lungs felt half their usual size. “I misled you about why I did it. It wasn’t to prove you still had those feelings. I wanted to prove you had those feelings for me. It was selfish and stupid. I shouldn’t have taken liberties with you.”

Frowning, Phoebe stepped out into the hallway, closed the door, and glanced at their surroundings to check for privacy. She looked directly at him then, her eyes light and piercing. “I wasn’t offended by that,” she said in a low, nettled tone. “It was the way you behaved afterward, so smug and—”

“I know.”

“—so arrogant—”

“I was jealous.”

Phoebe blinked, seeming taken aback. “Of Edward?”

“Because you’re going to marry him.”

Her brows lowered. “I’ve made no decisions about that. With all I have to face when I move back to Clare Manor, marriage will hardly be at the forefront of my mind.”

“But your promise to Henry . . .”

“I didn’t agree to sacrifice my own judgment,” she said curtly. “I promised to consider the idea because it was what Henry wanted. But I may never marry at all. Or I may marry someone other than Edward.”

The idea of some unknown man courting Phoebe, making love to her, made West long to put his fist through the wall. “I hope you’ll find someone worthy of you,” he muttered. “To my regret, I have nothing to offer other than a relationship that would insult and lower you.”

“Indeed? You seem marriageable enough to me.”

“Not for you,” he said without thinking, and immediately regretted it as he saw her face. “I didn’t mean—”

“I see.” Her voice could have sliced a green apple. “You desire me only as a mistress and not a wife. Is that it?”

The conversation was not going at all in the direction West had expected. “Neither,” he said hastily. “I mean, both.” He wasn’t making sense. “Damn it!” After taking a hard swallow, he turned ruthlessly, painfully sincere. “Phoebe, you’ve always been sheltered from men like me. You’ve never had to face the consequences of someone else’s sordid past. I wouldn’t do that to you, or the boys. They need a father to live up to, not one they would have to live down. As for me—I’m not meant for marriage. And if I were, I’d never take a wife so far above me in every way. I’m aware of how small-minded that is, but even men with small minds know their limits.”

“I’m not above you,” Phoebe protested.

“You’re too perfect to be entirely human. You belong to some higher order—not quite an angel, but close. No woman in my life, before or after you, will ever thrill me as you do. I don’t know what to call this. But I do know you should be worshipped by a man who’s earned the right—and that man is not me.” He paused. “I’ll take the cat now.”