Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5)(81)

“There’s nothing you can do.”

Strangely, Phoebe’s faintly amused voice seemed to come from below him. “I may never have seen any erotic postcards, but I’m sure there’s something I can do.”

West’s eyes opened, and he froze in amazement as he saw her kneeling between his thighs. He couldn’t make a single sound as she grasped his shaft in her hands, graceful and ladylike. Her head bent, and her beautiful mouth was on him, full lips parting carefully as she took him inside. Her tongue stroked and circled, painting wetness on the sensitive tip, and in a matter of seconds he cried out in ecstasy, delivered and overpowered by her . . . possessed by her. Owned for life.



Phoebe yawned as she came upstairs from the housekeeper’s room, where they had spent the morning going over the monthly household inventory. There had been a discussion of missing dinner napkins—two had been scorched by an inexperienced housemaid and another was suspected to have blown off the line on a windy day. A concern over the new laundry-washing mixture had been broached—too high a proportion of soda was making the linens thin. The coal bill was acceptable. The grocer’s bill had been a bit high.

The task of doing household inventory was always tedious, but it had been especially worse since Phoebe had had so little sleep the night before. West had made love to her for what had seemed to be hours, arranging her in one new position after another, exploring gently, patiently, until she’d been exhausted from too many wrenching climaxes and had begged him to stop.

Perhaps she should go up to her room for a short nap. The house was quiet. West was nowhere to be seen. He must have gone somewhere, or . . . no, he hadn’t. She paused in the main hall as she caught a glimpse of his lean, powerful form in the front receiving room. He stood at one of the windows, looking out at the main drive with his head slightly tilted in that way he had. The sight him of him made her feel warm all over and sent a quick flutter of happiness through her stomach.

Walking quietly in her thin-soled slippers, she stole into the receiving room and sneaked up behind him while he was still at the window. Standing on tiptoe, she pressed her breasts against his back and whispered near his ear, “Come with me, and we’ll—”

The room spun around her with stunning force. Before she could even finish the sentence, she had been seized and pinned against the wall. One of his hands clasped her wrists over her head, while the other was drawn back as if he were about to strike her. Oddly, the sight of that lethal upraised fist didn’t frighten her nearly as much as his eyes, hard and bright like the gleam of light on a knife blade.

Not West, her disoriented brain told her.

But this hostile stranger’s physical similarities to West alarmed her even more.

A high-pitched yelp jolted from her as soon as her shoulders encountered the wall.

The man’s face softened instantly, his fist dropping, all threat of violence disappearing. He released her wrists and gave her a remorseful glance. “I beg your pardon sincerely, my lady,” he said in an Irish brogue. “Whenever someone approaches me from behind, I . . . a reflex action, is what they call it.”

“I beg your pardon,” Phoebe said breathlessly, inching away from him. “I thought you were s-someone else.” His eyes were identical to West’s, a singular shade of dark blue rimmed with black, surmounted by the same thick brows. But his complexion was fair-skinned, and his features were more narrow, and there was a thickness at the bridge of his nose where it had once been broken.

They both turned as West came into the room with swift, ground-eating strides, heading straight to Phoebe. He took her by the shoulders, his gaze raking over her. “Are you hurt?” he asked shortly.

The intense concern in his eyes and the familiar gentleness of his touch relaxed her immediately. “No, just startled. But it was my fault. I approached him from behind.”

West eased her close and ran his hand up and down along her spine in slow, calming strokes. He glanced over his shoulder at the butler, who must have gone to inform him of the visitor’s arrival. “That will be all, Hodgson.” Turning back to the stranger, he spoke in a pleasant voice, his gaze murderous. “Is this how you introduce yourself to aristocratic ladies, Ransom? A word of advice: generally they prefer a polite bow and ‘How do you do’ to being thrown about like a parcel post delivery.”

Ethan Ransom spoke to Phoebe penitently. “A thousand apologies, my lady. On my honor, it won’t happen again.”

“It won’t,” West agreed, “or I’ll come after you with a reaping hook.”

Despite the lethal sincerity in West’s tone, Ransom didn’t seem at all cowed, only grinned at him and came forward for a handshake. “My nerves are still a bit dodgy after this summer.”

“As usual,” West said, gripping the other man’s hand, “a visit from you is as soothing as a blister.”

Phoebe was struck by the easy familiarity between the two, as if they had known each other for years instead of months. “Mr. Ransom,” she said, “I do hope we’ll have the pleasure of your company for dinner. You’re welcome to stay the night, if you wish.”

“I’m obliged, milady, but I have to be back on the next train for London.” Ransom went to retrieve a small traveling bag that had been set beside a chair. “I’ve brought some materials for you to have a glance at. Make all the notes you like, but I have to take the original documents back with me and replace them before anyone notices they’re missing.”