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 for him. “I’d rather have ordinary ones.”
West took the water with a murmur of thanks and drained it thirstily, a few drops sliding down the rippling front of his neck. Phoebe was briefly transfixed by the movements of that strong throat, remembering a moment the night before when he’d arched over her, his shoulders and back lifting as his muscles had bunched with pleasure.
“I saw some damned beautiful land today,” he said, setting the empty glass on the tray table. “Now I understand why your crop yields are better than I would have expected, despite the primitive farming methods the tenants use. But there’s no way to avoid it—you’re going to have to invest in miles of field drainage and hire a steam-powered machine with rotary diggers to loosen up all that heavy clay. None of your fields have ever been cultivated deeper than a wineglass. The soil has been trodden by horses and compacted by its own weight for centuries, so it’s a struggle for plants to sink their roots into it. The good news is, once the ground is loosened and aerated, that alone will likely double your production.”
“Lovely,” Phoebe exclaimed, pleased. “Is that the interesting problem?”
“No, I’m about to tell you that. Do you recall those puzzling entries in the crop book, in which some of the tenants give four different numbers for their crop yields?
“Yes.”
“It’s because many of your leaseholds are still laid out in an open-field system, the way they were back in medieval times.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means a farm like Mr. Morton’s, which I visited today, is divided into four strips, and they’re scattered over an area of four square miles. He has to travel separately to farm each strip.”
“But that’s absurd!”
“It’s impossible. Which is why most large landowners did away with the open-field system long ago. You’re going to have to find a way to put all the acreage together and redistribute it so each tenant can have one good-sized plot of land. But that won’t be as easy as it may sound.”
“It doesn’t sound easy at all,” Phoebe said glumly. “The estate would have to renegotiate all the lease agreements.”
“I’ll find an experienced arbiter for you.”
“Many of the tenants will refuse to take a plot that’s inferior to someone else’s.”
“Persuade them to start raising livestock instead of corn growing. They would make higher profits than they’re making now. Nowadays there’s more money in milk and meat than grain.”
Phoebe sighed, feeling anxious and irritable. “Obviously Edward and his father aren’t the ones to handle any of this, since neither of them saw fit to bring it up to me in the first place.” She made a face and looked up at him. “I wish you would do it. Couldn’t I hire you? Indefinitely? How expensive are you?”
His mouth quirked, his eyes suddenly hard and humorless. “At face value, I’m cheap. But I come with hidden costs.”
Drawing closer, Phoebe hugged herself to him and laid her head against his chest.
Eventually his arms lifted around her, and the pressure of his cheek came to her hair. “I’ll help you,” he said. “I’ll make sure you have whatever you need.”
You’re what I need, she thought. She let her hands move over his spectacular body, so familiar to her now. Daringly she drew a hand down his front, her palm skimming over the fly of his trousers, where a firm bulge distended the soft woven fabric. His breathing changed. When she looked up at his face, she saw that his eyes had turned warm again, his features relaxed and lust drowsed.
“I wish we didn’t have to wait until tonight,” she said, a catch in her voice. In the evenings, after dinner, they relaxed with the children in the family parlor, playing games and reading until the boys were taken up to bed. Then West would retire to the guest house, where Phoebe would later join him under cover of darkness. In the single flame of an oil lamp, he would undress her beside the bed, his hands and mouth sweetly tormenting every inch of newly revealed flesh.
That would be hours from now.
“We don’t have to wait,” he said.
His head bent. His mouth came to hers, his tongue a gentle, exquisite invasion that caused a sympathetic quiver in a place lower down that also yearned to be invaded. But . . . here? In the winter garden in broad daylight? . . .
Yes. Anything he wanted. Anything.
Chapter 28
In a few minutes, West had pinned Phoebe against a corner wall of the winter garden, in a sheltered space of stone and feathery leaves. He possessed her with passion-roughened kisses, almost eating at her mouth, greedily drawing in the honeysuckle taste of her. Her skin was milk-white with golden flecks, smoothness quivering at the stroke of his tongue. With one hand, he held the front of her skirts up at her waist, and with the other he reached inside her drawers, his fingers parting the soft lips. He played with her, flicking and stroking, his fingers sinking into her wet, gripping depths. It aroused him to see how hard she was trying to be quiet and couldn’t quite manage it, strangled moans and gasps slipping out.
After unbuttoning his trousers and freeing his erection, West braced Phoebe up against the wall and entered her. She let out a cry of surprise at finding herself mounted on his hips, her legs dangling helplessly. Keeping her supported, he began to thrust, letting the hardness of his pubic bone nudge against the bud of her sex with every upward plunge.
“Is this good?” he asked gruffly, even though he could feel her throbbing response.
“Yes.”
“Too deep?”
“No. No. Keep doing that.” She clutched at his shoulders, her pleasure rising rapidly toward climax.
But when West felt her clamping on him, her body tensing in readiness for completion, he forced himself to stop. Ignoring her groans and squirms, he waited until the need for release had subsided. Then he began the rhythm again, took her to the edge and retreated, and laughed softly as she whined and protested.
“West . . . I was just about to . . .” She paused, still too modest to say it aloud. He adored that.
“I know,” West whispered. “I felt it. I felt you clenching on me.” He rolled his hips, pumping slowly. He was barely aware of what he was saying, only let the words fall over her like a cascade of flower petals. “You’re like silk. Every part of you is so fine . . . so sweet. I won’t stop next time. I love to watch when you reach the peak . . . the look on your face . . . always a little surprised . . . as if it’s something you’ve never felt before. You blush the color of a wild rose, everywhere . . . your little red ears turn so hot, and your lips tremble . . . yes, just like that . . .”