by Lisa Kleypas
Phoebe nodded. “He sends an estate bailiff to collect rents, and if they—”
“He sends a bailiff?” West began to sound slightly less calm. “For God’s sake, why? He could use a land agent or . . . my God, anyone. Is it really necessary to use local law enforcement to terrify the tenants twice a year?”
After draining her wine, Phoebe said defensively, “Things are done differently in Essex.”
“No matter where you are, Phoebe, a manager’s job usually involves having to bloody manage something. Is Larson so rarefied that he can’t bring himself to have a conversation with a small farmer? Does he think poverty is bloody contagious?”
“No,” Phoebe said earnestly. “Oh, I’ve made you dislike Edward by giving you the wrong impression. He’s such a—”
“No, I already disliked him.”
“—lovely man, always kind and caring—he spent so many hours at Henry’s bedside, reading and comforting him—and comforting me, too. I leaned on Edward’s shoulder and came to rely on him even at the darkest moments—”
“Actually, I detest him.”
“—and he was very good with Justin, and Henry saw all that, which is why he asked for my promise to—” She broke off abruptly.
West stared at her without blinking. “Promise to what?”
Phoebe set aside her empty wine glass. “Nothing.”
“What promise?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Holy hell,” West said softly. She could feel his eyes boring holes into her. “An insane thought just came into my head. But it can’t be true.”
Blindly Phoebe turned pages in the ledger. “I was wondering—how much is in a bushel?”
“Eight gallons. Tell me it’s not true.”
Feeling the need to escape, Phoebe pushed back from the table and went to the bookshelves. “How would I know what you’re thinking?”
West’s voice lashed out like the crack of a whip, making her start. “Tell me Henry didn’t ask for your promise to marry his blasted cousin!”
“Will you be quiet?” Phoebe whispered sharply, whirling to face him. “I’d rather you didn’t shout it to the entire household!”
“My God, he did.” Inexplicably, West had flushed beneath his tan. “And you said yes. Why for the love of all that’s holy did you say yes?”
“Henry was in an agony of worry for me and Justin, and the unborn baby. He wanted to know we would be loved and cared for. He wanted his estate and home to be safeguarded. Edward and I suit each other.”
“He’ll never be more than a counterfeit Henry to you.”
“Edward is far more than a counterfeit Henry! How presumptuous of you, how—”
“There’s not one damned spark of passion between you. If there were, he’d have bedded you by now.”
She drew in a sharp breath. “I’ve been in mourning, you . . . you cretin!”
West didn’t look the least bit apologetic. “It’s been two years. Were I in Larson’s place, I’d at least have kissed you.”
“I’ve been living in my parents’ home. There’s been no opportunity.”
“Desire creates opportunity.”
“I’m not some young girl hoping for a stolen kiss behind the potted palms. I have other priorities now. Edward will be a good father to my children, and . . .” Phoebe turned back to the bookshelves, neatening a line of volumes, rubbing away a trace of book dust from one of the ancient leather spines. “Physical relations aren’t everything.”
“Hang it all, Phoebe, they’re not nothing, either.”
Risking a glance at West, she saw that he’d dropped his head in his hands. “Women have different needs than men,” she said.
His voice was muffled. “You’re killing me.”
One of the bookbindings had a torn edge. She stroked it with a fingertip, as if that would heal it. “The memories are enough,” she said quietly.
Silence.
“Most of those feelings died with Henry,” she added.
More silence.
Had West left the room? Baffled by his lack of response, Phoebe turned to glance at him again. She jerked in surprise as she found him right behind her.
Before she could say a word, he hauled her into his arms, and his mouth came down to hers.
Chapter 18
The kiss was cool and wine-sweet, swiftly gaining intensity. She felt the urgent stroke of his tongue, as if he were trying to gather as much of her taste as he could before she stopped him. He gathered her closer, and she couldn’t help yielding, letting her head fall back against his supportive arm. This was the truth her body couldn’t hide—she wanted this, his hunger, his heart pounding against hers.
West’s mouth slid from hers and followed the line of her throat. Finding the throb of her pulse, he kissed and nuzzled it ardently. “You’re not a possession,” he said raggedly. “You can’t be passed from one man to another like a painting or an antique vase.”
Her voice was faint. “That’s not how it is.”
“Has he told you he wants you?”
“Not the way you mean. He . . . he’s a gentleman . . .”
“I want you with my entire body.” West gripped her head and dragged his mouth over hers, shaping her lips before settling in for a rough and ardent kiss. He hitched her up against him until her toes barely touched the floor. “You’re all I think about. You’re all I see. You’re the center of a star, and the force of gravity keeps pulling me closer, and I don’t give a damn that I’m about to be incinerated.” He rested his forehead against hers, panting. “That’s what he should tell you.”
Somewhere in Phoebe’s mind, there were practical thoughts, sensible words, but they were drowned in a tide of sensation as his mouth covered hers again. He kissed her with the fullness of a man’s passion, slow and relentless, consuming her as if he were fire and she were oxygen. She opened for him, clung to him, her body melting into his. She was surrounded by arms so powerful he could have crushed her. Her blood raced at a speed that made her lightheaded and weakened her knees.
West lowered her to the floor, easily controlling their descent. He knelt over her, stripped off his coat and tossed it aside, and roughly unknotted his necktie. She knew she could stop him with a word, but instead she lay there trembling with anticipation for things she couldn’t even name. Reaching down, he pushed back the hem of her skirts a few inches to uncover her ankles. He removed her low-heeled slippers, his fingers curving gently beneath her heels, and then . . . he bent to press his lips over the silk of her stockings, kissing each foot in turn.
Phoebe could only stare at him, stunned by the tender, worshipful gesture.
He held her gaze, his eyes a shade of blue she’d seen only in dreams. He bent over her, the solid, exciting weight of him urging her legs apart beneath the skirts. One of his arms slid beneath her neck, and his mouth sought hers again. He was so careful, so assured, absorbed in her every response. His fingertips wandered over exposed skin wherever he could find it, her wrists, her throat, the shadowed places behind her ears.
The tender friction of his mouth sent fire dancing to the ends of her nerves, and she couldn’t help squirming beneath him. She was beginning to understand temptation as she never had before, how it could unravel a well-behaved lifetime in a matter of minutes. The bodice of her dress was loose—he’d unfastened it before she’d even noticed. Her corset was partially boned and made with silk elastic, more flexible than the usual stiff contraption of steel and tough cotton coutil. After unhooking the top, he lifted her breasts free of the half cups. She felt the wet touch of his tongue, a line of heat painted across a tense nipple. His lips closed over her and tugged gently, sending shocks of pleasure down to her toes. Moving to the other breast, he drew the tender budded peak into his mouth, sucking and playing with it.
One of his hands reached down to grasp the front of her skirts, pulling up the fabric until the only layers between them were his trousers and the thin cotton voile of her drawers. He let her
have more of his weight, hardness nudging against swelling softness, relieving the hot ache. She felt the slight roughness of his palm cupping beneath her breast, his thumb prodding and stroking the tip. No matter how she tried to stay still, pleasure stirred all through her . . . pulses, twitches, flutters, all begging to be gathered into a single chord of release. Her hips nudged upward in a rhythmic movement beyond her control. Later, she would be mortified at the memory of her wanton behavior, but for now the need was too overpowering.
A whimper rose in her throat as West rolled to his side, relieving her of his weight, and she tried to bring him back to her.
He was breathing in unsteady surges. “Phoebe—No, I’m so close, I can’t—”
She interrupted him, her mouth locking onto his in a demanding kiss. With a smothered laugh, he relented and pressed her back down into the chaotic ruffles of her dress. The loosened bodice pulled tight over her arms, making it difficult to move. He kissed her exposed breasts and licked the undersides, nuzzling the plush curves. Reaching beneath her skirts, he found the open split of her drawers. His palm skimmed the tops of soft, dry curls in repeated passes, the sensation working down to the follicles and sending a quiver of awareness through her. Very gently he parted the curls and ran a fingertip along the private furrow.
Craving more pressure, more explicit contact, she pushed up against his hand, but his touch remained light and unhurried as he explored the intricate crevice. Oh, God, he knew what he was doing, coaxing her response by gradual degrees, making her wait in helpless anticipation. Softly, almost as if by accident, he teased deeper until his fingertip grazed the bud of her clitoris. Her entire body jerked.
A hungry shudder wracked her as his touch withdrew. “Oh, please . . .” she whispered through dry lips.
West looked down at her with a faint smile, his eyes smoldering-blue. His head lowered to her breast, his lips closing over the tip. For long minutes he suckled and licked, while his hand traversed her body in leisurely paths. She simmered and ached and moaned, forgetting everything but the pleasure of what he was doing to her. After torturous delays and detours, he finally reached between her thighs and touched the wet, vulnerable entrance of her body. Her hands gripped his shoulders, and she panted into the open neck of his shirt, her legs tensing. The blunt tip of a finger worked its way inward, the thickness of a knuckle stretching tender flesh. There was movement deep inside her . . . teasing strokes . . . a peculiar pressure that sent a shot of heat to the quick of her body.
Slowly he eased his finger out and toyed with the silky flanges of her inner lips as if they were petals before circling the taut peak of her sex. One wet fingertip moved easily over her swollen flesh, the slight abrasion of a callous rasping delicately, causing her toes to curl. Tension coiled inside her, so erotic and unbearable she would have done anything to relieve it.
“How sensitive you are,” he whispered against her burning cheek. “It might be better for you . . . gentler . . . if I used my tongue. Would you like that?”
A breath stuck in her throat.
Amusement danced in the hot blue depths of his eyes as he saw her reaction.
“Oh . . . I don’t think . . .” was all she could manage to say.
His lips brushed lightly over hers. “My motto is, ‘You’ll never know unless you try it.’”
“That’s the worst motto I’ve ever heard,” she said faintly, and he grinned.
“Well, it makes life interesting.” Those clever, wicked fingers tickled between her thighs as he whispered, “Let me kiss you here.” At her hesitation, he urged, “Yes. Say yes.”
“No, thank you,” she said in rising worry, and he laughed softly. She felt pressure, and the helpless feeling of being invaded, and realized he was trying to slide two fingers inside her.
“Relax . . . You’re so sweet, so soft . . . Phoebe . . . for the next ten thousand nights, I’m going to dream about your beautiful mouth, and the miraculous shape of you, and all these freckles that turn you into a work of art—”
“Don’t tease,” she said breathlessly, and bit her lip as her body yielded to the gentle intrusion, his fingers wriggling slightly as they filled her.
“You want proof of my sincerity?” Deliberately he pressed his aroused flesh against her thigh. “Feel that. Just the thought of you does this to me.”
The man was shameless. Boasting about his male part as if it were something to be proud of! Although . . . one had to admit . . . it was impressively substantial. Phoebe struggled with nearly irresistible curiosity before letting her hand steal down to investigate. As her palm slid along the incredibly hard, heavy length of him, she blinked and said faintly, “Good heavens.” She drew her hand back quickly, and he smiled down at her flushed face.
“Kiss me,” he whispered. “As if we were in bed with the whole night ahead of us.” His fingers eased deeper. “Kiss me as if I were inside you.”
Phoebe obeyed blindly, butterflies swirling. He caressed and played with her, sometimes entering her with his fingers, sometimes withdrawing completely and toying with the damp curls between her thighs or gliding up to stroke her breasts. It was astonishing, how much he seemed to know about her body, the places that were too sensitive to be touched directly, the steady rhythms that aroused her most.
She had never been filled with such acute sensation, every nerve lit and glowing. Whenever her excitement built to the point of release, he stopped and made her wait until the heat receded, and then he started again. She was trembling with the need to climax, but he ignored her pleas and protests, taking his time. His fingers filled her gently, and his other hand came to her mound, massaging on either side of her clitoris. Her intimate muscles clenched and released, over and over, in deep pulsations beyond her control.
Pleasure resonated through her at a clarion pitch, and this time he didn’t stop, guiding her right into the feeling and through it. Her vision was flooded with brilliance, her muscles spasming, jerking. He took her low cry into his mouth and kissed her as hard and long as she wanted, and he didn’t stop stroking and teasing until the shudders had eased to shivers, and the shivers had faded to quiet trembling. Very gradually, the long, flexing fingers eased out of her body. He held her, cradling her against him, while she gasped for air and slowly returned to herself.
Sorting through the exhausted muddle of her thoughts, Phoebe wondered what would happen next. From the way they were entangled, she could feel that he was still aroused—would he want satisfaction? What should she do for him, and how? Oh, God, her mind was all blurred and comfortable, and her body was as limp as a sack of crushed salt. She felt excruciatingly shy about what they’d just done, but also grateful and close to tears. Nothing had ever felt as good as this, being gathered in by his arms, every part of her safe and warm and replete.
Carefully West reached into the wild disorder of her clothes and began to pull garments into place, tying and fastening her clothes expertly. All she could seem to do was lie there like a discarded doll, dreading the return to reality.
He eased her up to a sitting position. When he spoke, his tone was dry and amused. “About those feelings you no longer have. You were saying . . . ?”
Phoebe glanced at him in surprise and stiffened as if he’d just thrown cold water in her face.
It wasn’t what West said that shocked her, it was his detached expression, and the way one corner of his mouth curled upward in an arrogant smile. The tender lover had vanished, leaving her with a sardonic stranger.
All the feelings of warmth and connection had been an illusion. He hadn’t meant anything he’d said. All he had wanted was to prove that she still had physical needs, and he’d succeeded spectacularly, humiliating her in the process.
Her first intimacy with a man other than her husband . . . and it had been a game to him.
Oh, she felt so foolish.
“I hope we’ve learned our lesson,” he mocked lightly, making it even worse.
Somehow Phoebe managed to cover her hur
t and fury with a stony façade. “Indeed,” she replied curtly, unable to look at him as she rose to her feet. “Although perhaps not the lesson you thought you were teaching.” She yanked her bodice into place and straightened her skirts, and nearly leaped away like a startled doe as he moved to help her. “I require no more assistance.”
West stepped back at once. He waited silently as she finished putting herself in order. “Phoebe—” he began, his voice softer than before.
“Thank you, Mr. Ravenel,” she said, ignoring the weakness of her legs as she strode to the door. They were no longer on a first-name basis. As far as she was concerned, they never would be again. “The afternoon was most instructive.” She let herself out of the study and closed the door with great care, even though she longed to slam it.
Chapter 19
On the surface, dinner that night—the last gathering before the Challons departed in the morning—was a sparkling and lighthearted affair. The wedding and subsequent visit had been a great success, deepening the acquaintance between the two families and paving the way for more interactions in the future.
For all the enjoyment West derived from the evening, he might as well have spent it in a medieval dungeon. The effort to appear normal was almost face-cracking. He couldn’t help but marvel inwardly at Phoebe, who was perfectly composed and smiling. Her self-control was formidable. She was careful not to ignore him entirely, but she gave him no more than the minimum of attention necessary to keep from causing comment. Every now and then she glanced at him with a bland smile, or laughed politely at some quip he’d made, her gaze never quite meeting his.
It’s for the best, West had told himself a thousand times since the torrid scene in the study. It had been the right decision to make her hate him. In the moments after her climax, as he’d cradled her in his arms and felt her beautiful body nestle trustingly against his, he’d been on the verge of pouring out everything he thought and felt for her. Even now, it terrified him to think of what he might have said. Instead he’d deliberately embarrassed her, and pretended he’d only been amusing himself with her.
