by Lisa Kleypas
West didn’t budge. “Later.”
Pandora gave him an imploring glance. “Oh, please don’t be stubborn, it will look odd if you don’t go to greet them.”
“Why? I’m not the host of this event, and Eversby Priory isn’t mine.”
“It’s partly yours.”
West smiled wryly. “Sweetheart, not one speck of dust in this place belongs to me. I’m a glorified estate manager, which I assure you the Challons will not find compelling.”
Pandora frowned. “Even so, you’re a Ravenel, and you have to meet them now because it will be awkward if you’re obliged to introduce yourself later while passing one of them in the hallway.”
She was right. West cursed beneath his breath and went with her, feeling ill at ease.
Breathlessly Pandora introduced him to the duke and duchess; their teenage daughter Seraphina; their youngest son, Ivo; and Lord St. Vincent. “You’ve already met Lady Clare and Justin, of course,” she finished.
West glanced at Phoebe, who had turned away on a pretext of brushing invisible lint from the back of her son’s jacket.
“We have one more brother, Raphael, who’s traveling in America on business,” Seraphina said. She had reddish-blond curls and the sweet-faced prettiness usually depicted on boxes of scented soap. “But he couldn’t return in time for the wedding.”
“That means I can have his cake,” said the handsome boy with deep red hair.
Seraphina shook her head and said drolly, “Ivo, Raphael would be so glad to know you’re managing to carry on in his absence.”
“Someone has to eat it,” Ivo pointed out.
Lord St. Vincent came forward to shake West’s hand. “Finally,” he said, “we meet the least seen and most often discussed Ravenel.”
“Has my reputation preceded me?” West asked. “That’s never good.”
St. Vincent smiled. “I’m afraid your family takes every opportunity to praise you behind your back.”
“I can’t fathom what they find to praise. I assure you, it’s all in their imagination.”
The Duke of Kingston spoke then, in a voice that sounded like expensive dry liquor. “Nearly doubling the estate’s annual yields is no figment of the imagination. According to your brother, you’ve made great strides in modernizing Eversby Priory.”
“When one starts at a medieval level, Your Grace, even a small improvement seems impressive.”
“Perhaps in a day or two, you might give me a tour of the estate farms and show me some of the new machinery and methods you’re using.”
Before West could reply, Justin broke in. “He’s going to take me on a tour, Gramps, to show me the smelliest thing on the farm.”
A glow of errant tenderness softened the duke’s diamond-blue eyes as he looked at the boy. “How intriguing. I insist on coming along, then.”
Justin went to the duchess, locking his arms around her hips with the familiarity of a well-loved grandchild. “You can come too, Granny,” he said generously, hanging onto the complex draperies of her blue silk dress.
Her gentle hand, adorned only with a simple gold wedding band, smoothed his dark, ruffled hair. “Thank you, darling boy, but I would rather spend time with my old friends. In fact”—the duchess sent a quick, vibrant glance to her husband—“the Westcliffs have just arrived, and I haven’t seen Lillian for ages. Do you mind if I—”
“Go,” the duke said. “I know better than to stand between the two of you. Tell Westcliff I’ll be along in a moment.”
“I’ll take Ivo and Jack to the receiving room for lemonade,” Seraphina volunteered, and sent West a shy smile. “We’re parched after the journey from London.”
“So am I,” Phoebe murmured, beginning to follow her younger sister and the boys.
She stopped, however, her back straightening as she heard Lord St. Vincent remark to West, “My sister Phoebe will want to go on the farm tour. It’s fallen to her to maintain the Clare lands until Justin comes of age, and she has much to learn.”
Phoebe turned to St. Vincent with mingled surprise and annoyance. “As you’re well aware, brother, the Clare lands are already being managed by Edward Larson. I wouldn’t dream of insulting his expertise by interfering.”
“Sister,” St. Vincent replied dryly, “I’ve been to your estate. Larson’s a pleasant fellow, but his knowledge of farming hardly counts as ‘expertise.’”
West was fascinated to see a tidy of unruly pink sweep up Phoebe’s chest and throat. It was like watching a cameo come to life.
The brother and sister exchanged a hard stare, engaging in a wordless argument.
“Mr. Larson is my late husband’s cousin,” Phoebe said, still glaring at her brother, “and a great friend to me. He is managing the estate lands and tenants in the traditional manner, exactly as Lord Clare asked him to do. The tried-and-true methods have always served us well.”
“The problem with that—” West began, before he thought better of it. He broke off as Phoebe turned to give him an alert glance.
It felt like a collision, the way their gazes met.
“Yes?” Phoebe prompted.
Wishing he’d kept his mouth shut, West summoned a bland smile. “Nothing.”
“What were you going to say?” she persisted.
“I don’t want to overstep.”
“It’s not overstepping if I’m asking.” She was irritated and defensive now, her face turning even pinker. With that red hair, it was a riveting sight. “Do go on.”
“The problem with traditional farming,” West said, “is that it won’t work anymore.”
“It’s worked for two hundred years,” Phoebe pointed out, not incorrectly. “My husband was opposed to experimentation that might put the estate at risk, and so is Mr. Larson.”
“Farmers are experimental by nature. They’ve always looked for new ways to get the most they can from their fields.”
“Mr. Ravenel, with respect, what qualifications do you have to speak on the subject with such authority? Did you have farming experience before you came to Eversby Priory?”
“God, no,” West said without hesitation. “Before my brother inherited this estate, I’d never set so much as a foot on a farm. But when I started talking to the tenants, and learning about their situations, something quickly became clear. No matter how hard these people worked, they were going to be left behind. It’s a matter of simple mathematics. They can’t compete with cheap imported grain, especially now that international freight prices have dropped. On top of that, there are no young people left to do the backbreaking labor—they’re all heading north in search of factory jobs. The only solution is to modernize, or in five years—ten at most—the tenants will be gone, your country manor will have turned into a big white elephant, and you’ll be auctioning its contents to pay your tax bill.”
A frown knitted Phoebe’s forehead. “Edward Larson has a different view of the future.”
“While trying to live in the past?” West’s mouth twisted derisively. “I have yet to meet a man who can simultaneously look over his shoulder and see straight ahead.”
“You’re impertinent, Mr. Ravenel,” she said quietly.
“I beg your pardon. In any case, your tenants have been the lifeblood of the Clare estate for generations. You should at least learn enough about their situation to provide some oversight.”
“It’s not my place to supervise Mr. Larson.”
“Not your place?” West repeated incredulously. “Whose stakes are higher in all of this—his or yours? It’s your son’s inheritance, by God. If I were you, I’d have a hand in making the decisions.”
In the weighted silence that followed, West realized how presumptuous he’d been to lecture her in such a fashion. Looking away from her, he let out a taut sigh. “I warned you I’d overstep,” he muttered. “I apologize.”
“No,” Phoebe said curtly, surprising him. “I wanted your opinion. You’ve made some points worth considering.”
West’s hea
d lifted, and he looked at her with unconcealed surprise. He’d fully expected her to give him a sharp set-down, or simply turn on her heel and walk off. Instead, Phoebe had set aside her pride long enough to listen to him, which few women of her rank would have done.
“Although next time you might try a gentler manner,” she said. “It usually helps criticism go down easier.”
Staring into her silver eyes was like drowning in moonlight. West found himself at a complete loss for words.
They were within arms’ reach of each other. How had that happened? Had he moved closer, or had she?
His voice was a husk of sound as he managed a reply. “Yes. I . . . I’ll be gentle next time.” That hadn’t sounded right. “Gentler. With you. Or . . . anyone.” None of that sounded right, either. “It wasn’t criticism,” he added. “Just helpful hints.” Christ. His thoughts were in a heap.
She was breathtaking up close, her skin reflecting light like the silk of butterfly wings. The lines of her throat and jaw were a precise framework for a mouth as full and rich as flowers in deep summer. Her fragrance was subtle and dry and alluring. She smelled like a clean, soft bed he would love to sink into. The thought made his pulse thump insistently . . . want . . . want . . . want . . . God, yes, he’d love to show her all his gentleness, browsing over that slender body with his hands and mouth until she was quivering and lifting to his touch—
Stop this, you sodding idiot.
He’d gone without a woman for too long. When was the last time? Possibly a year ago. Yes, in London. Good God, how could so much time have passed? After the summer haymaking, he would go to town for at least a fortnight. He would visit his club, have dinner with friends, see a decent play or two, and spend a few evenings in the arms of a willing woman who would make him forget all about red-haired young widows named after songbirds.
“You see, I have to keep my promises to my husband,” Phoebe said, sounding nearly as distracted as he felt. “I owe it to him.”
That rankled far more than it should have, jolting West out of the momentary trance. “You owe the benefit of your judgment to the people who depend on you,” he said in a low voice. “Your greater obligation is to the living, isn’t it?”
Phoebe’s brows rushed down.
She had taken that as a jab against Henry, and West couldn’t say for certain that he hadn’t meant it that way. It was absurd to insist the work of farming be done exactly as it had always been, without regard to what might happen in the future.
“Thank you for your helpful hints, Mr. Ravenel,” she said coolly, before turning to her brother. “My lord, I would like a word with you.” Her expression didn’t bode well for St. Vincent.
“Of course,” her brother replied, seeming not at all concerned about his imminent demise. “Pandora, love, if you don’t mind . . . ?”
“I’m fine,” Pandora told him airily. As soon as the pair departed, however, her smile vanished. “Is she going to hurt him?” she asked the duke. “He can’t have a black eye for the wedding.”
Kingston smiled. “I wouldn’t worry. Despite years of provocation from all three brothers, Phoebe has yet to resort to physical violence.”
“Why did Gabriel volunteer her for the farm tour in the first place?” Pandora asked. “Even for him, that was a bit high-handed.”
“It pertains to an ongoing quarrel,” the duke said dryly. “After Henry’s death, Phoebe was content to leave all the decisions to Edward Larson. Lately, however, Gabriel has been urging her to take a stronger hand in the management of the Clare lands—just as Mr. Ravenel advised a minute ago.”
“But she doesn’t want to?” Pandora asked sympathetically. “Because farming is so boring?”
West gave her a sardonic look. “How do you know if it’s boring? You’ve never done it.”
“I can tell by the books you read.” Turning to Kingston, Pandora explained, “They’re all about things like scientific butter making, or pig keeping, or smut. Now, who could possibly find smut interesting?”
“Not that kind of smut,” West said hastily, as he saw the duke’s brows lift.
“You’re referring to the multicellular fungi that afflicts grain crops, of course,” Kingston said blandly.
“There are all different kinds of smut,” Pandora said, warming to the subject. “Smut balls, loose smut, stinking smut—”
“Pandora,” West interrupted in an undertone, “for the love of mercy, stop saying that word in public.”
“Is it unladylike?” She heaved a sigh. “It must be. All the interesting words are.”
With a rueful smile, West returned his attention to the duke. “We were talking about Lady Clare’s lack of interest in estate farming.”
“I don’t believe the problem stems from a lack of interest,” Kingston said. “The issue is one of loyalty, not only to her husband, but also to Edward Larson, who offered support and solace at a difficult time. He gradually assumed responsibility for the estate as Henry’s illness worsened, and now . . . my daughter is reluctant to question his decisions.” After a reflective pause, he continued with a slight frown, “It was an oversight on my part not to anticipate she would need such skills.”
“Skills can be learned,” West said pragmatically. “I myself was prepared for a meaningless life of indolence and gluttony—which I was thoroughly enjoying, by the way—before my brother put me to work.”
Kingston’s eyes glinted with amusement. “I was told you were a bit of a hellion.”
West slid him a wary glance. “I suppose that came from my brother?”
“No,” the duke said idly. “Other sources.”
Damn. West recalled what Devon had said about the gaming club, Jenner’s, started by the duchess’s father and eventually landing in Kingston’s possession. Of all the clubs in London, Jenner’s had the deepest bank and the most select membership, which included royalty, nobility, members of Parliament, and men of fortune. An endless flow of gossip and information was passed upward from the croupiers, tellers, waiters, and night porters. Kingston had access to the private information of England’s most powerful individuals—their credit, their financial assets, their scandals, and even their health issues.
My God, the things he must know, West thought glumly. “Whatever unflattering rumors you’ve heard about me are probably true,” he said. “Except for the really vile and disgraceful ones: those are definitely true.”
The duke seemed amused. “Every man has his past indiscretions, Ravenel. It gives us all something interesting to discuss over port.” He offered Pandora his arm. “Come, both of you. I want to introduce you to some of my acquaintances.”
“Thank you, sir,” West said with a negative shake of his head, “but I’m—”
“You’re delighted by my invitation,” Kingston informed him gently, “as well as grateful for the honor of my interest. Come along, Ravenel, don’t be a hairpin.”
Reluctantly West closed his mouth and fell into step behind them.
Chapter 4
Fuming, Phoebe hauled her brother by the arm along a small hallway until she found an unoccupied room. It was sparsely furnished with no specific purpose, the kind of room one often found in very large, old houses. After dragging Gabriel inside, she closed the door and whirled to face him.
“What do you mean by volunteering me for a farm tour, you lunkhead?”
“I was helping you,” Gabriel said reasonably. “You need to learn about estate farming.”
Of all her siblings, Gabriel was the one to whom Phoebe had always felt closest. In his company, she could make petty or sarcastic remarks, or confess her foolish mistakes, knowing he would never judge her harshly. They knew each other’s faults and kept each other’s secrets.
Many people, if not most, would have been flabbergasted to learn that Gabriel had any faults at all. All they saw was the remarkable male beauty and cool self-control of a man so elegantly mannered that it never would have occurred to anyone to call him a lunkhead. However, Gabr
iel could sometimes be arrogant and manipulative. Beneath his charming exterior, there was a steely core that made him ideally suited to oversee the array of Challon properties and businesses. Once he decided what was best for someone, he took every opportunity to push and goad until he had his way.
Therefore, Phoebe occasionally found it necessary to push back. After all, it was an older sister’s responsibility to keep her younger brother from behaving like a domineering ass.
“You’d help more by minding your own business,” she told him curtly. “If I decide to learn more about farming, it certainly won’t be from him, of all people.”
Gabriel looked perplexed. “What do you mean, ‘him of all people’? You’ve never met Ravenel.”
“Good heavens,” Phoebe exclaimed, wrapping her arms tightly across her chest, “don’t you know who he is? You don’t remember? He’s the bully. Henry’s bully!”
Gabriel shook his head, giving her a mystified glance.
“At boarding school. The one who tormented him for almost two years.” As he continued to look blank, Phoebe said impatiently, “The one who put trick candles in his basket.”
“Oh.” Gabriel’s brow cleared. “I’d forgotten about that. He’s that one?”
“Yes.” She began to pace in a tight back-and-forth pattern. “The one who turned Henry’s childhood into a nightmare.”
“‘Nightmare’ might be putting it a bit strongly,” Gabriel commented, watching her.
“He called Henry names. He stole his food.”
“Henry couldn’t have eaten it anyway.”
“Don’t be facetious, Gabriel—this is very upsetting to me.” Phoebe’s feet wouldn’t stay still. “I read Henry’s letters to you. You know what he went through.”
“I know it better than you,” Gabriel said. “I went to boarding school. Not the same one as Henry’s, but every last one of them has its share of bullies and petty tyrants. It’s the reason our parents didn’t send me, or Raphael, until we were mature enough to handle ourselves.” He paused with an exasperated shake of his head. “Phoebe, stop ricocheting about like a billiards ball, and listen to me. I blame Henry’s parents for sending him away to boarding school when he was so obviously unsuited for it. He was a sensitive, physically frail boy with a fanciful nature. I can’t conceive of a worse place for him.”
