Devil's Daughter

It wasn’t what West said that shocked her, it was his detached expression, and the way one corner of his mouth curled upward in an arrogant smile. The tender lover had vanished, leaving her with a sardonic stranger.

All the feelings of warmth and connection had been an illusion. He hadn’t meant anything he’d said. All he had wanted was to prove that she still had physical needs, and he’d succeeded spectacularly, humiliating her in the process.

Her first intimacy with a man other than her husband . . . and it had been a game to him.

Oh, she felt so foolish.

“I hope we’ve learned our lesson,” he mocked lightly, making it even worse.

Somehow Phoebe managed to cover her hurt and fury with a stony façade. “Indeed,” she replied curtly, unable to look at him as she rose to her feet. “Although perhaps not the lesson you thought you were teaching.” She yanked her bodice into place and straightened her skirts, and nearly leaped away like a startled doe as he moved to help her. “I require no more assistance.”

West stepped back at once. He waited silently as she finished putting herself in order. “Phoebe—” he began, his voice softer than before.

“Thank you, Mr. Ravenel,” she said, ignoring the weakness of her legs as she strode to the door. They were no longer on a first-name basis. As far as she was concerned, they never would be again. “The afternoon was most instructive.” She let herself out of the study and closed the door with great care, even though she longed to slam it.

Chapter 19

On the surface, dinner that night—the last gathering before the Challons departed in the morning—was a sparkling and lighthearted affair. The wedding and subsequent visit had been a great success, deepening the acquaintance between the two families and paving the way for more interactions in the future.

For all the enjoyment West derived from the evening, he might as well have spent it in a medieval dungeon. The effort to appear normal was almost face-cracking. He couldn’t help but marvel inwardly at Phoebe, who was perfectly composed and smiling. Her self-control was formidable. She was careful not to ignore him entirely, but she gave him no more than the minimum of attention necessary to keep from causing comment. Every now and then she glanced at him with a bland smile, or laughed politely at some quip he’d made, her gaze never quite meeting his.

It’s for the best, West had told himself a thousand times since the torrid scene in the study. It had been the right decision to make her hate him. In the moments after her climax, as he’d cradled her in his arms and felt her beautiful body nestle trustingly against his, he’d been on the verge of pouring out everything he thought and felt for her. Even now, it terrified him to think of what he might have said. Instead he’d deliberately embarrassed her, and pretended he’d only been amusing himself with her.

Now there would be no expectations, no longing, no hope on either side. Now he didn’t have to fear that he might go to her in a moment of weakness. She would leave tomorrow, and everything would go back to the way it was. He would find a way to forget her. The world was full of women.

Years would pass, while he and Phoebe led separate lives. She would marry and have more children. She would have the life she deserved.

Unfortunately, so would he.

After an abysmal night of broken sleep, West awakened with a lump of ice in his stomach. He felt as if someone had parked a traction engine on his chest. Slowly he went through the rituals that began every morning. He was too numb to feel the heat of the towel he used to soften his beard before shaving. As he passed the unmade bed, he was tempted to climb back into it, fully clothed.

Enough of this, he told himself grimly. It was unmanly, this moping and languishing. He would go about his day as usual, starting with breakfast. The sideboard would be laden with broiled chops, eggs, rashers of bacon and ham, potatoes hashed with herbs and fried in butter, bread puddings each in its own puddle of sauce, a platter of crisp radishes and pickles on ice, dishes of stewed fruit from the orchard topped with fresh cream—

The thought of food was making him nauseous.

West paced, sat, stood and paced some more, and finally stopped at the window with his forehead pressed against a cool pane of glass. His room afforded a view of the stables and carriage house, where vehicles and horses were being readied to take the Challons to the estate’s private railway halt.

He couldn’t let Phoebe leave like this, hating him, thinking the worst of him. He didn’t know how things should be left between them, but not this way.

He thought of what Pandora had told him the day before the wedding, that she didn’t feel she deserved to marry a man like Lord St. Vincent. “There’s nothing better than having something you don’t deserve,” he’d replied.

What a flippant ass he’d been. Now he understood the terrible risk and pain of wanting someone far above your reach.

West went downstairs to the study, where the books he had shown Phoebe yesterday had been arranged in stacks on the table. Sorting through the volumes, he found the one he wanted and pulled it out. He sat at the table and reached for a pen and inkwell.

Fifteen minutes later, he headed back upstairs with the book in hand. He didn’t stop until he had reached the threshold of Phoebe’s room. There were noises from within, drawers opening and closing, a trunk lid banging on the floor. He heard Phoebe’s muffled voice as she spoke to her maid.

His heart was thrashing like a caged lark. Gingerly he knocked at the door. The sounds inside the room stopped.

Soon the door opened, and a lady’s maid regarded him with raised brows. “Sir?”

West cleared his throat before saying gruffly, “I’d like to speak with Lady Clare—briefly—if I may.” After a pause, he added, “I have something to give her.”

“One moment, sir.” The door closed.

Almost a full minute passed before the door opened again. This time it was Phoebe. She was dressed in traveling clothes, her hair drawn up tightly and pinned in an intricately braided coil high at the back of her head. She looked tense and tired, her complexion ghost pale except for the flags of bright pink at the crest of each cheek. The lack of color only served to emphasize the striking angles of her jaw and cheekbones. People would fall in love with that remarkable face before they even realized how much more there was to love beneath the façade.

“Mr. Ravenel,” she said coolly, without quite meeting his gaze.

Feeling like an idiot, he extended the book to her. “For you to keep.”

Phoebe took it and glanced down at the title. “The Modern Handbook for Landed Proprietors,” she read in a monotone.

“It’s full of good information.”

“Thank you, how thoughtful,” she said distantly. “If you’ll excuse me, I must finish packing—”

“What happened yesterday—” West interrupted and had to pause for an extra breath. His lungs felt half their usual size. “I misled you about why I did it. It wasn’t to prove you still had those feelings. I wanted to prove you had those feelings for me. It was selfish and stupid. I shouldn’t have taken liberties with you.”

Frowning, Phoebe stepped out into the hallway, closed the door, and glanced at their surroundings to check for privacy. She looked directly at him then, her eyes light and piercing. “I wasn’t offended by that,” she said in a low, nettled tone. “It was the way you behaved afterward, so smug and—”

“I know.”

“—so arrogant—”

“I was jealous.”

Phoebe blinked, seeming taken aback. “Of Edward?”

“Because you’re going to marry him.”

Her brows lowered. “I’ve made no decisions about that. With all I have to face when I move back to Clare Manor, marriage will hardly be at the forefront of my mind.”

“But your promise to Henry . . .”

“I didn’t agree to sacrifice my own judgment,” she said curtly. “I promised to consider the idea because it was what Henry wanted. But I may never marry at all. Or I may marry someone other than Edward.”

The idea of some unknown man courting Phoebe, making love to her, made West long to put his fist through the wall. “I hope you’ll find someone worthy of you,” he muttered. “To my regret, I have nothing to offer other than a relationship that would insult and lower you.”

“Indeed? You seem marriageable enough to me.”

“Not for you,” he said without thinking, and immediately regretted it as he saw her face. “I didn’t mean—”

“I see.” Her voice could have sliced a green apple. “You desire me only as a mistress and not a wife. Is that it?”

The conversation was not going at all in the direction West had expected. “Neither,” he said hastily. “I mean, both.” He wasn’t making sense. “Damn it!” After taking a hard swallow, he turned ruthlessly, painfully sincere. “Phoebe, you’ve always been sheltered from men like me. You’ve never had to face the consequences of someone else’s sordid past. I wouldn’t do that to you, or the boys. They need a father to live up to, not one they would have to live down. As for me—I’m not meant for marriage. And if I were, I’d never take a wife so far above me in every way. I’m aware of how small-minded that is, but even men with small minds know their limits.”