Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,77

Also, I know better than to betray a woman with her own collection of scalpels.”

West had grinned at that, but sobered as another thought occurred to him. “Will she want children?”

“She will.”

“Will you?”

“The thought freezes my inwards,” Ransom admitted bluntly, and shrugged. “But Garrett saved my life. She can do whatever she likes with me now. If she decides to put a ring through my nose, I’ll stand there docile as a lamb while she does it.”

“First of all, you city toff, no one puts a nose ring on a lamb. Second . . .” West had paused and drained half his drink before he continued gruffly, “Your father used to beat you—buckle, strap and fist—just as mine did to me.”

“Aye,” Ransom said. “Rightsidin’ me, he called it. But what has that to do with it?”

“You’ll likely do the same to your own children.”

Ransom’s eyes had narrowed, but his voice remained even. “I will not.”

“Who will stop you? Your wife?”

“I’ll stop me damn self,” Ransom had said, his brogue thickening. He frowned as he saw West’s expression. “You don’t believe me?”

“I don’t believe it will be easy.”

“Easy enough, if I want them to love me.”

“They will anyway,” West had said grimly. “It’s something all violent men know: no matter what evil they commit, their children will still love them.”

Ransom had stared at him speculatively while draining his own mug. “Ofttimes after my father gave me a blacked eye or a split lip, Mam would say, ‘’Tis not his fault. ’Tis too strong a man he is, hard for himself to manage.’ But I’ve come to realize Mam had it all wrong: the problem was never that Da was too strong—he wasn’t strong enough. Only a weak man lowers himself to brutishness.” He had paused to signal a tavern maid to pour them another round. “You may have a hasty temper, Ravenel, but you’re not a brute. Neither am I. That’s how I know my children will be safe from my raising. Now, as for your red-haired widow . . . what are you going to do about her?”

West had scowled. “I don’t bloody know.”

“You might as well marry her. There’s no escaping women.”

“I’m hardly going to throw myself on the sacrificial altar just because you did,” West had retorted. “Our friendship doesn’t mean that much to me.”

Ransom had grinned and leaned back in his chair as the tavern maid approached the table with a foaming jug. “Take my advice, you daft block o’ wood. Be happy while you’re living—you’ll be a long time dead.”

West’s thoughts were drawn back to the present as Phoebe led him to a spacious reception room with silk-paneled walls and a gilded ceiling. Above the marble fireplace hung a large three-quarter-length portrait of a young man. A slant of light from the windows caused his face to glow as if with its own illumination.

Fascinated, West drew closer to the portrait.

“Henry,” he said, with a faint, questioning lilt.

Phoebe nodded, coming to stand beside him.

The young man was clad in a loosely painted suit, shadows hollowing the fabric here and there. He posed next to a library table with a touch of self-conscious grace, one hand resting lightly on a stack of books. A handsome and touchingly vulnerable man, dark-eyed and chiseled, his complexion as fine as porcelain. Although his face had been rendered with precise edges, the borders of his coat and trousers were softly blurred, seeming to melt into the dark background. As if the portrait’s subject had begun to disappear even as he was being painted.

Staring at the portrait with him, Phoebe said, “People always tend to idealize the departed. But I want the boys to understand their father was a wonderful, mortal man with flaws, not an unapproachable saint. Otherwise, they’ll never really know him.”

“What flaws?” West asked gently.

Her lips pursed as she considered the question thoughtfully. “He was often elusive. In the world, but not of it. Part of that was because of his illness, but he also didn’t like unpleasantness. He avoided anything that was ugly or upsetting.” She turned to face him. “Henry was so determined to think of me as perfect that it devastated him when I was petty or cross or careless. I wouldn’t want—” Phoebe paused.

“What?” West prompted after a long moment.

“I wouldn’t want to live with such expectations again. I’d rather not be worshipped, but accepted for all that I am, good and bad.”

A wave of tenderness came over West as he looked into her upturned face.