by Lisa Kleypas
Justin was talking animatedly to him. “. . . but Galoshes wouldn’t stay there. She followed us from the barn, and now she’s riding in Stephen’s pram.”
“Galoshes? Why did you name her that?”
“It’s what Mama says when the cat puts holes in her dress.”
“Poor Mama.” West’s deep voice was edged with amusement. But his gaze was intent and searching as he looked at Phoebe.
She had already promised herself that when next they met, she would be composed and pleasant. Sophisticated. But that plan had already vanished like the fluff of a dandelion gone to seed, whisked away at the will of a breeze. She was filled with pleasure and excitement, momentarily too flustered to speak.
West turned to greet Nanny and grinned at the sight of the cat lounging in the pram. He set Justin down and slowly lowered to his haunches in front of Stephen.
“Hello, Stephen,” he said in a gentle, vibrant tone. “What a handsome fellow you are. You have your mother’s eyes.”
The sturdy toddler half hid behind Phoebe’s skirts and peeked at the engaging stranger while chewing on a finger. A shy grin split his face, revealing a row of little white teeth.
Phoebe noticed a dark bruise forming on West’s forearm, which was exposed by a rolled-up shirtsleeve. “Mr. Ravenel,” she asked in concern, “has some accident befallen you? What happened to your arm?”
He rose to his feet, his wet hair hanging over his brow in shiny dark ribbons. “It’s sheep-washing day. One of them caught my arm with a hoof as she tried to turn over in the water.”
“What about your stitches? Heaven knows what kind of filth your wound was absorbing while you stood in a sheep bath.”
He seemed amused by her worry. “It’s not bothering me in the slightest.”
“It will bother you quite a bit if the wound turns sour!”
Justin was far more interested in the subject of sheep than hygiene. “How do you wash a sheep?”
“We created a temporary pool in the stream by damming it with a pair of old doors. Some of us stood waist-deep in the water while others handed over the sheep. My job was to help turn a sheep on its back and swish its wool in the water until it was clean. Most of them liked it, but every now and then one of them struggled to turn itself upright.”
“How do you turn a sheep over?” Justin asked.
“You grasp a handful of fleece near its cheek, then take a hold of the opposite foreleg, and—” West paused, giving Justin a considering glance. “It would be easier to show you. Let’s pretend you’re a sheep.” He lunged for the boy, who leaped back with a delighted yelp.
“I’m a sheep who likes to be dirty!” Justin cried, scampering away. “And you can’t catch me.”
“Oh, can’t I?” Adroitly West dodged and pounced, snatching up the boy and making him squeal with laughter. “Now I’ll show you how I wash a sheep.”
“Wait,” Phoebe said sharply, her heart thundering with anxiety. All her instincts stung in warning at the sight of her son being handled so roughly. “He’ll catch a chill. He—”
West stopped and turned toward her with Justin clasped securely in his arms. He regarded Phoebe with a mocking lift of his brows, and she realized too late that he’d had no intention of throwing Justin into the stream. They had only been playing.
After setting Justin down with exaggerated care, West approached her, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Well, then. I’ll have to demonstrate on you.”
Before her mind had quite registered the words, Phoebe was stunned to find herself being seized and lifted off her feet. A shock went through her as she was hoisted high against a rock-hard chest, his wet shirt soaking the thin fabric of her bodice. “Don’t you dare,” she gasped, giggling and squirming. “Oh, God, you smell like a barnyard—put me down, you lout—” She was laughing uncontrollably in a way she hadn’t done since childhood. Her arms clutched his neck. “If you drop me into that water,” she managed to threaten, “I’ll take you with me!”
“It’s worth it,” he said casually, carrying her toward the stream.
No one in Phoebe’s adult life had dared to manhandle her like this. She pushed against him helplessly, but any effort to escape was futile. His arms were like steel bands.
“I’ll never forgive you,” Phoebe said, but ruined the effect with another burst of wild giggles. “I mean it!”
West’s low laugh tickled her ear. “I suppose you’re not big enough for a sheep-washing demonstration. You’re only lamb size.” He stopped, and for a few seconds he kept her like that, cradled and close against him. Phoebe held very still in that stolen embrace, while her mind conjured a stunning image of his body weighting hers to the ground, human warmth above and cool earth below. A shiver chased down her spine.
“Easy, now,” West said gently. “I wasn’t going to drop you.” He cuddled her a little closer. “Poor lamb, did I give you a fright?” His voice was so dark and tender that it almost made her shiver again. With great care, he lowered her feet to the ground. But her arms didn’t want to unlock from around his neck. A strange feeling had come over her, as if she were listening to the haunting prelude of a song that would never be written. Slowly she let go and stepped back.
Justin collided into her from behind, hugging her tightly and chuckling. A moment later, Stephen dove against her and clutched her skirts, grinning upward. The boys had loved seeing someone play rough-and-tumble with their mother.
Phoebe tried to sound casual as she told West, “We’re going to play here for a few minutes. You’re welcome to keep company with us.”
He held her gaze. “Would you like me to?”
Phoebe might have thought the question was a mocking attempt to make her plead for his company. But there was a subtle note of uncertainty in his tone. He wasn’t sure of her, she realized. He’d made no assumptions about her, or what she might want. The realization sent a flush of warmth through her.
“Yes . . . stay.”
Before long, West was wading with Justin in the ankle-deep shallows, helping him collect interesting pebbles. Phoebe, who had discreetly removed her shoes and stockings, sat on a bank with Stephen, holding him while he dipped his feet and watched the minnows darting across the shallows. Nanny had spread a cloth on a patch of mossy ground and sat with her back against the trunk of a nearby willow tree, snoozing lightly.
Feeling a soft nudge against her side, Phoebe twisted to discover that the black cat had jumped from the pram and was rubbing against her affectionately.
“Kitty!” Stephen exclaimed, clutching at the cat.
“Gently,” Phoebe cautioned, and moved his little hand in a slow, stroking motion over the animal’s back. “Oh, she likes that. Can you feel her purr?”
“. . . the bands of white are chalk,” West was saying a few yards away, bending to examine a pebble Justin held in his palm. “It’s made out of the shells of creatures so tiny, you can only see them with a microscope.”
“Where did the tiny creatures come from?”
“They formed on the ocean floor. All this land used to be covered with water.”
“I know that story,” Justin said brightly. “Noah and the ark.”
“It was long before Noah.”
“How long?”
“Millions of years.”
Justin shrugged and said prosaically, “I don’t know a million. I can only count to ten.”
“Hmm.” West pondered how to explain it. “Do you know how long a second is?”
“No.”
“One. Two. Three. Four. Five.” With each count, West snapped his fingers. “That was five seconds. Now, if I were to keep snapping like that without stopping for ten days, that would be almost a million seconds.”
Although Justin didn’t fully grasp the explanation, he clearly liked the snapping. He tried to imitate the sound, but his fingers couldn’t quite manage it.
“Like this,” West said, shaping the small hand in his, pressing the thumb and middle finger together. “Now
try.”
Frowning with concentration, Justin attempted another snap, but there was no sound.
“Keep practicing,” West advised. “In the meantime, let’s go to dry ground.”
“But I need more pebbles,” Justin protested.
West grinned. “You’ve filled your pockets with so many pebbles, you’re about to lose your trousers. Come, let’s show them to your mother.”
The black cat retreated a few feet, watching warily, as Justin emptied the contents of his pockets onto a handkerchief Phoebe had spread on the ground.
Phoebe dutifully admired the many-colored pebbles and picked up a white-banded one. Glancing up at West, she asked, “How do you know so much about chalk formation, Mr. Ravenel?”
“It’s because of the estate quarry. Before we started digging, I had to consult with mining experts, including a field geologist.”
“What’s a geologist?” Justin asked.
The question made West smile. “A scientist who studies rocks and drinks too much.”
As Phoebe set down the pebble, Stephen grabbed it and tried to put it in his mouth. “No, darling,” she said, taking it back, “that’s not good for you.” The baby whined irritably, reaching for the forbidden pebble. In a moment he began to squall, which awakened Nanny from her light nap. She rubbed her eyes and began to stand up.
“It’s all right, Nanny,” Phoebe said. “Justin, will you fetch a toy from the pram?”
Justin hurried to the vehicle, rummaged at the side of it, and brought back a little stuffed horse made of leather. Its legs had nearly worn down to nubs from the baby’s teething. Stephen took the toy, regarded it disdainfully, and dropped it to the ground as he continued to fuss.
Instantly the cat darted forward, snatched the toy and hurried off with it.
West came forward, reached down to clasp Stephen around the ribs, and lifted him from Phoebe’s lap. “What’s all this racket?” he asked, settling the baby against his chest.
Stunned into silence, Stephen looked tearfully into the man’s smiling blue eyes.
“Poor chap,” West soothed. “How dare they offer you a toy when you had a perfectly good rock to play with? It’s an outrage . . . yes, it is . . . an atrocity . . .” To Phoebe’s amazement, Stephen’s temper subsided as the “stranger” continued to coddle him. He put his hand on West’s cheek, exploring the bristly texture. In a moment, West lowered his face and blew a rude sound against the baby’s tummy, making him convulse with giggles. He lifted him in the air and began to pitch him upward repeatedly, eliciting squeals of delight.
“Mr. Ravenel,” Phoebe said, “I’d prefer you didn’t toss my child about as if he were an old valise.”
“He likes it,” West replied, although he gentled the movement.
“He also likes chewing on discarded cigar butts,” Phoebe said.
“We all have our bad habits,” West told the baby kindly, lowering him back down to his chest. “Justin, come—we have work to do.” He bent to pick up a stick the length of his forearm.
Phoebe’s eyes widened. “What is that for?”
“We’re clearing the area of crocodiles,” West informed her, and handed the stick to Justin. “If one comes close, beat him off with this.”
Justin squeaked in excitement and followed at his heels.
Although Phoebe was tempted to point out there were no crocodiles in England, she only laughed and watched as the three adventurers set off. Shaking her head, she went to sit beside Nanny.
“There’s a lot of man in that one,” the older woman remarked.
“There’s too much man in that one,” Phoebe said wryly.
They watched West stride off with the boys, still holding Stephen in one arm. Justin reached up with his free hand, and West took it without hesitation.
“They speak well of him in the servants’ hall,” Nanny ventured. “A good man, and a good master, who should have a household of his own. Well favored in looks, and the right age for fathering, too.”
“Nanny,” Phoebe said, giving her an amused, incredulous glance, “he’s only half tame.”
“Fie, milady . . . there’s not a man alive who’d be too much for you to manage.”
“I don’t want a man I’d have to manage. I’d like a civilized one who can manage himself.” Phoebe reached over to a patch of wild chamomile and plucked a blossom. Rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger, she inhaled the sweet apple-ish scent. Glancing sideways at the other woman, she added quietly, “Besides, you haven’t forgotten what Henry asked of me.”
“No, milady. Nor have I forgotten that he asked it when he was in his last fading. You’d have promised anything to ease his mind.”
Phoebe felt comfortable discussing Henry with his old nanny, who had loved him from the first day of his life to the last. “Henry gave careful thought to my future,” she said. “He saw the advantages of a match with Edward, who has a fine reputation and a gentlemanly nature, and will set a good example for the boys while they’re growing up.”
“A fine shoe often pinches the foot.”
Phoebe gathered more blossoms to make a tiny bouquet. “I’d have thought you would approve of a match between me and Henry’s cousin. Edward is so very like him.”
“Is he, milady?”
“Yes, you’ve known him since he was a child. He’s very much like Henry, only without the quirks.”
Despite Edward’s relatively young age, he was a gentleman of the old school, courtly and soft-spoken, a man who would never dream of making a scene. In all the years of their acquaintance, Phoebe had never once seen him lose his temper. She wouldn’t have to worry that he would be unfaithful, or cold, or thoughtless: It simply wasn’t in him.
It wasn’t difficult to envision being content with Edward.
The difficult part was trying to imagine sleeping with him. Her mind couldn’t seem to conjure it except in an unfocused way, like watching shadow puppets.
When it came to West Ravenel, however, the problem was exactly the reverse. The idea of sharing a bed with him made her mouth go dry and her pulse race with excitement.
Troubled by the direction of her thoughts, Phoebe wrapped a stem around the little chamomile bouquet and gave it to Nanny. “I should go see what Mr. Ravenel and the children are doing,” she said lightly. “He probably has them playing with knives and sulfur matches by now.”
She found West and the children on a low bank of the stream, all three of them muddy and disheveled. Stephen was perched in West’s lap, his white linen smock positively filthy. They appeared to have made a project of stacking flat river stones into towers. Justin had used his stick to dig a channel in the sandy silt and was transferring water from the stream with his cupped hands.
Phoebe’s brows flew upward. “I took a rock away from the baby,” she asked West, “and you gave him a dozen more?”
“Shhh,” West said without looking at her. A corner of his mouth twitched as he continued, “Don’t interrupt a man while he’s working.”
Stephen clutched a flat stone with both hands, guiding it to a stack with wobbly determination. He pressed it on top of the other stones and held it there while West gently adjusted its position.
“Well done,” West said.
Justin offered Stephen another stone, and Stephen took it with a grunt of enthusiasm. His small face was comically serious as he maneuvered the stone to the top of the stack. Phoebe watched intently, struck by how excited and interested he was in the project.
Since the death of the father who’d never seen him, she had sheltered and coddled her youngest child as much as possible. She had filled his world with soft, pretty objects and endless comfort. It hadn’t occurred to her that he might want—or need—to play with rocks, sticks, and mud.
“He’s going to be a builder,” West said. “Or an excavator.”
“Lucky Stephen,” Justin said, surprising Phoebe. “I wish I could have a job someday.”
“Why can’t you?” West asked.
> “I’m a viscount. And they won’t let you quit even if you want to.”
“A viscount can have another job as well.”
Justin paused in his digging to look up at him hopefully. “I can?”
“Perhaps if it’s one of the honorable professions,” Phoebe interceded gently, “such as diplomacy or the law.”
West sent her a sardonic glance. “His grandfather has spent years running a gaming club in London. As I understand it, he is personally involved in its day-to-day management. Is that on your list of honorable professions?”
“Are you criticizing my father?” Phoebe asked, nettled.
“Just the opposite. Had the duke allowed himself to be hamstrung by the expectations of nobility, he probably wouldn’t have a shilling to his name.” He paused to adjust the pile of stones as Stephen stacked another one. “The point is, he runs the club, and ended up a duke all the same. Which means when Justin comes of age, he can choose any occupation he likes. Even a ‘dishonorable’ one.”
“I want to be a geologist,” Justin volunteered. “Or an elephant trainer.”
Phoebe looked at West and asked indignantly, “And who will look after the Clare estate?”
“Perhaps Stephen. Or you.” He grinned at her expression. “That reminds me: tomorrow I have to do some bookkeeping. Would you like to take a look at the estate account ledgers?”
Phoebe hesitated, torn between wanting to chide him for putting ideas in her son’s head and wanting to accept the offer. It would be enormously helpful to learn the estate farm’s accounting system, and she knew he could explain it in a way she could understand.
“Would we be alone?” she asked warily.
“I’m afraid so.” West’s voice lowered as if he were relating something scandalous. “Just the two of us in the study, poring over the lascivious details of income and expenditure estimates. Then we’ll move on to the really salacious materials . . . inventory . . . crop rotation charts . . .”
