He approached without haste, moving with athletic ease. It was only when he stopped next to them that Phoebe realized how very tall he was, his shoulders broad and sturdy. Her lungs contracted, forcing her to take an extra breath.

The strangest feeling came over her, something that reminded her a little of the early days of her marriage to Henry . . . that shaky, embarrassing, inexplicable desire to press her body intimately against someone else’s. Until now, she’d never felt it for anyone but Henry, and never anything like this fire-and-ice jolt of awareness.

Feeling guilty and confused, Phoebe backed away a step, pulling Justin with her.

But Justin resisted, evidently feeling it had fallen to him to begin the introductions. “I’m Justin, Lord Clare,” he announced. “This is my Mama. Papa isn’t here with us because he died.”

Phoebe felt a brilliant pink flush, never flattering on a redhead, race from her scalp down to her toes.

The man wasn’t a bit flustered, only sank to his haunches to bring his face level with Justin’s. His voice was gentle and low, and made Phoebe feel as if she were stretching across a deep feather mattress.

“I lost my father when I wasn’t much older than you,” he said to Justin.

“Oh, I didn’t lose mine,” came Justin’s earnest reply. “I know where he is. Heaven.”

The stranger smiled, his eyes warm. “A pleasure to meet you, Justin.” The two shook hands gravely. He held the marble up to the light, viewing the tiny porcelain figure of a sheep embedded into the clear glass marble. “This is a fine piece,” he remarked, and handed it to Justin. “Do you ever play Ring Taw, Lord Clare?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Double castle?

Justin shook his head. “I don’t know that one.”

“We’ll play a game or two during your stay here, if your Mama doesn’t object.”

Phoebe was mortified by her inability to reply. Her heartbeat was stampeding out of control.

“Mama isn’t used to talking to grown-ups,” Justin said. “She likes children better.”

“I’m very childlike,” the man said promptly. “Ask anyone around here.”

Phoebe found herself smiling up at him as he stood to face her. “You’re the estate manager?” she asked.

“Most of the time.” His rueful grin weakened her knees. “But there’s no job at this estate, scullery maid included, that I haven’t tried at least once, to gain at least some small understanding of it.”

A strange, terrible suspicion flickered through Phoebe’s mind.

“How long have you been employed here?” she asked cautiously.

“Since my brother inherited it.” The blue-eyed stranger bowed before continuing. “West Ravenel . . . at your service.”