by Lisa Kleypas
When the placket was finally unfastened, Mr. Ravenel raised his arms and let the shirt settle over his head, wincing as the neat row of stitches at his side was strained. Phoebe reached up to tug at the hem of the garment. Her knuckles inadvertently grazed the dark fleece on his chest, and her stomach did an odd little flip. From the surface of her skin down to the marrow of her bones, her entire body was alive with sensation.
“Forgive me for intruding,” she said, her gaze lifting to his face. “I wanted to find out how you were.”
Amusement flickered in his eyes. “I’m well. Thank you.”
With the short, dark layers of his hair all disheveled, he looked so attractive, somehow both cuddly and uncivilized. Hesitantly Phoebe reached for one of his wrists and began to button his cuff, and he went very still. How long it had been since she’d done this for a man. She hadn’t realized how she missed the small, intimate task. “Mr. Ravenel,” she said without looking at him, “what you did for my son . . . I’m so grateful, I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to be grateful. It’s a host’s responsibility not to let a dairy bull gore the houseguests.”
“I wish I could do something for you in return. I wish . . .” Phoebe flushed as it occurred to her that appearing uninvited in a man’s room and making such a statement while he was half dressed could easily be misinterpreted.
But he was being a gentleman about it. There were no mocking or teasing comments as he watched her fasten his other shirt cuff. “What I’d like more than anything,” he said quietly, “is for you to listen to an apology.”
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
“I’m afraid I do.” He let out a measured breath. “But first, I have something to give you.”
He went to a cabinet in a corner of the room and rummaged through its contents. Finding the object he sought . . . a small book . . . he brought it to her.
Phoebe blinked in wonder as she read the gold and black lettering on the battered cloth cover. The title was worn and faded, but still legible.
Stephen Armstrong: Treasure Hunter
Opening the book with unsteady fingers, she found the words written on the inside cover in her own childish hand, long ago.
Dear Henry, whenever you feel alone, look for the kisses I left for you on my favorite pages.
Blinded by a hot, stinging blur, Phoebe closed the book. Even without looking, she knew there were tiny x’s in the margins of several chapters.
Mr. Ravenel’s voice was hushed and gravelly. “You wrote that.”
Unable to speak, she nodded and bent her head, a tear splashing on her wrist.
“After we talked at dinner,” he said, “I realized your Henry was the one I knew at boarding school.”
“Henry was sure you were the one who took this book,” she managed to say. “He thought you’d destroyed it.”
He sounded utterly humble. “I’m so sorry.”
“I can’t believe you kept it all these years.” She tugged a handkerchief from the bodice of her dress and pressed it hard over her eyes, willing the tears to stop. “I cry too easily,” she said in vexation. “I always have. I hate it.”
“Why?”
“It shows weakness.”
“It shows strength,” he said. “Stoic people are the weak ones.”
Phoebe blew her nose and looked up at him. “Do you really think so?”
“No, but I thought saying that might make you feel better.”
A laugh trembled in her throat, and her eyes stopped watering.
“You sat down to dinner with me,” Mr. Ravenel said, “knowing what a brute I was to Henry, and you said nothing. Why?”
“I thought it would be kinder to keep silent.”
Something relaxed in his expression. “Phoebe,” he said softly. The way he said her name, like an endearment, made her insides feel pleasantly weighted. “I don’t deserve such kindness. I was born wicked, and I only grew worse after that.”
“No one is born wicked,” she said. “There were reasons why you fell into mischief. Had your parents lived, they would have loved you and taught you right from wrong—”
“Sweetheart . . . no.” His smile was edged with bitterness. “My father was usually too far in the drink to remember he had children. My mother was half mad and had fewer morals than the barn cat we brought back today. Since none of our relations wanted custody of a pair of impoverished brats, Devon and I were sent to boarding school. We stayed there most holidays. I became a bully. I hated everyone. Henry was especially irritating—skinny, odd, fussy about his food. Always reading. I stole that book from the box under his bed because it seemed to be his favorite.”
Pausing uncomfortably, Mr. Ravenel raked a hand through his disordered hair, and it promptly fell back into the same gleaming, untidy layers. “I didn’t plan to keep it. I was going to embarrass him by reading parts of it aloud in front of him. And when I saw what you’d written on the inside cover, I could hardly wait to torture him about it. But then I read the first page.”
“In which Stephen Armstrong is sinking in a pit of quicksand,” Phoebe said with a tremulous smile.
“Exactly. I had to find out what happened next.”
“After escaping the quicksand, he has to save his true love, Catriona, from the crocodiles.”
A husky sound of amusement. “You marked x’s all over those pages.”
“I secretly longed for a hero to rescue me from crocodiles someday.”
“I secretly longed to be a hero. Despite having far more in common with the crocodiles.” Mr. Ravenel’s gaze focused inward as he sorted through long-ago memories. “I didn’t know reading could be like that,” he eventually said. “A ride on a magic carpet. I stopped bullying Henry after that. I couldn’t jeer at him for loving that book. In fact, I wished I could talk to him about it.”
“He would have adored that. Why didn’t you?”
“I was embarrassed that I’d stolen it. And I wanted to keep it just a little longer. I’d never had a book of my own.” He paused, still remembering. “I loved finding the marks you put on your favorite scenes. Forty-seven kisses, all totaled. I pretended they were for me.”
It had never occurred to Phoebe that the book might have meant just as much to West Ravenel—more, even—than it had to her and Henry. Oh, how strange life was. She would never have dreamed she would someday feel such sympathy for him.
“There were times when that book kept me from despair,” Mr. Ravenel said. “It was one of the best things about my childhood.” A self-mocking smile touched his lips. “Naturally, it was something I’d stolen. Henry left school for good before I could bring myself to return it. I’ve always felt badly about that.”
Phoebe didn’t want him to feel badly. Not anymore. “I gave Henry my copy after his went missing,” she said. “He was able to read Stephen Armstrong’s adventures whenever he wanted.”
“That doesn’t excuse what I did.”
“You were a boy of nine or ten. Henry would understand now. He would forgive you, as I have.”
Instead of reacting with gratitude, Mr. Ravenel seemed annoyed. “Don’t waste forgiveness on me. I’m a lost cause. Believe me, compared to my other sins, this was a drop in the bucket. Just take the book and know that I’m sorry.”
“I want you to keep it,” Phoebe said earnestly. “As a gift from Henry and me.”
“God, no.”
“Please, you must take it back.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Phoebe . . . no . . . damn it . . .”
They had started to grapple, pushing the book back and forth, each trying to compel the other to accept it. The novel fell to the floor as Phoebe swayed off balance and staggered back a step. Mr. Ravenel snatched her reflexively and pulled her back, and momentum brought her against him.
Before she could draw breath, his mouth was on hers.
Chapter 13
Once as a child, Phoe
be had been caught outside in a summer storm, and had seen a butterfly knocked from the air by raindrops. It had fluttered and fallen to the ground, bombarded from every direction. The only choice had been to fold its wings, take shelter and wait.
This man was the storm and the shelter, pulling her into a deep, encompassing darkness where there was too much to feel—hot soft firm sweet hungry rough silken tugging. She strained helplessly in his arms, although she didn’t know whether she was trying to escape or press closer.
She had craved this, the hardness and heat of his body against hers, the sensation familiar and yet not at all familiar.
She had feared this, a man with a will and power that matched her own, a man who would desire and possess every last part of her without mercy.
The storm ended as abruptly as it had begun. He tore his mouth away with a rough sound, his arms loosening. She wobbled, her legs threatening to fold like paper fans, and he reached out to steady her.
“That was an accident,” Mr. Ravenel said over her head, breathing hard.
“Yes,” Phoebe said dazedly, “I understand.”
“The book was falling . . . I was reaching for it, and . . . your lips were in the way.”
“Let’s not speak of it again. We’ll ignore it.”
Mr. Ravenel seized on the suggestion. “It never happened.”
“Yes—no, it was—forgettable—that is, I’ll forget about it.”
That seemed to clear his head rather quickly. His breathing slowed, and he drew back far enough to give her an affronted glance. “Forgettable?”
“No,” Phoebe said hastily, “I meant I wouldn’t think about it.”
But he looked more disgruntled with each passing second. “That didn’t count as a real kiss. I’d just started.”
“I know. But all the same, it was very nice, so there’s no need to—”
“Nice?”
“Yes.” Phoebe wondered why he looked so insulted.
“If I have only one chance in a lifetime to kiss you,” he said grimly, “I’ll be damned if it’s going to be second rate. A man has standards.”
“I didn’t say it was second rate,” she protested. “I said it was nice!”
“The average man would rather be shot in the arse than have a woman call his lovemaking ‘nice.’”
“Oh, come, you’re making too much of this.”
“Now I have to do it over.”
“What?” An airless giggle broke from her, and she shrank back.
West reached out and hauled her against him easily. “If I don’t, you’ll always think that was the best I could do. I might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.”
“Mr. Ravenel—”
“Brace yourself.”
Phoebe’s jaw slackened in astonishment. He had to be teasing. He couldn’t be serious . . . could he?
There was a gleam of laughter in his eyes as he saw her expression. But then one of his arms slid securely around her back. Oh, God, he meant it; he was really going to kiss her. A rush of confusion and excitement made her dizzy.
“Mr. Ravenel, I . . .”
“West.”
“West,” Phoebe repeated, looking up at him. She had to clear away the nervous catch in her throat before she could continue. “This is a mistake.”
“No, the first kiss was a mistake. This one’s going to fix it.”
“But it won’t,” she said anxiously. “You see, I . . . I don’t doubt your lovemaking skills, I doubt my own. For more than two years, I haven’t kissed anyone over three and a half feet tall.”
A breath of amusement fanned her cheek. “Then you should probably aim your gaze at least two and a half feet higher than usual.” Gently he adjusted the angle of her chin. “Put your arms around me.”
Inexplicably, the quiet command sent ripples of interest and excitement through her. Was she actually going to let him . . . ?
Yes, some reckless inner voice insisted. Yes, don’t stop him, don’t think at all, just let it happen.
The dreamlike stillness was disturbed only by the fitful pattern of her breathing. Her hands went to his sides and slid around to the powerful surface of his back. He cupped the back of her head securely, and in the next moment his mouth caught at hers, a light pressure that kept nudging and settling, as if he were trying to find the exact fit between them. Uncertain how to respond, she stood there with her face uplifted while his fingertips stroked her throat and jaw as tenderly as sunlight moving over her skin. She wouldn’t have thought a man of his size could handle her with such gentleness. He deepened the pressure, urging her lips apart beneath his, and she felt the tip of his tongue enter her. The teasing lick felt so peculiar and sinuous, she stiffened and jerked back in surprise.
West kept her against him, his shaven masculine bristle rasping her soft skin. His cheek tautened as if he were smiling. Realizing her reaction had amused him, she frowned, but before she could say a word, his mouth had come to hers again. He explored her slowly, expertly, the intimacy shocking and yet . . . not unpleasant. Not at all. As the sweet, restless searching continued, delight resonated through her in thrills, like the parts of a harp that vibrated when certain notes were played. Tentatively she responded, her tongue darting shyly to meet his.
As she reached around his neck for support, she encountered the edge of his hair where it curled slightly against his nape. The dark locks were cool and lustrous as they slid through her languid fingers. His kiss roughened, his tongue sinking into her as he took what he wanted, and she was lost, drowning in a dark tide of sensation.
As a woman who’d been a wife, mother, and widow, she’d thought there was nothing left to learn. But West Ravenel was transforming every notion of what a kiss could be. He kissed like a man who had lived too fast, learned too late, and had finally found the thing he wanted. She couldn’t help writhing in response, her body aching for deeper, closer contact. He reached down with one hand to anchor her hips against his, and it felt so good she could have swooned. She moaned and pressed as tightly as possible to the hard terrain of his body . . . so very hard. Even with the layers of clothing between them, she could feel how aroused he was, the shape of him thick and aggressive.
Trembling, Phoebe turned her mouth from his. Her body didn’t seem to belong to her. She could hardly stand on her own. She couldn’t think. Her forehead leaned on his shoulder as she waited for the wild pumping of her heart to subside.
West buried a quiet curse into the mass of her pinned-up hair. His arms relaxed gradually, one of his hands wandering over her slender back in an aimless, soothing pattern. When he’d managed to moderate his breathing, he said gruffly, “Don’t say that was nice.”
Phoebe pressed a crooked smile against his shoulder before she replied, “It wasn’t.” It had been extraordinary. A revelation. One of her hands crept up to his lean cheek and shaped to it gently. “And it must never happen again.”
West was very still, considering that. He responded with a single nod of agreement and turned his lips to the center of her palm with urgent pressure.
Impulsively she stood on her toes and whispered in his ear, “There’s nothing wicked about you, except your kisses.” And she fled the room while she was still able.
Chapter 14
Evie, Duchess of Kingston, had spent a perfectly wonderful afternoon picnicking with her three closest friends at Lord Westcliff’s estate. Long ago she had met Annabelle, Lillian, and Daisy during her first London Season, when they had been a group of wallflowers sitting in chairs at the side of the ballroom. While becoming acquainted, it had occurred to them that instead of competing for gentlemen’s attentions, they would do better to help each other, and so a lifelong friendship had blossomed. In the past few years it had become a rare luxury for all of them to be together at once, especially since Daisy stayed in America with her husband, Matthew, for long periods of time. The trips were necessary for both of them: Matthew was a successful business entrepreneur, and Daisy was a successful novelist wi
th a publisher in New York as well as London.
After a day filled with talking, laughing, reminiscing and making future plans, Evie had returned to Eversby Priory in high spirits. She was full of news to share with her husband . . . including the fact that the protagonist of Daisy’s current novel in progress had been partly inspired by him.
“I had the idea when the subject of your husband came up at a dinner party a few months ago, Evie,” Daisy had explained, dabbing at a tiny stain left by a strawberry that had fallen onto her bodice. “Someone remarked that Kingston was still the handsomest man in England, and how unfair it was that he never ages. And Lillian said he must be a vampire, and everyone laughed. It started me thinking about that old novel The Vampyre, published about fifty years ago. I decided to write something similar, only a romantic version.”
Lillian had shaken her head at the notion. “I told Daisy no one would want to read about a vampire lover. Blood . . . teeth . . .” She grimaced and shivered.
“He enslaves women with his charismatic power,” Daisy protested. “He’s also a rich, handsome duke—just like Evie’s husband.”
Annabelle spoke then, her blue eyes twinkling. “In light of all that, one could forgive a bad habit or two.”
Lillian gave her a skeptical glance. “Annabelle, could you really overlook a husband who went around sucking the life out of people?”
After pondering the question, Annabelle asked Daisy, “How rich is he?” She ducked with a smothered laugh as Lillian pelted her with a biscuit.
Laughing at her friends’ antics, Evie had asked Daisy, “What’s the title?”
“The Duke’s Deadly Embrace.”
“I suggested The Duke Was a Pain in the Neck,” Lillian had said, “but Daisy thought it lacked romance.”
When Evie had arrived back at the Ravenels’ estate, she had found her oldest daughter waiting for her, eager to relate the events of the morning.
“Other than Mr. Ravenel,” Phoebe had reassured her, “no one else was hurt. Justin was a bit shaken, but perfectly fine.”
