Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5)(92)

For the next hour and a half, West submitted to a barrage of scrubbing, filing, trimming and clipping. On top of that, he was in enough of a fatalistic and dismal mood to actually let Culpeper shave him. Fine, let the old cheeser slit his throat, he didn’t give a damn. It wasn’t a pleasant process—his stomach was clenched, and he was twitchy with nerves the entire time. But the knotty, loose-skinned hands were amazingly steady, the strokes of the razor light and skillful. By the time Culpepper had finished, the shave was even closer than the one Phoebe had given him. Although in a contest between the two, the view down Phoebe’s chemise still put her far ahead.

His clothes had been miraculously washed, dried and pressed, and his shoes cleaned and shined. After dressing, West sat down at a small table in an adjoining room, where he was served coffee with heavy cream, and a plate of coddled eggs and the thin, tender undercut of beef sirloin that had been fried on a gridiron and dressed with salt and chopped parsley. At first the very idea of chewing and swallowing revolted him. But he took a bite, and another, and then his digestive system began to hum in gratitude, and he consumed it all with indecent haste.

Near the end of the meal, Kingston came to join him. Coffee was set at his place, and West’s cup was replenished.

“Still not back to form,” the duke said, looking over him critically, “but better.”

“Sir,” West began, and had to stop as the muscles of his throat tightened. Damn it. He couldn’t talk with this man about anything personal. He would break. He was as fragile as a blown glass bubble. He cleared his throat twice before he could continue. “I think I know what you want to discuss, and I can’t.”

“Excellent. I’d already planned to do most of the talking. I’ll go to the point: I give my blessing to a marriage between you and my daughter. Now, you will undoubtedly wish to point out that you haven’t asked for it, which will prompt me to ask why. Then you’ll relate a few stories from your unsavory past and go through some tedious self-flagellation to make me aware of your unworthiness as a potential husband and father.” The duke took a sip of coffee before adding, “I will not be impressed.”

“You won’t?” West asked warily.

“I’ve done worse things than you could imagine, and no, I’m not going to share any of my secrets as a sop to your conscience. However, I’ll assure you from personal experience that a ruined reputation can be regilded, and gaseous society gossips will eventually seek new material with which to inflate themselves.”

“That’s not my worst concern.” West rubbed the pad of his thumb across the dull edge of a butter knife, back and forth. He forced himself to go on. “I’ll always have to wonder when my inner demons might lash out and drag anyone who loves me down to whatever circle happens to be propping up hell.”

“Most men have inner demons,” Kingston replied quietly. “God knows I do. And so does a friend who’s the finest and most genuinely moral man I’ve ever known.”

“How do you get rid of them?”

“You don’t. You learn to manage them.”

“What if I can’t?”

“Let’s not go in circles, Ravenel. You’re not perfect—we’re both in agreement on that. But I’ve seen and heard enough to be assured you’ll provide the kind of companionship my daughter wants and needs. You won’t seclude her from the outer world. She and Henry lived in that damned Greek Temple on a hill like deities on Mount Olympus, breathing only rarefied air. You’ll be the kind of father those boys need. You’ll prepare them for a changing world and teach them empathy for the people who live on their land.” His intent gaze met West’s. “I understand you, Ravenel. I’ve been in your shoes. You’re afraid, but you’re not a coward. Stand up to this. Stop running. Go take up this matter with my daughter. If the two of you can’t come to some satisfactory conclusion on your own, I’m sure you don’t deserve to marry.”

There was a discreet knock at the door.

“Come in,” the duke said, the silvered locks at his temples glinting in the light as he turned his head.

A footman opened the door. “Your Grace,” he said, and gave a decisive nod toward the window.

The duke rose from his chair and went to the window, glancing down at the street. “Ah. What perfect timing.” He glanced back at the footman. “Proceed.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

West was too consumed by his thoughts to pay attention to the exchange. In his life, he’d had more than his share of lectures, some brutal enough to leave permanent gouges in his soul. But no man had ever spoken to him quite like this, wry, honest, direct, bracing, and a bit high-handed in a way that felt oddly reassuring. Fatherly. Admittedly, the suggestion of cowardice had rankled, but West couldn’t deny that Kingston was right, it was fear. He was afraid of too many damned things.

But the list was a bit shorter now. Shaving had just been crossed off. That proved something, didn’t it?

Kingston had gone to the partially open door. He was speaking to someone on the other side of the threshold.

A muffled female voice, just the tone of it, awakened West’s nerves like a handful of Lucifer matches all lit at once. He stood so quickly, he nearly knocked the chair backward. As he moved closer to the door, his heart started beating fast and hard, his ears straining.