Devil's Daughter Read online

  His gaze met hers with surprise. “Everything about you is pretty. These are marks of a life well lived, and risks taken, and miracles you brought into the world. They’re signs of having loved and been loved.” He brought her closer, lifting her to her knees so he could kiss her throat and the upper curves of her breasts. “I’m sorry to say,” he continued, his voice muffled in her cleavage, “my respect for the institution of motherhood doesn’t affect in the least my desire to debauch you thoroughly.”

  Phoebe curled her arms around his neck and rubbed her cheek against the black-brown locks of his hair. Bringing her mouth close to his ear, she whispered, “I’m not sorry about that.”

  To her surprise, she felt a fine tremor go through him, like the vibrations of a piano wire. Drawing back, she stared into his flushed face, and smiled with a hint of triumph. “That’s the sound, isn’t it? . . . the one that gives you tingles. It’s a woman’s whisper.”

  Chapter 26

  “I admit nothing of the kind,” West said, resuming his attentions to her breasts, cupping them together and kissing her nipples. Fastening his mouth on a stiff peak, he drew it deep and suckled. Gradually one of his hands smoothed over her stomach, down to her groin, idly fluffing the red curls. Despite his physical strength, he handled her with stunning gentleness, his caresses skillful and indirect, building anticipation.

  His touch skimmed through delicately layered flesh, pressing her open like petals. The tip of his middle finger eased around the half-hidden nub, playing lightly. At the same time, his mouth moved to her other breast. Still straddling him on her knees, Phoebe felt her thighs quiver dangerously. She sank lower and jerked as she felt the taut head of his sex press against her.

  “Don’t stop,” he said against her breast, one of his palms sliding over her bottom to guide her. At her hesitation, he lifted his head and read the uncertainty in her expression. “You’ve never done it this way?”

  “Henry and I were both virgins. We only knew how to do it the one way.”

  West gave her a skeptical glance. “You never looked at erotic postcards together? You would have discovered no end of ideas.”

  “Never,” Phoebe exclaimed, more than a little shocked by the idea. “For one thing, Henry wouldn’t have known where to find such materials—”

  “The booksellers on Holywell Street and Drury Lane keep them behind the counters,” he said helpfully.

  “—and for another, he would never have shown anything like that to me.”

  West’s eyes sparkled wickedly. “What would you have done if he had?”

  Taken aback by the question, Phoebe opened her mouth to reply, then closed it. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I suppose . . . I might have looked at one.”

  He laughed. “Only one?”

  “Or two,” Phoebe said, so embarrassed she half-expected to burst into flames. She leaned forward to hide her face on his shoulder. “Let’s not talk about dirty postcards.”

  “You’re having fun, you naughty girl,” he said, one of his arms sliding around her. “Admit it.”

  Phoebe smiled against his shoulder. She loved how he teased her, the way no man would ever tease a duke’s daughter or a respectable widow. “A little,” she said.

  The fragrance of his skin mingled with shaving soap and almond oil and a hint of some salty essence that she realized with a little shock might have come from her. Aroused by the thought of the intimacies she had already shared with this man, she turned her head and kissed his neck. She dragged her parted lips up to his cheek, and his mouth sought hers, kisses blooming within kisses like a field of poppies in endless summer. Those clever, inventive fingers played between the open bracket of her thighs, occasionally slipping into the snug sheath of her body and teasing the inner muscles into squeezing around them. His thumb brushed over her clitoris in flirting touches, drawing quivers from her and making it impossible to sit still. Reaching down to grip his shaft in her hand, she guided him into place, determined to take him inside.

  “Easy,” West said softly, cupping her bottom to control her descent.

  Phoebe sank lower in his lap, and felt him adjust his position in the chair, altering the angle between them. Gasping with effort, she worked herself on him, easing farther each time. He held her carefully, watching her with rapt concentration, his breath turning choppy.

  He was deep inside her now, impaling her to the point of discomfort, and yet she hadn’t quite taken all of him. She paused, and he groaned softly, caressing her back and sides, muttering words of fervent approval and praise. Obeying the coaxing pressure of his hands, she eased downward, lifted and slid down again, enthralled by the sensation of being filled and caressed within.

  “Like this?” she asked, wanting reassurance.

  “God, yes, just like that, yes . . .” He reached for her head and pulled her in for a profoundly enthusiastic kiss.

  Gaining confidence, she continued to move on him, discovering that when she arched and pushed her hips forward on each downward thrust, she could accommodate the entire length of him, her mound rubbing against delicious firmness. It caused a deep jabbing ache each time she did it, but the growing pleasure soon outweighed the pain. Overwhelmed with lust, she began to push harder, almost slamming on him, gulping for breath as an intense hot wave of fulfillment began to roll up her.

  “Phoebe,” she heard him gasp, “wait . . . easy, now . . . not so rough. You’ll hurt yourself, sweet . . .”

  She couldn’t wait. The need was excruciating, and all her muscles were tightening and clenching in anticipation of relief.

  A whimper escaped her as West brought it all to a sudden halt, clamping a forearm beneath her churning hips, easily lifting her away from his shaft.

  She shuddered hungrily. “No, it felt good, please, I need—”

  “It may satisfy you at the moment, but you’ll be cursing me later when you’re too sore to walk.”

  “I don’t care. I don’t care.”

  Phoebe continued to protest weakly as he lifted her up and carried her to the bed, her senses in a frenzy . . . He was saying something quietly, something about patience or . . . but she couldn’t hear over the thunder in her ears. Her legs splayed wide as he dropped her onto the mattress, his big body settling between them, and she cried out as he slid back inside her, his hardness stretching her lusciously. He began to pump in a slow, steady motion that wouldn’t alter no matter how she writhed and begged him to go harder, faster, deeper.

  His mouth went to her breast, sucking at a nipple, tugging sweetly in time to his thrusting. Her body contracted every time he pushed inward, clasping him hungrily, sensation building until a powerful climax began, wringing every inch of her body with raw force. She fell silent, her hips locked in a steep arch against his weight. Still the measured rhythm went on, extracting every last flicker of sensation. He was tireless, unhurried, using himself to satisfy her.

  At last Phoebe collapsed down on the bed, shivering uncontrollably. West plunged into her . . . once, twice, thrice . . . and pulled out to crush the thick wet rod of his sex against her stomach. He buried a savage growl in the bedclothes and clutched the mattress on either side of her so hard she thought he might gouge holes in it. As she felt the hot spill of his release, an unfamiliar croon came from her throat, a sound of primal satisfaction at having pleased her mate.

  West began to roll off her, but she locked her arms and legs around him to keep him there. He could have broken her hold on him with laughable ease, but he stayed obediently, striving to regain his breath. She relished the feeling of being anchored by his weight, the mat of hair on his chest teasing her breasts, the fragrance of sweat and intimacy rising freshly to her nostrils.

  Eventually he brought his mouth to hers, kissing her softly before he left the bed. He returned with a damp cloth, wiping her in careful strokes, performing the lover’s service with exquisite gentleness.

  Dreamy and limp with relaxation, Phoebe turned to face him as he lay beside her again.
West smoothed back stray locks of hair from her face and stared into her eyes. She felt as if they were still beyond the reach of the world, entangled even though their bodies were separate. He was part of her now, his name emblazoned on her skin with invisible but permanent ink. With a single fingertip, she traced the strong line of his nose and the edge of his upper lip. What have we done? she wondered, almost frightened by the connection between them, the unbreakable strength of it.

  It seemed, however, that her companion’s thoughts were focused on more immediate concerns.

  “Will it be time for breakfast soon?” West asked hopefully.

  “You poor man. Every day is an unending struggle to satisfy one or another of your appetites, isn’t it?”

  “It’s exhausting,” he agreed, kissing his way down her arm.

  “I’ll slip inside the house first, and you can follow a few minutes later. I’ll make sure you’re well-fed.” Phoebe grinned and tugged her arm away. “We must keep up your strength for all that accounting work.”

  Chapter 27

  As the midday sun slanted gently through the study windows, West leaned over a row of open ledgers on the oak table. He cross-checked entries and occasionally paused to rummage through folders of correspondence and legal documents. Phoebe sat quietly at the table, providing answers when she could and making notes for her own reference. She took pleasure in the sight of him, shirtsleeves rolled up over his muscled forearms, his trouser braces crossing over his broad back and down his front to his lean waist.

  To her relief, West didn’t seem at all glum or annoyed about having to spend a sunny day indoors. He liked having problems to solve. She sensed he wasn’t the kind who would do well if he were set adrift for too long. He took a keen interest in the workings of everyday life, in practical matters. It was one of the qualities that made him very different from Henry, who had thought of leisure time as his real life, had hated being distracted by mundane subjects, and had loathed discussing money for any reason. Henry had preferred to look inward, and West to look outward, and in both cases, a little balance was needed.

  Then there was poor Edward, who would have been far more like the high-minded Henry if he’d been able, but instead had been compelled by circumstances to earn a living. Henry’s father had been a viscount, whereas Edward’s father had been the second son. It certainly couldn’t have escaped Edward that if he married Phoebe, he would finally be able to live as lord of the manor and acquire most of the power and privileges Henry had known. Then he would also be able to focus on the inner life and shrink from unpleasant realities.

  Except that times were changing. The nobility could no longer live in lofty ivory towers from which they had no clear view of the people down below. West had made Phoebe more aware of that than ever before. If the estate went under, it would not be a slow submerging, like a leaky barge. It was a gradual approach to an unseen cliff. Hopefully she could change course before they reached the sudden plummet.

  “Phoebe,” West said, interrupting her thoughts. “Do you have any other financial files? Specifically one with a bank book and checks?”

  Phoebe shook her head, watching as he sorted through a stack of folders on the table. “No, this is all we have.”

  “You may have missed one at the Larson offices, then.”

  She frowned. “Uncle Frederick assured me this was all the material they had pertaining to the estate. Why do you think something is missing?”

  “What do you know about the loan that was arranged two and a half years ago from the Land Loan and Enfranchisement Company?”

  “I’m afraid I know nothing about that. How much was it for?”

  “Fifteen thousand pounds.”

  “Fifteen . . .” Phoebe began, her eyes flying open. “For what purpose?”

  “Land improvements.” West stared at her closely. “Larson never discussed it with you?”

  “No.”

  “The loan was charged against Justin’s future inheritance.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Here’s a copy of the loan agreement.”

  Phoebe shot up from her chair and hurried around the table to look at the document in his hand.

  “This was tucked into a ledger,” West continued, “but as far as I can tell, it was never entered properly into the books. Nor can I find any records from the loan account.”

  Dazedly she read the terms of the loan. “Seven percent interest to be repaid in twenty-five years . . .”

  “The loan company was incorporated by a special act of Parliament,” West said, “to help struggling estate owners.” He sent the document a disparaging glance. “You could borrow at four and a half percent from a regular bank.”

  Phoebe examined a page bearing Henry’s signature. “Henry signed this a week before he died.” She put a hand to her stomach, feeling slightly nauseated.

  “Phoebe,” she heard West ask after a moment, “was he fully cognizant at that point? Would he have signed something like that without understanding what it was?”

  “No. He slept a great deal, but when he was awake, he was quite sensible. Near the end, he was trying to settle his affairs, and there were so many visitors, including solicitors and managers. I was always trying to shoo them out, to let him rest. I don’t know why he didn’t mention the loan to me. He must have been trying to spare me from having to worry about it.” Setting down the document, she passed a trembling hand over her forehead.

  Seeing how upset she was, West turned her to face him. “Here, now,” he said, his tone comforting, “it’s not an unreasonable amount of money when it comes to making improvements on an estate of this size.”

  “It’s not just the amount,” Phoebe said distractedly. “It’s a nasty surprise, leaping up like a troll from beneath a bridge. Henry knew I should have been made aware of something like this, if I were to manage the estate . . . but . . . he never expected me to manage it, did he? He expected me to leave everything in Edward’s hands. And I did, for two years! I took no responsibility for anything. I’m furious with myself! How could I be so foolish and self-indulgent—”

  “Hush. Don’t blame yourself.” Gently West took her jaw in his hand, steering her gaze to his. “You’re taking responsibility now. Let’s find out the facts, and then you can decide what to do. First we’ll need access to the account information and records from the loan company.”

  “I’m not sure that’s possible. Even though I’m Justin’s legal guardian, Edward is executor of the will and administrator of his financial trust.” Phoebe scowled. “And I doubt very much he’ll want me to see those records.”

  West half sat on the desk, facing her. He uttered a quiet profanity. “Why is Larson executor of the will? Why not your father or brother?”

  “Henry felt more comfortable prevailing on a member of his own family, who was familiar with the estate and its history. My father is next in line for the executorship, if something were to happen to Edward.” The thought of Sebastian helped to calm Phoebe. With all his influence and connections, he would know what to do, whom to approach. “I’ll write to my father,” she said. “He knows people in Parliament and banking—he’ll pull strings on my behalf.”

  Looking pensive, West took one of her hands and played lightly with her fingers. “I have another suggestion, if you’re willing. I could ask Ethan Ransom to obtain the information for us. He’ll accomplish it faster and more discreetly than anyone else could, even your father.”

  Phoebe stared at him in bewilderment. “The injured man who stayed at Eversby Priory? Why . . . how . . . ?”

  “I neglected to explain earlier about how Ransom came by his injuries. He worked for the Home Office as . . . well, as an unauthorized agent.”

  “He was a spy?”

  “Spying was one of the things he did. However, he uncovered evidence of corruption by his superiors that extended to other branches of law enforcement, and then . . . he became a target. They nearly succeeded in killing him.”

 
; “And you gave him refuge,” Phoebe said, realizing Ethan Ransom’s summer visit to Eversby Priory had been about far more than needing a peaceful place to recuperate. “You were hiding him.” Increasingly concerned, she drew closer to him and linked her arms around his neck. “Were you in any danger?”

  “Not a bit,” he said, a little too quickly.

  “You were! Why would you do that for a stranger, and put the rest of the household at risk as well?”

  One of his brows arched. “Are you going to scold?”

  “Yes, you very much need scolding! I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  West smiled, his hands settling at her hips. “I took Ransom in when he needed help because he wasn’t entirely a stranger. As it turns out, he’s a relation on the Ravenel side. I’ll explain more about that later. The point is, Ransom owes me a favor or two, and he could easily obtain the loan account records, since he’s just been sworn in as the assistant commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. He’s also been given the authority to organize and direct a small group of his own handpicked agents. I’m sure he’ll regard this as a handy training exercise.” He paused. “None of this is to be repeated, by the way.”

  “Of course not.” Phoebe shook her head in bemusement. “Very well. If you’ll write to him, I’ll have the letter posted immediately.”

  “I’d prefer to send it by special courier. I want this done before Larson returns and I’m obliged to leave.”

  “Edward’s return won’t necessitate your leaving,” Phoebe said, instantly annoyed. “He has no say over who stays in my house.”

  “I know, sweetheart.” A shadow came over West’s expression. “But you won’t want both of us in the same vicinity for long, or the situation will turn into a powder keg.”

  “That doesn’t worry me.”

  “It does me,” he said quietly. “I’ve caused too many disgraceful scenes and left 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.”