The trusting and natural gesture felt better than anything he’d ever known. Gradually he turned his face until his lips touched the molten red gleam of her hair. All his life, he’d secretly yearned for this moment. For someone to turn to him for comfort.
“How long will you stay?” he heard her ask.
“How long do you want me?”
Phoebe made a sound of amusement. “At least until I’m out of trouble.”
You’re not the one in trouble, West thought, and closed his eyes in despair.
“What does a cow say?” West asked Stephen that evening, as they sat on the parlor rug surrounded by carved wooden animals.
“Moo,” the toddler replied matter-of-factly, taking the little cow from him and inspecting it.
West held up another animal. “What does a sheep say?”
Stephen reached for it. “Baa.”
Phoebe smiled as she watched them from her chair by the hearth, a small embroidery hoop in her lap. After dinner, West had given Stephen a toy barn with a removable roof and a collection of carved and painted animals. There was even a miniature wooden two-wheeled cart for the horse to pull. Nearby, Justin played with his present from West. It was a Tivoli board, a game in which marbles were inserted at the top and clattered their way down through arrangements of pegs and chutes before dropping into numbered slots below.
Much earlier in the day, Phoebe had shown West to the guest cottage, a simple red brick dwelling with sash windows and a white pediment over the door. He had changed from his traveling clothes and returned to the main house to have his first look at the account ledgers. “I see some of the difficulty,” he’d said, scrutinizing the pages in front of him. “They’re using a double-entry bookkeeping system.”
“Is that bad?” Phoebe had asked apprehensively.
“No, it’s superior to the single-entry system we use at Eversby Priory. However, being simpleminded in this area, I’ll need a day or two to become familiar with it. Basically, each entry to an account requires an opposite entry to a corresponding account, and then one can check for errors with an equation.” West had looked self-mocking. “To think of the courses I took in Greek history and German philosophy, when what I needed was an introduction to bookkeeping.”
He had spent the afternoon in the study, shooing Phoebe out when she tried to join him, claiming her presence was too distracting for him to concentrate.
Later they’d had dinner alone, both of them seated near the end of the long mahogany dining table, in the soft wavering brilliance of candlelight. At first the conversation had charged at a headlong pace, partly fueled by nerves. It wasn’t an ordinary situation for the two of them, dining with the intimacy of husband and wife. Phoebe had thought it felt a little like trying something on to see if it fit. They’d exchanged news and stories, debated silly questions and then serious ones . . . and after wine and dessert, they had finally relaxed and let down their guards. Yes, it fit, the two of them together. It was a different feeling, but a very good one. A new kind of happiness.
Phoebe knew West couldn’t see beyond his own fears of being unworthy, of someday causing her unhappiness. But this high degree of concern was precisely what inclined her to trust him. One thing was clear: if she wanted him, she would have to be the pursuer.
West lounged on the floor between her two sons, a heavy forelock of dark hair falling over his forehead. “What does a chicken say?” he asked Stephen, holding up a wooden figure.
The toddler took it from him and answered, “Rowwr!”
West blinked in surprise and began to chuckle along with Justin. “By God, that is a fierce chicken.”
Delighted by his effect on West, Stephen held up the chicken. “Rowwr,” he growled again, and this time West and Justin collapsed in laughter. Quickly West reached out to the toddler’s blond head, pulled him closer and crushed a brief kiss among the soft curls.
Had there been any doubts lingering in Phoebe’s mind, they were demolished in that moment.
Oh yes . . . I want this man.
Chapter 24
Early the next morning, Ernestine brought Phoebe her tea and helped to prop the pillows behind her.
“Milady, I have a message to relay from Hodgson, regarding Mr. Ravenel.”
“Yes?” Phoebe asked, yawning and sitting up higher in bed.
“As Mr. Ravenel brought no valet with him, the under-butler would be pleased to offer his services in that capacity, should they be required. Also, my lady . . . the housemaid just came from tending the grate at the guest house. She says Mr. Ravenel asked for a razor and shaving soap to be sent over. Hodgson says he would honored to loan his razor to the gentleman.”
“Tell Hodgson his generosity is very much appreciated. However . . . I think I’ll offer Mr. Ravenel the use of my late husband’s razor.”
Ernestine’s eyes widened. “Lord Clare’s razor?”
“Yes. In fact, I’ll take it to him personally.”
“Do you mean this morning, milady? Now?”
Phoebe hesitated. Her gaze went to the window, where the pale sky was rising through the darkness like a floating layer of cream. “It’s my responsibility as hostess to take care of my guest, isn’t it?”
“It would be hospitable,” Ernestine agreed, although she looked a bit dubious.
Still considering the idea, Phoebe played nervously with a loose lock of her hair and took a fortifying gulp of hot tea. “I’m sure he’d like to have it soon.”
“If you leave through the winter garden door at this hour,” Ernestine said, “no one would notice. The housemaids don’t start on the east wing ’til midmorning. I’ll tell Hodgson not to send anyone out to the guest cottage.”
“Thank you. Yes.”
“And if you like, milady, I’ll tell Nanny you’d prefer the children to have breakfast in the nursery this morning and join you for tea later.”
Phoebe smiled. “I do appreciate, Ernestine, that your first instinct is not to prevent me from doing something scandalous, but to help me get away with it.”
The lady’s maid gave her a deliberately bland look. “You’re only going out to take the morning air, milady. No scandal in going for a walk, last I heard.”
By the time Phoebe exited the winter garden door and followed the crosswalk to the guest cottage, sunrise had started to gild the leaves and branches of the boxwood borders and spread a rosy glow across brackets of glittering windowpanes. She carried a lidded basket over one arm, walking as quickly as possible without giving the impression of haste.
As Phoebe reached the guest cottage, she gave the door two quick knocks and let herself in. “Good morning,” she called out softly, closing the door behind her.
She had redecorated the cottage as well as the main house. The main room, a parlor with sage green walls, fresh white plasterwork, and gilded accents, was perfumed by the vase of fresh flowers that occupied a satinwood console table beside the door.
In the silence of the cottage, West emerged from one of the bedrooms, his head tilting in perplexity to find her there. He was very tall in the low-ceilinged room, a potent masculine presence with his shirt left untucked and the sleeves rolled up to reveal hairy forearms. Phoebe’s heart thudded heavily as she thought of what she wanted and feared might not happen. The idea of going the rest of life without ever having been intimate with West Ravenel was starting to seem no less than tragic.
“I’ve brought shaving supplies,” she said, gesturing with the basket.
West stayed where he was, his gaze slow and hot as it swept over her. She wore an “at home” garment that combined the appearance of a dress with the convenience of a robe, as it required no corset and fastened with a minimum of buttons. The scooped neck of the bodice was trimmed with spills of white Brussels lace.
“My thanks,” he said. “I expected a footman or housemaid to bring them. Forgive me for putting you to trouble.”
“It was no trouble. I . . . I wanted to find out if you’d slept comfortably last night.”
He smiled slightly, appearing to debate the answer. “Well enough.”
“Is the bed too soft?” Phoebe asked in concern. “Too firm? Are the pillows sufficient, or—”
“The surroundings are luxurious in every regard. I had unsettled dreams, that’s all.”
Tentatively Phoebe moved forward with the basket. “I brought Henry’s razor,” she blurted out. “I would be glad for you to have the use of it.”
West stared at her, his lips parting with what seemed to be dismay. “Thank you, but I couldn’t—”
“I want you to,” she insisted. God, how awkward this was turning out to be. “It’s a Swedish razor, made of the finest-grain steel. Sharper even than a Damascus blade. You’ll need it, with a beard like yours.”
Letting out a breath of amusement, West reached up to rub the brush-wire surface of his jaw. “How do you know so much about men’s beards?”
“I shaved Henry quite often,” Phoebe said matter-of-factly, “especially near the end. I was the only one he would allow to touch him.”
Light angled across the upper half of his face, striking unearthly blue gleams in his eyes. “You were a good wife,” came his soft comment.