Devil's Daughter

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 with 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.”

“And your father?”

“He was as cool as a cucumber about the whole thing, of course. He spent the afternoon playing billiards with the other gentlemen, and later went up to your room for a rest. But Mama, when he and I walked back to the house this morning, he said some very disagreeable things about Edward Larson—and about Henry!”

“Oh, dear.” Evie had listened sympathetically to her daughter’s account of the conversation and soothed her with a promise to speak to Sebastian and try to soften his views on Edward Larson.

Now Evie hurried upstairs in search of her husband as fast as possible without giving the appearance of haste. She reached their suite, a spacious and well-appointed bedroom with an attached dressing room and a tiny antechamber converted into a lavatory.

Upon entering the main room, Evie discovered her husband lounging in a large, old-fashioned slipper tub. Since the lavatory was too small to allow for a tub, a portable one had to be carried in by footmen and laboriously filled with large cans of hot water brought by housemaids.

Sebastian leaned back with one long leg propped at the far end of the tub, a crystal glass of brandy clasped negligently in one hand. His once tawny amber hair was handsomely silvered at the sides and temples. The daily ritual of a morning swim had kept him fit and limber, his skin glowing as if he existed in perpetual summer. He might have been Apollo lazing on Olympus: a decadent golden sun god utterly lacking in modesty.

His lazy voice meandered through the veil of aromatic steam. “Ah, there you are, pet. Did you enjoy your outing?”

Evie smiled as she went to him. “I did.” She knelt beside the tub so that their faces were level. “F-from what I’ve heard, it wasn’t as eventful as yours.” Since childhood, she had spoken with a stammer, which had lessened over the years but still attached itself to a syllable here or here.

His gaze caressed her face, while a wet forefinger traced a spray of freckles on her upper chest. “You heard about the incident in the paddock.”

“And how you climbed in after Justin.”

“I wasn’t in a moment’s danger. Ravenel was the one who held off a belligerent bull while I fetched the boy.”

Evie closed her eyes briefly at the thought of it and reached for the crystal glass in his hand. She downed what little was left and set the glass on the floor. “You suffered no injuries?”

Two long, wet fingers hooked the top of her neckline and tugged her closer to the side of the bathtub. Sebastian’s eyes were pale, lucent blue, sparkling like winter starlight. “I may have enough of a sprain to require your services.”

A smile curved her lips. “What services?”

“I need a bath maid.” Catching one of her hands, he drew it down into the water. “For my hard-to-reach places.”

Evie resisted with a throaty chuckle, tugging at her imprisoned wrist. “You can reach that by yourself.”

“My sweet,” he said, nuzzling into her neck, “I married you so I wouldn’t have to do it myself. Now . . . tell me where you think my sprain is.”

“Sebastian,” she said, trying to sound severe as his wet hands roved over her bodice, “you’re going to r-ruin my dress.”

“Unless you remove it.” He gave her an expectant glance.

Smiling wryly, Evie pulled away and stood to comply. He had always loved to have her undress for him, especially when the clothing was intricate with many fastenings. Her pink muslin summer dress had been topped with a matching vest fastened all down the front with pearl buttons . . . exactly the style of garment he fancied watching her remove.

“Tell me about the picnic,” her husband said, sliding a bit lower in the water, his gaze moving over her intently.

“It was lovely. We were brought out in wagonettes to a green hill. The footmen spread cloths on the ground and set out picnic hampers and pails of ice . . . and then we were left alone to feast and talk as much we pleased.” Evie worked diligently on the buttons, finding some of them difficult to unfasten. “Daisy told us about her latest trip to New York, and—you’ll never guess—she’s modeling a character in a gothic novel after you. A v-vampire!”

“Hmm. I’m not sure I like the idea of being a creature in a gothic novel. What exactly does he do?”

“He’s a handsome, elegant fiend who bites his wife’s neck every night.”

His brow cleared. “Oh, that’s all right, then.”

“But he never drinks enough of her blood to kill her,” Evie continued.

“I see. He keeps her conveniently on tap.”

“Yes, but he loves her. You make her sound like a cask with a spigot. It’s not as if he wants to do it, but he—did you just ask something?”

“I asked if you can undress any faster.”

Evie huffed with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. “No, I can’t. There are too many b-buttons, and they’re very small.”

“What a pity. Because in thirty seconds, I’m going to rip away whatever clothing you have left.”

Evie knew full well not to take the threat lightly—he’d done it before, on more than one occasion. “Sebastian, no. I like this dress.”

Her husband’s eyes glinted with devilish humor as he watched her increasingly frantic efforts. “No dress is as beautiful as your naked skin. All those sweet freckles scattered over you, like a thousand tiny angel kisses . . . you have twenty seconds left, by the way.”