A shock went through her as she realized she was actually considering it. Oh, God, she was turning into a cliché—the love-starved widow seeking company for her empty bed. A particular figure of mockery, since women were supposed to be above the kind of base physical desire that was considered far more natural and explicable in men. She herself had liked to think so, until West had proved otherwise.

She wished she could talk to Merritt.

She tried to imagine how such a conversation might go:

“Merritt, I’m thinking about having affair with West Ravenel. I know it’s wrong . . . but how wrong?”

“Don’t ask me,” Merritt would probably say, her eyes laughing. “As a moral relativist, I’m thoroughly unqualified to judge your decisions.”

“A fine help you are,” Phoebe would retort. “I want someone to give me permission.”

“No one can do that but you, dear.”

“What if it turns out to be a mistake?”

“Then I suspect you’ll have had a delightful time making it.”

After the carriage had stopped at the front portico of Clare Manor, the footmen carried the stacks of account ledgers to the study. They placed the volumes on the empty bookshelves while Phoebe seated herself at the old oak desk. She smoothed a sheet of writing paper onto the desk’s green leather inset, reached for a slim lacquered pen holder, and inserted a nib.

“Milady,” said one of the footmen, “the books have been put away.”

“Thank you, Oliver. You’re free to go now. Arnold, if you’ll wait a moment, I have another errand for you.”

The younger footman, always eager to prove himself, brightened at the request. “Yes, milady.” He waited at a respectful distance while she wrote a few lines.

Post Office Telegram

Mr. Weston Ravenel

Eversby Priory Hampshire

Knee deep in quicksand. Need rope.

Would you possibly have time to visit Essex?

—P. C.

After folding the paper and tucking it into an envelope, Phoebe turned in her chair. “Take this to the telegraph desk at the post office and make certain they dispatch it before you leave.” She began to extend it to him, then hesitated as a tremor of mingled fear and craving ran through her.

“Milady?” Arnold asked softly.

Phoebe shook her head with a rueful smile and held out the envelope decisively. “Take it quickly, please, before I lose my nerve.”

Chapter 22

“Mama,” Justin said the next morning, pausing in the middle of licking the drizzle of white icing on top of his breakfast bun, “Nanny said I’m going to have a governess.”

“Yes, darling, I plan to start looking for one soon. Please eat the entire bun and not just the icing.”

“I like to eat the icing first.” As Justin saw the objection on her face, he pointed out reasonably, “It’s all going to end up in my tummy, Mama.”

“I supposed so, but still . . .” her voice trailed away as she saw that Stephen had emptied his bowl of applesauce onto the tray of his high chair and was circling his hand through the puddle.

Looking very pleased with himself, the toddler squeezed applesauce through his fingers and licked at it. “Yummy apples,” he told her.

“Oh, dear—Stephen, wait—” She used the napkin from her lap to mop at the mess, and called out to the footman who stood beside the sideboard. “Arnold, fetch the nursemaid. We need reinforcements.”

The young footman dashed away immediately.

“You were doing so well with the spoon,” Phoebe told Stephen, catching his little wrist and wiping his dripping hand. “I rather wish you’d stayed with that method.”

“Ivo didn’t have a governess,” Justin said.

“That was because Granny had time to help with his manners and all the other things a governess teaches.”

“I already know all the manners,” Justin said indignantly.

“Justin—” Phoebe broke off as Stephen smacked his free hand into the applesauce, sending splatters everywhere. “Goodness gracious!”

“It’s in his hair now,” Justin said, looking at his younger brother in the manner of a scientist observing a failed experiment.

The nursemaid, a wiry and energetic girl named Verity, charged into the room with a stack of nursery flannels. “Master Stephen,” she scolded softly, “did you overturn your pudding again?”

“Applesauce this time,” Phoebe said.

The toddler held up his empty bowl with a pair of sticky, glistening hands. “All gone,” he told Verity brightly.

A snort of amusement escaped the nursemaid as she unlatched the tray from the chair. She shook her head as Phoebe reached out to help. “Stand back, if you please, milady—we can’t have applesauce splashing on your dress.”

Justin tugged at Phoebe’s sleeve. “Mama, if I must have a governess, I want a pretty one.”

Another snort from the nursemaid. “They start early, don’t they?” she remarked in an aside.

“In my family, they do,” Phoebe replied ruefully.

The applesauce was mopped up by the time the butler, Hodgson, brought the morning mail on a silver tray. It was far, far too soon to expect a reply from West—the telegram had been dispatched yesterday morning, for heaven’s sake. Still, Phoebe’s pulse turned brisk as she rifled through the stack.

She’d had more than a few second thoughts about having sent the telegram. If only she hadn’t been so impulsive—she should have written a dignified letter. For her to have wired a message to West had probably appeared desperate, or worse, self-important. It was only that she had wanted him to come before Edward returned.

The more she thought about it, the more certain she was that he wouldn’t. West must be very busy, especially since—according to The Modern Handbook for Landed Proprietors—September was the month to harrow and fertilize the fields for the sowing of winter wheat. Furthermore, both Kathleen and Pandora had mentioned in correspondence that West had gone to London at least twice during the summer in search of companionship and amusement. One of those visits had been to see Pandora after she’d undergone surgery for a shoulder injury. The operation had been performed by the only licensed female doctor in England, a charismatic woman whom the Ravenel family seemed to like excessively. “My sister Helen is determined to introduce Dr. Gibson to Cousin West,” Pandora had written, “but I don’t think it a likely match, since Dr. Gibson loves the city and hates cows.”

But it was possible they had eventually been introduced and had been attracted to each other. Dr. Gibson may have decided that being wooed by a handsome specimen like West Ravenel was worth enduring the proximity of a few cows.

Phoebe forced her mind to turn to the plans for the day. First, she would go to the local bookshop and order manuals on accounting. She would also ask Mr. Patch to go over the crop book with her, and hopefully it wouldn’t overtax him to explain some of it to her.

“Milady,” came the footman’s voice, and Phoebe glanced over her shoulder.

“Yes, Arnold?”

“A hired carriage from the station yard has just stopped on the front drive. Hodgson is speaking to a man at the door. He looks to be a gentleman.”

Phoebe registered the information with a quick double blink and turned toward him. From the station yard? She couldn’t think of anyone who would visit her by railway, except . . .

“Is he old or young?” she asked, distantly amazed at how calm she sounded.

Arnold had to lend the question serious thought. “Young to middlish, milady.”

“Tall or short?”

“A big strapper.” At her riveted expression, Arnold added helpfully, “With a beard.”

“A beard?” Phoebe repeated, perplexed. “I’ll go see who it is.” She rose to her feet, feeling weak kneed and loose jointed, like a marionette puppet held up by wires. As she straightened the skirts of her dress, a pale green poplin print, she discovered a few spots of applesauce on the bodice. Impatiently she dampened a napkin and dabbed at the stains. Hopefully they would be concealed by the pattern of tiny white and amber flowers.

By the time she reached the entrance hall, she was shaky with anticipation. Oh, let it be him, let it be West . . . but perversely, she was afraid to see him. What if the attraction was no longer there, and they turned out to be polite and awkward with each other? What if he’d only come out of a sense of honor, and not because he’d truly wanted to? What if—

The visitor stood at the threshold, tall and lean, his posture relaxed as he stood in the open doorway with a black leather Gladstone bag in hand. The sunlight was at his back, casting his face in shadow, but his silhouette, with those powerful shoulders filling up the door frame, was instantly recognizable. He was bigger than life, and outrageously masculine with a sunburnt glow and several day’s heavy beard growth darkening his jaw.

The force of Phoebe’s heartbeat resounded through her body as she drew closer.

West focused on her with a disarming stare, a slow smile curving his lips. “I hope you weren’t asking for literal rope,” he said casually, as if they were in the middle of a conversation.

“I didn’t expect . . . you . . . you came in just one day!” Phoebe stopped with an unsteady laugh as she heard how breathless she was. “I was waiting for your reply.”

“This is my reply,” West said simply, setting down the Gladstone bag.

Delight filled her until the sheer weight of the feeling almost set her off balance. She gave him her hand. He engulfed it in both of his, his grip warm and invigorating, and brought it to his lips.

For a moment Phoebe couldn’t move or breathe. His nearness was too overwhelming. She felt lightheaded, almost euphoric.

“How are you?” West asked quietly, retaining her hand longer than he should have.

“I’m well,” Phoebe managed to say, “and so are the boys. But I think the estate is in trouble—I know it is—and I need help assessing how bad it is.”

“We’ll sort it out,” he said with calm assurance.

“Is that your only luggage?”

“No, there’s a trunk on the carriage.”

Better and better . . . he had brought enough to stay more than a day or two. Trying to appear composed, Phoebe told the butler, “Hodgson, we’ll need Mr. Ravenel’s trunk brought to the guest cottage in back. Tell Mrs. Gurney to air out the rooms and make them ready.”

“Yes, milady.”

As the butler went to the bellpull, Phoebe turned her attention back to West. “You’ve caught me unprepared,” she said apologetically.

“I could go,” West offered, “and come back later.”

Phoebe smiled up at him radiantly. “You’re not going anywhere.” Unable to resist, she reached up to his beard-roughened jaw. The new growth was thick and scratchy soft, like a blend of cut velvet and wool. “Why did you grow a beard?”