“You’re impertinent, Mr. Ravenel,” she said quietly.
“I beg your pardon. In any case, your tenants have been the lifeblood of the Clare estate for generations. You should at least learn enough about their situation to provide some oversight.”
“It’s not my place to supervise Mr. Larson.”
“Not your place?” West repeated incredulously. “Whose stakes are higher in all of this—his or yours? It’s your son’s inheritance, by God. If I were you, I’d have a hand in making the decisions.”
In the weighted silence that followed, West realized how presumptuous he’d been to lecture her in such a fashion. Looking away from her, he let out a taut sigh. “I warned you I’d overstep,” he muttered. “I apologize.”
“No,” Phoebe said curtly, surprising him. “I wanted your opinion. You’ve made some points worth considering.”
West’s head lifted, and he looked at her with unconcealed surprise. He’d fully expected her to give him a sharp set-down, or simply turn on her heel and walk off. Instead, Phoebe had set aside her pride long enough to listen to him, which few women of her rank would have done.
“Although next time you might try a gentler manner,” she said. “It usually helps criticism go down easier.”
Staring into her silver eyes was like drowning in moonlight. West found himself at a complete loss for words.
They were within arms’ reach of each other. How had that happened? Had he moved closer, or had she?
His voice was a husk of sound as he managed a reply. “Yes. I . . . I’ll be gentle next time.” That hadn’t sounded right. “Gentler. With you. Or . . . anyone.” None of that sounded right, either. “It wasn’t criticism,” he added. “Just helpful hints.” Christ. His thoughts were in a heap.
She was breathtaking up close, her skin reflecting light like the silk of butterfly wings. The lines of her throat and jaw were a precise framework for a mouth as full and rich as flowers in deep summer. Her fragrance was subtle and dry and alluring. She smelled like a clean, soft bed he would love to sink into. The thought made his pulse thump insistently . . . want . . . want . . . want . . . God, yes, he’d love to show her all his gentleness, browsing over that slender body with his hands and mouth until she was quivering and lifting to his touch—
Stop this, you sodding idiot.
He’d gone without a woman for too long. When was the last time? Possibly a year ago. Yes, in London. Good God, how could so much time have passed? After the summer haymaking, he would go to town for at least a fortnight. He would visit his club, have dinner with friends, see a decent play or two, and spend a few evenings in the arms of a willing woman who would make him forget all about red-haired young widows named after songbirds.
“You see, I have to keep my promises to my husband,” Phoebe said, sounding nearly as distracted as he felt. “I owe it to him.”
That rankled far more than it should have, jolting West out of the momentary trance. “You owe the benefit of your judgment to the people who depend on you,” he said in a low voice. “Your greater obligation is to the living, isn’t it?”
Phoebe’s brows rushed down.
She had taken that as a jab against Henry, and West couldn’t say for certain that he hadn’t meant it that way. It was absurd to insist the work of farming be done exactly as it had always been, without regard to what might happen in the future.
“Thank you for your helpful hints, Mr. Ravenel,” she said coolly, before turning to her brother. “My lord, I would like a word with you.” Her expression didn’t bode well for St. Vincent.
“Of course,” her brother replied, seeming not at all concerned about his imminent demise. “Pandora, love, if you don’t mind . . . ?”
“I’m fine,” Pandora told him airily. As soon as the pair departed, however, her smile vanished. “Is she going to hurt him?” she asked the duke. “He can’t have a black eye for the wedding.”
Kingston smiled. “I wouldn’t worry. Despite years of provocation from all three brothers, Phoebe has yet to resort to physical violence.”
“Why did Gabriel volunteer her for the farm tour in the first place?” Pandora asked. “Even for him, that was a bit high-handed.”
“It pertains to an ongoing quarrel,” the duke said dryly. “After Henry’s death, Phoebe was content to leave all the decisions to Edward Larson. Lately, however, Gabriel has been urging her to take a stronger hand in the management of the Clare lands—just as Mr. Ravenel advised a minute ago.”
“But she doesn’t want to?” Pandora asked sympathetically. “Because farming is so boring?”
West gave her a sardonic look. “How do you know if it’s boring? You’ve never done it.”
“I can tell by the books you read.” Turning to Kingston, Pandora explained, “They’re all about things like scientific butter making, or pig keeping, or smut. Now, who could possibly find smut interesting?”
“Not that kind of smut,” West said hastily, as he saw the duke’s brows lift.
“You’re referring to the multicellular fungi that afflicts grain crops, of course,” Kingston said blandly.
“There are all different kinds of smut,” Pandora said, warming to the subject. “Smut balls, loose smut, stinking smut—”
“Pandora,” West interrupted in an undertone, “for the love of mercy, stop saying that word in public.”
“Is it unladylike?” She heaved a sigh. “It must be. All the interesting words are.”
With a rueful smile, West returned his attention to the duke. “We were talking about Lady Clare’s lack of interest in estate farming.”