Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5)(64)

“No, there’s a trunk on the carriage.”

Better and better . . . he had brought enough to stay more than a day or two. Trying to appear composed, Phoebe told the butler, “Hodgson, we’ll need Mr. Ravenel’s trunk brought to the guest cottage in back. Tell Mrs. Gurney to air out the rooms and make them ready.”

“Yes, milady.”

As the butler went to the bellpull, Phoebe turned her attention back to West. “You’ve caught me unprepared,” she said apologetically.

“I could go,” West offered, “and come back later.”

Phoebe smiled up at him radiantly. “You’re not going anywhere.” Unable to resist, she reached up to his beard-roughened jaw. The new growth was thick and scratchy soft, like a blend of cut velvet and wool. “Why did you grow a beard?”

“It wasn’t intentional,” he said. “I had no time to shave during the last two weeks of haymaking. It took every man on the estate to help thatch the hayricks fast enough to keep pace with the harvest.”

“All this after only a fortnight,” she commented, still admiring the luxuriant beard. Poor Edward would have been incensed at the sight of it.

West shrugged modestly. “We each have a special talent. Some people can sing opera or learn foreign languages. I grow hair.”

“It makes you look dashing,” Phoebe said, “but a bit villainous.”

The lines at the outer corners of his eyes deepened with amusement. “If the hero hasn’t turned up, you may have to settle for the villain.”

“If the villain’s the one who turns up, he is the hero.”

West laughed huskily, his teeth white against the inky darkness of the beard. “Whatever you choose to call me, I’m at your disposal.”

He looked tremendously fit, but she noticed he was leaner than before, his well-tailored clothes draping a bit too loosely over the hard lines of his body.

“There’s still breakfast on the sideboard,” Phoebe said softly. “Are you hungry?”

“I’m always hungry.”

“I should warn you in advance that Justin has licked the icing from all the breakfast buns, and there was a recent accident involving Stephen and a dish of applesauce.”

“I’ll take my chances,” West said, picking up the Gladstone bag.

Phoebe led him toward the breakfast room, still finding it difficult to believe he was there with her. “Is everyone at Eversby Priory cross with me for stealing you away?” she asked.

“They’re collectively weeping with gratitude. They could hardly wait to be rid of me.” At her questioning glance, West added, “I’ve been short-tempered of late. No, that’s not true—I’ve been a surly ass.”

“Why?”

“Too much time in Hampshire, and no women. The lack of temptation has been demoralizing.”

Phoebe tried to conceal how much that gratified her. Trying to sound offhand, she remarked, “I thought Lady Helen was going to introduce you to the lady doctor who treated Pandora’s shoulder.”

“Dr. Gibson? Yes, she’s a marvelous woman. As a matter of fact, she came to visit Eversby Priory this summer.”

All Phoebe’s pleasant feelings abruptly turned disagreeable. “Surely not without a chaperone.”

“Garrett Gibson doesn’t bother with chaperones,” West replied, his lips twitching as if at some private memory. “The usual rules don’t apply to her. She brought a patient, Mr. Ethan Ransom, who was injured and needed to recuperate in peace and quiet.”

Poisonous jealousy flooded Phoebe. The female doctor was an accomplished and unconventional woman—exactly the kind who would attract his interest. “You must have found her fascinating.”

“Anyone would.”

Averting her face to hide a scowl, Phoebe tried to sound nonchalant. “I suppose you became well acquainted during her visit?”

“More or less. Most of the time she was busy caring for Ransom. I stopped in London last night to see him. He’s asked me to be his best man at their wedding.”

“Their—oh. They’re going to marry?” To her chagrin, Phoebe couldn’t hide her relief.

She heard West’s low laugh as he caught her elbow and stopped her. The contents of the leather bag rattled as he dropped it to the floor.

“Jealous?” he asked softly, drawing her to an alcove at the side of the corridor.

“A little,” she admitted.

“What about Edward Larson? Aren’t you betrothed?”

“No.”

“No?” he echoed sardonically. “I assumed you’d have him hooked, booked, and cooked by now.”

Phoebe frowned at the vulgar expression for courtship and marriage. “I’m not going to marry Edward. He’ll always be a dear friend, but I . . . don’t want him that way.”

West’s face was unreadable. “Have you told him?”

“Not yet. He’s traveling in Italy for at least a fortnight.”

To her dismay, West didn’t seem especially pleased by the revelation. “Phoebe . . . I’m not here to take advantage of you. All I want is to help with the estate, in any way I can.”

The words sent a little cold stab through her chest. Did he mean it? Was that all he wanted? Perhaps the feelings were all one-sided, just as she had feared. She forced herself to ask with difficulty, “The things you said to me that morning . . . is any of it still true?”