Devil's Daughter: The Ravenels Meet the Wallflowers

by Lisa Kleypas

  “I can’t,” she whimpered. All her bones seemed to have softened into isinglass, and her muscles were trembling. The only strength she had left was deep in the core of her body, where she couldn’t help clamping and kneading the rigid invasion.

  “You’re not even trying,” he accused tenderly, his mouth curving against the back of her shoulder.

  Somehow she willed enough strength back into her knees to satisfy him, and she moaned as he began to thrust more powerfully and deeply than he ever had before. Each inward drive was a sensuous jolt, lifting her heels from the floor. She breathed and sweated and pushed back at him, the feelings rising thickly to a crescendo. The repeated wet impacts of their flesh embarrassed and excited her, and there was nothing she could do about any of it, she had lost all hope of control. One of his hands slid to the triangle between her thighs, caressing her pulsing flesh, while the other went to her breast and clamped the nipple gently between his thumb and finger.

  That was all she needed. She pressed her clenched fists against the door and cried out repeatedly, in ecstasy that sounded like anguish. Satisfaction rushed and ebbed, back and forth, in heavy waves that soon broke into shudders. She really couldn’t stand then, her limbs quaking, and he picked her up and carried her into the bedroom.

  Before her body had even settled completely on the bed, he was in her again, thrusting almost savagely, reaching beneath her hips to pull her up into each plunge. Still oversensitive from climax, she writhed uncomfortably at first, but soon the push and pull rhythm felt good, and then it turned into something she wanted, craved, had to have. She squirmed, her body taking him deeply, arching in counterpoint. The rhythm changed, his hips rolling against hers, and the awareness that he was about to climax sent her into another rush of spasms. He was going to withdraw just at the moment she wanted him to thrust even harder and deeper. Without thinking, she locked her legs around him.

  “Don’t pull out,” she whispered, “not yet, not yet—”

  “Phoebe, no, I have to, I’m going to—”

  “Come inside me. I want you to. I want you—”

  His hips froze, suspended in an agony of temptation. Somehow he withdrew in time, burying a vicious cry in the bed linens as his body jerked in release.

  Panting and shivering, he rolled away from her. He sat at the edge of the bed, gripping his head in his hands.

  “I’m sorry,” Phoebe said sheepishly.

  “I know.” His voice was a scrape of sound. Then he was silent for a long minute.

  Concerned, she moved to sit beside him, one of her hands resting on his thigh. “What’s the matter?”

  “I can’t do this anymore,” he said bleakly, keeping his face averted. “I thought I could, but it’s going to kill me.”

  “What can I do?” she asked softly. “What do you want?”

  “I have to leave tomorrow. For my own sanity, I can’t stay with you any longer.”

  Chapter 31

  One week after West had left the Clare Estate, Edward Larson returned from Italy.

  Phoebe had done her best to carry on as usual, maintaining a falsely cheerful façade for the children’s sake and going through the motions of everyday life. She was good at that. She knew how to endure loss and had learned that it wouldn’t break her. No matter how miserable she felt inside, she couldn’t let herself go to pieces. There were too many responsibilities to face, especially those involving Edward and the fraud he’d committed as executor of the estate. Although she dreaded having to confront him, it was a relief when he finally came to Clare Manor.

  As soon as Edward entered the parlor, Phoebe saw that he knew trouble had been brewing. Despite his smile and obvious affection, his face was strained and his gaze was sharp.

  “Ciao, mia cara,” he exclaimed, and came forward to kiss her, the firm, dry pressure of his lips making something inside her cringe and recoil.

  “Edward, you look well,” Phoebe said, gesturing for him to sit with her. “Italy must have agreed with you.”

  “Italy was a marvel, as always. Georgiana is quite happily settled, and I will relate all the particulars of her situation. But first . . . I’ve been made aware of some concerning news, my dear, with some rather serious consequences on the horizon.”

  “Yes,” Phoebe said gravely. “So have I.”

  “Rumors are flying about a houseguest you entertained during my absence. You are so charitable and generous in the way you treat other people that you would doubtless expect them to treat you the same way. However, society—even out here in the country—is not half so kind as you.” The touch of paternal beneficence in his tone irritated her.

  “Mr. Ravenel came to stay for a few days,” Phoebe acknowledged. “Our families are connected by marriage, and I requested his advice about the estate.”

  “That was a mistake. I don’t wish to frighten you, Phoebe, but it was a grave mistake indeed. He is the worst kind of scoundrel. Any association with him is poisonous.”

  Phoebe took a calming breath. “I do not require a lecture on propriety, Edward.” Especially not from you, she thought.

  “His reputation is tarnished beyond redemption. He is a drunkard. A profligate.”

  “You know nothing about who he is,” Phoebe said with a touch of weary exasperation, “or what he’s made of himself. Let’s not discuss him, Edward, there’s something far more important for us to deal with.”

  “I saw him at soirée once. His behavior was indecent. Staggering about drunkenly, fondling and flirting with married women. Insulting everyone around him. A more vulgar, sneering display I have never seen. The host and hostess were humiliated. Several guests, including myself, left the soirée early because of him.”

  “Edward, enough about this. He’s gone now, and it’s over. Please listen to me—”

  “He may be gone, but the damage has been done. You are too naïve to understand, my innocent Phoebe, what jeopardy you’ve put yourself in by allowing him to stay here. People will have already begun to repeat the worst interpretations of the situation.” He took her stiff hands in his. “You and I will have to marry without delay.”

  “Edward.”

  “It’s the only way to contain the damage before you’re ruined.”

  “Edward,” she said sharply. “I know about Ruth Parris and little Henry.”

  His complexion turned bleach white as he looked at her.

  “I know about the house,” Phoebe continued, gently drawing her hands from his, “and how you used funds from the loan company to pay for it.”

  His eyes were dilated with the horror of someone whose darkest secret had been exposed, his protective veneer shattered. “How . . . who told you? Ravenel has something to do with this, doesn’t he? He’s trying to poison you against me. He wants you for himself!”

  “This has nothing to do with Mr. Ravenel,” she exclaimed. “This is about you and your . . . I don’t know what to call her. Your mistress.”

  He shook his head helplessly, standing up from the settee and pacing in a tight circle. “If you only knew more about men, and the ways of the world. I will try to explain in a way you can understand.”

  She frowned, remaining seated as she watched his nervous movements. “I understand that you borrowed money on behalf of my son’s estate to set up a young woman in a household.”

  “It wasn’t stealing. I intended to pay back the funds.”

  Phoebe gave him a reproachful glance. “Unless you married me, in which case the money would have become yours anyway.”

  “You’re insulting my character,” he said, pain contorting his face. “You’ll try to make me out to be a villain on the level of West Ravenel.”

  “Were you ever going to tell me, Edward, or did you plan to maintain Ruth Parris and her child in that house indefinitely?”

  “I don’t know what I planned.”

  “Did you consider marrying Ruth?”

  “Never,” he said without hesitation.

  “But why not?”


  “She would be the ruin of my future prospects. My father might disinherit me. I would be a laughingstock, marrying someone so lowborn. She has no education. No manners.”

  “Those things can be acquired.”

  “Nothing can change what Ruth is: an honest, sweet, simple girl who is utterly wrong as a wife for a man of my position. She’ll never be a society hostess, nor will she ever be capable of making clever conversation or telling the difference between the salad fork and the fish fork. She would be made miserable by requirements she could never satisfy. Any concern for her is unwarranted. I made no promises, and she loves me too well to make a wreck of my life.”

  “But what have you made of hers?” Phoebe demanded, outraged on the girl’s behalf.

  “Ruth is the one who insisted on keeping the child. She could have given him to someone else to raise and gone on with her life as before. All the choices that led to her current predicament were made by her—including the choice to lie with a man outside of marriage in the first place.”

  Phoebe’s eyes widened. “Then the blame is all hers, and none of yours?”

  “The risk of an affair is always greater for the woman. She understood that.”

  Could this really be the Edward she had known for so many years? Where was the highly moral, considerate man who had always shown such indelible respect for women? Had he changed somehow without her notice, or had this always been mortared in among the layers of his character?

  “I genuinely loved her,” he went on, “and in fact I still do. If it makes you feel any better, I’m deeply ashamed of my feelings for her, and of whatever coarseness in my nature led to a relationship with her. I’m suffering as much as anyone.”

  “Love is not born of coarseness,” Phoebe said quietly. “The ability to love is the noblest quality a man can possess. You should honor it, Edward. Marry her and be happy with her and your son. The only thing to be ashamed of is the belief that she’s not good enough for you. I hope you’ll overcome it.”

  He seemed painfully bewildered as well as angry. “One cannot overcome facts, Phoebe! She is common. She would lower me. That opinion would be shared by everyone in our world. Everyone who matters would censure me. There would be so many places we wouldn’t be welcomed, and blue-blooded children who wouldn’t be allowed to associate with mine. Surely you understand that.” His voice turned vehement. “God knows Henry did.”

  Now it was Phoebe’s turn to fall silent. “He knew about Ruth? And her baby?”

  “Yes, I told him. He forgave me before I could even ask. He knew it was the way of the world, that honorable men sometimes yield to temptation. He understood it had no bearing on my character, and he still thought it best for you and I to marry.

  “And what was to become of Ruth and her child? What were his thoughts about that?”

  “He knew I would do what I could for them.” Edward returned to the place beside her, reaching out to cover her hands with his. “I know my own heart, Phoebe, and I know I’m a good man. I would be a faithful husband to you. I would be kind to your boys. You’ve never heard me raise my voice in anger, have you? You’ve never seen me inebriated or violent. We would have a clean, sweet, good life together. The kind of life we deserve. I love so many things about you, Phoebe. Your grace and beauty. Your devotion to Henry. It agonized him that he wouldn’t be able to take care of you, but I swore to him I would never let harm come to you. I told him he would never have to worry about his children, either: I would raise them as if they were mine.”

  Phoebe tugged her hands away, her skin crawling at his touch. “I can’t help but find it ironic that you’re so willing to be a father to my sons, but not your own.”

  “Henry wanted us to be together.”

  “Edward, even before I knew about Ruth Parris and the loan money, I had already decided—”

  “You must overlook her,” he interrupted desperately, “just as I will overlook any indiscretions on your part. It can all be forgotten. I’ll perform any penance you ask, but we will put this behind us. I’ll have the boy sent abroad and raised there. We’ll never see him. He’ll be better off that way, and so will we.”

  “No, Edward. No one would be better off. You’re not thinking clearly.”

  “Neither are you,” he retorted.

  Perhaps he was right: thoughts were colliding in her head. She didn’t know whether to believe him about Henry. She had known Henry so well, his sweetness and forbearing, his concern for others. But he had also been a man of his class, raised to respect the boundaries between high and low, with a full understanding of the consequences should the order of things be disrupted. Had Henry really given his blessing to a future union between his cousin and wife, in full knowledge of poor Ruth Parris and her chance-born child?

  Then, almost magically, the turmoil and distress subsided, and everything became clear.

  She had loved and respected her husband and had always heeded his opinions. But from now on, she would trust her own sense of right and wrong. The sin was not love, but the lack of it. The thing to fear was not scandal, but the betrayal of one’s own morality.

  “You are I are not going to marry, Edward,” she said, actually feeling a bit sorry for him, when he was so obviously making ruinous choices for himself. “There will be much for us discuss in the coming days, including a tangle of legal matters. I want you to resign the executorship of the will, and step aside as trustee of the estate—and I beg you not to make the process difficult. For now, I would like you to leave.”

  He seemed aghast. “You’re being irrational. You’re going against what Henry wanted. I will take no action until you’ve calmed down.”

  “I’m perfectly calm. Do as you see fit. I’m going to seek the counsel of solicitors.” She softened as she saw how distraught he was. “I’ll always be fond of you, Edward. Nothing will erase all the kindness you’ve shown me in the past. I would never vindictive, but I want any legal association between us terminated.”

  “I can’t lose you,” he said desperately. “My God, what is happening? Why can’t you see reason?” He stared at her as if she were a stranger. “Were you intimate with Ravenel? Did he seduce you? Force you?”

  Phoebe let out a short sigh of exasperation and left the settee, striding rapidly to the threshold. “Please leave, Edward.”

  “Something has happened to you. You’re not yourself.”

  “Do you think so?” she asked. “Then you’ve never known me at all. I am wholly myself—and I will never marry a man who would want me to be any less than I am.”

  Chapter 32

  “Good God, Ravenel,” Tom Severin commented as West entered his carriage and took the seat opposite him, “I’ve seen better groomed whorehouse rats.”

  West responded with a surly glance. In the week since he’d left the Clare Estate, primping and self-grooming had not been a high priority. He had shaved recently—a day or two ago—maybe three—and he was more or less clean, and his clothes were good quality even if they hadn’t been pressed or starched. His shoes could use some polishing, and yes, his breath was a bit rank, as one would expect after days of drinking too much and eating too little. Admittedly, he wasn’t a fashion plate.

  West had been staying at the terrace apartment he’d maintained even after having taken up residence in Hampshire. Although he could have made use of Ravenel House, the family’s London home, he’d always preferred to maintain his privacy. A cookmaid came once or twice a week to clean. She had been there yesterday, wrinkling her nose as she’d gone from room to room, picking up empty bottles and dirty glasses. She’d refused to leave until West had eaten part of a sandwich and some pickled carrot slices in front of her, and she had scowled when he’d insisted on washing it down with some fettled porter.

  “You’ve a thirsty soul, Mr. Ravenel,” she’d said darkly. He could have sworn she’d poured out the rest of the porter before she’d left—surely he couldn’t have downed all of it in one afternoon. But maybe he had. It al
l felt wretchedly familiar, this churning in his gut, this endless poisonous craving that nothing would satisfy. As if he could drown in a lake of gin and still want more.

  He’d been in reasonably good condition, that morning he’d left the Clare Estate. He’d breakfasted with Phoebe and the children, smiling at the sight of Stephen’s small hands grasping bits of fried bacon and mashing buttered toast into shapeless wads. Justin had asked more than once when he would return, and West had found himself responding the way he’d always hated in childhood when adults would say, “Someday,” or “We’ll see,” or “When the time is right.” Which everyone, even a child, knew meant “No.”

  Phoebe, damn her, had behaved in the cruelest way possible, by being calm and gentle and understanding. It would have been so much easier for him if she’d pouted or been spiteful.

  She’d kissed him goodbye at the front door before he’d gone to the train station . . . clasping one side of his face with a slender hand, her soft mouth brushing his cheek, her fragrance sweet in his nostrils. He’d closed his eyes, feeling as if he were surrounded by flower petals.

  And then she’d let him go.

  It was at the train station that the bad feeling had overcome him, a mixture of grayness, exhaustion, and powerful thirst. He’d planned to buy a ticket for Eversby Priory, and had instead found himself asking for Waterloo Station, with the vague intention of stopping in London for a night. That stop-over had turned into two days, then three, and then somehow he’d lost the wherewithal to make any decisions about anything. Something was wrong with him. He didn’t want to go back to Hampshire. He didn’t want to be anywhere.

  It was as if he’d been taken over by some outside force that now controlled everything he did. Like demonic possession—he’d read about the condition in which one or more evil spirits would enter a man’s body and take away his will. But in his case, there was no speaking in tongues, lunatic ravings, or doing violence to himself or others. If he was unwittingly hosting demons, they were very sad, lethargic ones who wanted him to take long naps.