Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5)(63)

Justin tugged at Phoebe’s sleeve. “Mama, if I must have a governess, I want a pretty one.”

Another snort from the nursemaid. “They start early, don’t they?” she remarked in an aside.

“In my family, they do,” Phoebe replied ruefully.

The applesauce was mopped up by the time the butler, Hodgson, brought the morning mail on a silver tray. It was far, far too soon to expect a reply from West—the telegram had been dispatched yesterday morning, for heaven’s sake. Still, Phoebe’s pulse turned brisk as she rifled through the stack.

She’d had more than a few second thoughts about having sent the telegram. If only she hadn’t been so impulsive—she should have written a dignified letter. For her to have wired a message to West had probably appeared desperate, or worse, self-important. It was only that she had wanted him to come before Edward returned.

The more she thought about it, the more certain she was that he wouldn’t. West must be very busy, especially since—according to The Modern Handbook for Landed Proprietors—September was the month to harrow and fertilize the fields for the sowing of winter wheat. Furthermore, both Kathleen and Pandora had mentioned in correspondence that West had gone to London at least twice during the summer in search of companionship and amusement. One of those visits had been to see Pandora after she’d undergone surgery for a shoulder injury. The operation had been performed by the only licensed female doctor in England, a charismatic woman whom the Ravenel family seemed to like excessively. “My sister Helen is determined to introduce Dr. Gibson to Cousin West,” Pandora had written, “but I don’t think it a likely match, since Dr. Gibson loves the city and hates cows.”

But it was possible they had eventually been introduced and had been attracted to each other. Dr. Gibson may have decided that being wooed by a handsome specimen like West Ravenel was worth enduring the proximity of a few cows.

Phoebe forced her mind to turn to the plans for the day. First, she would go to the local bookshop and order manuals on accounting. She would also ask Mr. Patch to go over the crop book with her, and hopefully it wouldn’t overtax him to explain some of it to her.

“Milady,” came the footman’s voice, and Phoebe glanced over her shoulder.

“Yes, Arnold?”

“A hired carriage from the station yard has just stopped on the front drive. Hodgson is speaking to a man at the door. He looks to be a gentleman.”

Phoebe registered the information with a quick double blink and turned toward him. From the station yard? She couldn’t think of anyone who would visit her by railway, except . . .

“Is he old or young?” she asked, distantly amazed at how calm she sounded.

Arnold had to lend the question serious thought. “Young to middlish, milady.”

“Tall or short?”

“A big strapper.” At her riveted expression, Arnold added helpfully, “With a beard.”

“A beard?” Phoebe repeated, perplexed. “I’ll go see who it is.” She rose to her feet, feeling weak kneed and loose jointed, like a marionette puppet held up by wires. As she straightened the skirts of her dress, a pale green poplin print, she discovered a few spots of applesauce on the bodice. Impatiently she dampened a napkin and dabbed at the stains. Hopefully they would be concealed by the pattern of tiny white and amber flowers.

By the time she reached the entrance hall, she was shaky with anticipation. Oh, let it be him, let it be West . . . but perversely, she was afraid to see him. What if the attraction was no longer there, and they turned out to be polite and awkward with each other? What if he’d only come out of a sense of honor, and not because he’d truly wanted to? What if—

The visitor stood at the threshold, tall and lean, his posture relaxed as he stood in the open doorway with a black leather Gladstone bag in hand. The sunlight was at his back, casting his face in shadow, but his silhouette, with those powerful shoulders filling up the door frame, was instantly recognizable. He was bigger than life, and outrageously masculine with a sunburnt glow and several day’s heavy beard growth darkening his jaw.

The force of Phoebe’s heartbeat resounded through her body as she drew closer.

West focused on her with a disarming stare, a slow smile curving his lips. “I hope you weren’t asking for literal rope,” he said casually, as if they were in the middle of a conversation.

“I didn’t expect . . . you . . . you came in just one day!” Phoebe stopped with an unsteady laugh as she heard how breathless she was. “I was waiting for your reply.”

“This is my reply,” West said simply, setting down the Gladstone bag.

Delight filled her until the sheer weight of the feeling almost set her off balance. She gave him her hand. He engulfed it in both of his, his grip warm and invigorating, and brought it to his lips.

For a moment Phoebe couldn’t move or breathe. His nearness was too overwhelming. She felt lightheaded, almost euphoric.

“How are you?” West asked quietly, retaining her hand longer than he should have.

“I’m well,” Phoebe managed to say, “and so are the boys. But I think the estate is in trouble—I know it is—and I need help assessing how bad it is.”

“We’ll sort it out,” he said with calm assurance.

“Is that your only luggage?”