Devil's Daughter

by Lisa Kleypas

“How long will you stay?” he heard her ask.

  “How long do you want me?”

  Phoebe made a sound of amusement. “At least until I’m out of trouble.”

  You’re not the one in trouble, West thought, and closed his eyes in despair.

  “What does a cow say?” West asked Stephen that evening, as they sat on the parlor rug surrounded by carved wooden animals.

  “Moo,” the toddler replied matter-of-factly, taking the little cow from him and inspecting it.

  West held up another animal. “What does a sheep say?”

  Stephen reached for it. “Baa.”

  Phoebe smiled as she watched them from her chair by the hearth, a small embroidery hoop in her lap. After dinner, West had given Stephen a toy barn with a removable roof and a collection of carved and painted animals. There was even a miniature wooden two-wheeled cart for the horse to pull. Nearby, Justin played with his present from West. It was a Tivoli board, a game in which marbles were inserted at the top and clattered their way down through arrangements of pegs and chutes before dropping into numbered slots below.

  Much earlier in the day, Phoebe had shown West to the guest cottage, a simple redbrick dwelling with sash windows and a white pediment over the door. He had changed from his traveling clothes and returned to the main house to have his first look at the account ledgers. “I see some of the difficulty,” he’d said, scrutinizing the pages in front of him. “They’re using a double-entry bookkeeping system.”

  “Is that bad?” Phoebe had asked apprehensively.

  “No, it’s superior to the single-entry system we use at Eversby Priory. However, being simpleminded in this area, I’ll need a day or two to become familiar with it. Basically, each entry to an account requires an opposite entry to a corresponding account, and then one can check for errors with an equation.” West had looked self-mocking. “To think of the courses I took in Greek history and German philosophy, when what I needed was an introduction to bookkeeping.”

  He had spent the afternoon in the study, shooing Phoebe out when she tried to join him, claiming her presence was too distracting for him to concentrate.

  Later they’d had dinner alone, both of them seated near the end of the long mahogany dining table, in the wavering brilliance of candlelight. At first the conversation had charged at a headlong pace, partly fueled by nerves. It wasn’t an ordinary situation for the two of them, dining with the intimacy of husband and wife. Phoebe had thought it felt a little like trying something on to see if it fit. They’d exchanged news and stories, debated silly questions and then serious ones . . . and after wine and dessert, they had finally relaxed and let down their guards. Yes, it fit, the two of them together. It was a different feeling, but a very good one. A new kind of happiness.

  Phoebe knew West couldn’t see beyond his own fears of being unworthy, of someday causing her unhappiness. But this high degree of concern was precisely what inclined her to trust him. One thing was clear: if she wanted him, she would have to be the pursuer.

  West lounged on the floor between her two sons, a heavy forelock of dark hair falling over his forehead. “What does a chicken say?” he asked Stephen, holding up a wooden figure.

  The toddler took it from him and answered, “Rowwr!”

  West blinked in surprise and began to chuckle along with Justin. “By God, that is a fierce chicken.”

  Delighted by his effect on West, Stephen held up the chicken. “Rowwr,” he growled again, and this time West and Justin collapsed in laughter. Quickly West reached out to the toddler’s blond head, pulled him closer and crushed a brief kiss among the soft curls.

  Had there been any doubts lingering in Phoebe’s mind, they were demolished in that moment.

  Oh, yes . . . I want this man.

  Chapter 24

  Early the next morning, Ernestine brought Phoebe her tea and helped to prop the pillows behind her.

  “Milady, I have a message to relay from Hodgson, regarding Mr. Ravenel.”

  “Yes?” Phoebe asked, yawning and sitting up higher in bed.

  “As Mr. Ravenel brought no valet with him, the under-butler would be pleased to offer his services in that capacity, should they be required. Also, my lady . . . the housemaid just came from tending the grate at the guest house. She says Mr. Ravenel asked for a razor and shaving soap to be sent over. Hodgson says he would be honored to loan his razor to the gentleman.”

  “Tell Hodgson his generosity is very much appreciated. However . . . I think I’ll offer Mr. Ravenel the use of my late husband’s razor.”

  Ernestine’s eyes widened. “Lord Clare’s razor?”

  “Yes. In fact, I’ll take it to him personally.”

  “Do you mean this morning, milady? Now?”

  Phoebe hesitated. Her gaze went to the window, where the pale sky was rising through the darkness like a floating layer of cream. “It’s my responsibility as hostess to take care of my guest, isn’t it?”

  “It would be hospitable,” Ernestine agreed, although she looked a bit dubious.

  Still considering the idea, Phoebe played nervously with a loose lock of her hair and took a fortifying gulp of hot tea. “I’m sure he’d like to have it soon.”

  “If you leave through the winter garden door at this hour,” Ernestine said, “no one would notice. The housemaids don’t start on the east wing ’til midmorning. I’ll tell Hodgson not to send anyone out to the guest cottage.”

  “Thank you. Yes.”

  “And if you like, milady, I’ll tell Nanny you’d prefer the children to have breakfast in the nursery this morning and join you for tea later.”

  Phoebe smiled. “I do appreciate, Ernestine, that your first instinct is not to prevent me from doing something scandalous, but to help me get away with it.”

  The lady’s maid gave her a deliberately bland look. “You’re only going out to take the morning air, milady. No scandal in going for a walk, last I heard.”

  By the time Phoebe exited the winter garden door and followed the crosswalk to the guest cottage, sunrise had started to gild the leaves and branches of the boxwood borders and spread a rosy glow across brackets of glittering windowpanes. She carried a lidded basket over one arm, walking as quickly as possible without giving the impression of haste.

  As Phoebe reached the guest cottage, she gave the door two quick knocks and let herself in. “Good morning,” she called out softly, closing the door behind her.

  She had redecorated the cottage as well as the main house. The front room, a parlor with sage green walls, fresh white plasterwork, and gilded accents, was perfumed by the vase of fresh flowers that occupied a satinwood console table beside the door.

  In the silence of the cottage, West emerged from one of the bedrooms, his head tilting in perplexity to find her there. He was very tall in the low-ceilinged room, a potent masculine presence with his shirt left untucked and the sleeves rolled up to reveal hairy forearms. Phoebe’s heart thudded heavily as she thought of what she wanted and feared might not happen. The idea of going the rest of her life without ever having been intimate with West Ravenel was starting to seem no less than tragic.

  “I’ve brought shaving supplies,” she said, gesturing with the basket.

  West stayed where he was, his gaze slow and hot as it swept over her. She wore an “at home” garment that combined the appearance of a dress with the convenience of a robe, as it required no corset and fastened with a minimum of buttons. The scooped neck of the bodice was trimmed with spills of white Brussels lace.

  “My thanks,” he said. “I expected a footman or housemaid to bring them. Forgive me for putting you to trouble.”

  “It was no trouble. I . . . I wanted to find out if you’d slept comfortably last night.”

  He smiled slightly, appearing to debate the answer. “Well enough.”

  “Is the bed too soft?” Phoebe asked in concern. “Too firm? Are the pillows sufficient, or—”

  “The surroundings are luxurious in every regard.
I had unsettled dreams, that’s all.”

  Tentatively Phoebe moved forward with the basket. “I brought Henry’s razor,” she blurted out. “I would be glad for you to have the use of it.”

  West stared at her, his lips parting with what seemed to be dismay. “Thank you, but I couldn’t—”

  “I want you to,” she insisted. God, how awkward this was turning out to be. “It’s a Swedish razor, made of the finest-grain steel. Sharper even than a Damascus blade. You’ll need it, with a beard like yours.”

  Letting out a breath of amusement, West reached up to rub the brush-wire surface of his jaw. “How do you know so much about men’s beards?”

  “I shaved Henry quite often,” Phoebe said matter-of-factly, “especially near the end. I was the only one he would allow to touch him.”

  Light angled across the upper half of his face, striking unearthly blue gleams in his eyes. “You were a good wife,” came his soft comment.

  “I became very proficient.” A self-conscious smile tugged at her lips as she confided, “I love the sounds of shaving.”

  “What sounds?”

  “The swoosh of the lather brush, and the scratchy-scraping of the blade cutting through whiskers. It sends a tingly feeling down the back of my neck.”

  West laughed suddenly. “It’s never done that to me.”

  “But you understand what I mean, don’t you?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Isn’t there a sound you find so pleasant that it seems to waken all your nerve endings?”

  A long pause ensued before he said, “No.”

  “Yes, there is,” Phoebe protested with a laugh. “You’re just not telling me.”

  “You don’t need to know it.”

  “I’ll find out someday,” she told him, and he shook his head, still smiling at her. Slowly she approached him with the lidded basket. “West . . . have you ever had a woman shave you?”

  His smile faded at the edges, and he gave her an arrested stare.

  “You haven’t,” she guessed.

  West tensed as she drew closer.

  “I dare you to let me,” Phoebe said.

  He had to clear his throat before saying in a rusty voice, “That’s not a good idea.”

  “Yes, let me shave you.” When he didn’t respond, Phoebe asked softly, “Don’t you trust me?” She was standing very close to him now, unable to fathom his expression. But she could almost feel his visceral response to her nearness, his powerful body radiating pleasure, like fire throwing off heat. “Are you afraid?” she dared to tease.

  It was a challenge West couldn’t resist. He set his jaw and backed away a step, staring at her with a mixture of resentment and helpless desire.

  And then . . . he made a brief motion with his head for her to follow him into the bedroom.

  Chapter 25

  “How do I know that your tingles from the sounds of shaving implements won’t cause you to accidentally butcher me?” West asked, seated in a wing chair beside the bedroom washstand.

  “The sound doesn’t send me into fits,” Phoebe protested, pouring hot water into a white ceramic bowl on the washstand. “It’s only that I find it satisfying.”

  “I’ll be satisfied to have this scruff removed,” West said, scratching his jaw. “It’s starting to itch.”

  “It’s just as well that you’re not going to keep it.” Phoebe went to set the small kettle back on the box stove at the hearth. “The fashion is for a long, flowing beard,” she continued, “like Mr. Darwin’s or Mr. Rossetti’s. But I suspect yours would turn out curly.”

  “Like a prizewinning sheep,” he agreed dryly.

  Carefully Phoebe soaked a towel in the steaming water, wrung it out and folded it, and pressed it gently over the lower half of West’s face. He slouched lower in the chair and tilted his head back.

  Phoebe was still inwardly amazed that he’d agreed to let her shave him. The masculine ritual would undoubtedly be nerve-wracking if it weren’t performed by a professional. By the time she had started shaving Henry, he’d been too weak to do it for himself, and he’d already entrusted her with the countless intimacies involved in caring for a bedridden invalid. But this situation was very different.

  She took a leather strop from the basket and tied it deftly to the top rail of the washstand. “I asked my father to show me how to do this,” she said conversationally, “so I could take care of Henry. The first thing I learned was how to strop the blade properly.” After she picked up the slender steel razor, she opened the embossed handle and began to strop with light, brisk strokes. “Who shaves you at Eversby Priory? Lord Trenear’s valet?”

  West tugged the hot towel away from his mouth as he replied. “Sutton? No, he complains more than enough about having to cut my hair every three weeks. I’ve shaved myself ever since the age of fourteen, when my brother taught me.”

  “But you’ve been to a London barber.”

  “No.”

  Setting down the razor, Phoebe turned to face him. “You’ve never let anyone shave you?” she asked faintly. “Ever?”

  West shook his head.

  “That’s . . . unusual for a gentleman of your position,” she managed to say.

  West shrugged slightly, his gaze turning distant. “I suppose . . . when I was a boy . . . the sight of an adult man’s hands always meant something bad for me. They only inflicted pain. I was thrashed by my father, my uncles, the school headmaster, teachers . . .” He paused and gave her a sardonic glance. “After that, the idea of letting a man hold a blade to my throat has never seemed all that relaxing.”

  Phoebe was stunned by the fact that he was willing to make himself vulnerable to her in a way he had with no one else. It was an enormous act of trust. As she held his gaze, she saw the chill of dread in his eyes . . . but still he sat there, voluntarily putting himself at her mercy. Carefully she reached out to take the damp towel.

  “You deserve credit for living up to your motto,” she said, her lips curving with the hint of a smile. “But I withdraw my dare.”

  A notch appeared between his dark brows. “I want you to do it,” he eventually said.

  “Are you trying to prove something to me,” Phoebe asked softly, “or yourself?”

  “Both.”

  His face was calm, but his hands gripped the upholstered arms of the wing chair like a man about to be tortured in a medieval dungeon.

  Phoebe studied him, wondering how to make the situation easier for him. What had started as a lighthearted game to her had just become profoundly serious. It was only fair, she thought, to make herself vulnerable as well.

  Jettisoning every last vestige of caution, she reached for the three buttons that fastened the front of her at-home dress and tugged the inner tie of the waist. The garment fell open and slid away from her shoulders, eliciting a shiver. Gooseflesh rose over her newly exposed skin. She shrugged out of the dress, draped it over her arm, and went to lay it on the bed.

  West’s voice sounded strangled. “Phoebe, what are you doing?”

  She kicked off her slippers and returned to him in her stocking feet. Breathless and blushing from head to toe, she said, “I’m providing you with distractions.”

  “I don’t . . . Jesus.” West’s gaze devoured her. She was clad only in a white linen chemise and drawers, the fabric so fine and thin, it was translucent. “This is not going to end well,” he said darkly.

  Phoebe smiled, noticing that his fingers were no longer clenched around the chair arms but were tapping restlessly. After setting out the rest of the supplies from the basket, she shook a few drops of oil from a small flask into her hand. Spreading it evenly between her fingertips, she approached West. He drew in a swift breath as she came to stand between his open thighs.

  “Head back,” she murmured.

  West complied, regarding her warily from beneath his lashes. “What is that?”

  “Almond oil. To protect the skin and soften the beard.” Gently she massaged the taut muscles
of his cheeks, jaw, and throat with small, circular movements.

  His eyes closed, and he began to relax, his breath turning slow and deep. “This part isn’t so bad,” he said grudgingly.

  At this close distance, Phoebe was able to see fine details of his face: the ink-black filaments of his eyelashes, the subtle smudges of weariness beneath his eyes, the texture of a complexion that was silkier but tougher than her own, as only a man’s could be. “You’re too handsome to wear a beard,” she informed him. “I might allow it someday if you need to conceal a sagging chin, but for now, it has to go.”

  “At the moment,” West said with his eyes still closed, “nothing I have is sagging.”

  Phoebe glanced downward reflexively. From her vantage between his splayed legs, she had a perfect view of his lap, where the ridge of a rather magnificent erection strained the fabric of his trousers. Her mouth went dry, and she wavered between uneasiness and intense curiosity.

  “That looks uncomfortable,” she said.

  “I can bear it.”

  “I meant for me.”

  The cheeks beneath her fingertips tautened as West tried—unsuccessfully—to hold back a grin. “If it makes you nervous, don’t worry. It will disappear as soon as you pick up that damned razor.” He paused before adding huskily, “But . . . it wouldn’t be. Uncomfortable, I mean. If we were going to . . . I would make sure you were ready. I would never hurt you.”

  Phoebe shaped her fingers around his hard jaw. How surprising life was. Once she would never have considered this man for herself. And now it would be impossible to consider anyone else. She could no more stop herself from kissing him than she could keep from breathing. Her lips brushed tenderly over his before she whispered, “I’ll never hurt you either, West Ravenel.”

  After she stirred up lather in a porcelain shaving cup, she worked it into his beard with a badger-hair brush. West remained with his head resting against the upholstered back of the chair as she moved around him.

  He did stiffen, however, when Phoebe opened the gleaming razor and used her free hand to angle his face to the side. “It’s me,” she said gently. “Don’t worry.” She pulled the skin of his cheek taut with her thumb, held the razor in a practiced grip, and stroked downward with the blade at a perfect thirty-degree angle. After a few careful, neat scrapes—deliciously satisfying sounds—she wiped the blade on a shaving cloth draped over her arm. She didn’t realize West had been holding his breath until he let it out in a controlled sigh.