Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,92

behind enough unhappy wreckage for a lifetime. I don’t want reminders. Sometimes I fear . . .” He paused. “You don’t understand how thin the veil is that separates me from what I used to be.”

Phoebe did understand. Or rather, she understood that was what he believed. Staring at him compassionately, she laid her hands on either side of his face. With all his remarkable qualities, West also had his own vulnerabilities . . . fragile places that needed to be safeguarded. Very well—she would shield him from any ugly scenes involving herself and Edward.

“Regardless of how long you stay,” she said, “I’m glad you’re here now.”

West’s forehead lowered to hers, and the heat of his whisper caressed her lips. “God, so am I.”

In the days that followed, the decorum of Clare Manor was disrupted by the vigorous presence of West Ravenel, and the sounds of his booted feet on the stairs, and his deep voice and rumbling laugh. He chased the children through the hallways and made them squeal, and took them out to romp outside, tracking dirt and pebbles on the carpet as they came back in. He investigated every corner of the house, learned the names of the servants, and asked innumerable questions of everyone. Charmed by his quick humor and affable manner, the staff obligingly paused in their labors to tell him anything he wanted to know. The old master gardener was delighted by West’s ability to discuss the intricacies of weather and how best to defeat plant-destroying caterpillars. The cook was flattered by his hearty appetite. Nanny Bracegirdle enjoyed herself to no end lecturing him about having allowed Justin to jump in puddles after a rain shower and ruining his good shoes.

One afternoon, Phoebe went in search of West and discovered him reshaping the topiaries in the formal garden, which had gone untended since the old gardener’s onset of rheumatism. Pausing at the threshold of a set of open French doors, she took in the scene with an absent smile. West had climbed an orchard ladder and was clipping the tree with shears at the direction of the old gardener who stood below.

“What do you think?” West called down to Justin, who was gathering twigs and branches into a pile as they fell.

The child viewed the topiary critically. “Still looks like a turnip.”

“It’s a perfectly recognizable duck,” West protested. “There’s the body, and this is the bill.”

“It has no neck. A duck needs a neck, or he can’t quack.”

“I can’t argue with that,” West said ruefully, turning back to clip more leaves.

Laughing to herself, Phoebe withdrew back into the house. But the image of it stayed with her: West, tending Henry’s beloved topiary trees, spending time with his son.

Thank God Georgiana was away for the winter: she would have been appalled by the way West’s presence had dispelled any lingering sense that this was a house of mourning. Not that Henry was forgotten: far from it. But now the reminders of him were no longer anchored to gloom and sadness. His memory was being honored, while a breath of new life had swept into Clare Manor. He had not been replaced, but there was room for more love here. A heart could make as much room as love needed.

In the mornings, West liked to have a large, early breakfast, after which he would ride out to some of the tenant farms. Phoebe had gone with him the first day, but it had quickly become apparent that her presence unnerved the tenants, who were overawed and nervous around her. “Much as I love your company,” West had told her, “you may have to let me approach them alone. After years of no direct interaction with any of the Larsons, the last thing they’ll do is speak freely in front of the lady of the manor.”

The next day, when he’d gone out on his own, the results were much better. West had met with three of the estate’s largest leaseholders, who had shared a great deal of information and shed some light on a particular accounting mystery.

“Your estate has some interesting problems,” West told Phoebe when he returned in the afternoon, finding her in the winter garden with the cats. He was in a buoyant mood, having been out riding and walking in the fields. He smelled like autumn air, sweat, soil, and horses, a pleasantly earthy mixture.

“I don’t think I want interesting problems,” Phoebe said, going to a tray table to pour a glass of water