Ernestine, who was sitting by the window with some mending, set aside her sewing basket and came to her immediately. “What’s this?”
“An undomesticated barn cat,” Phoebe said. “Justin acquired her during our farm tour.”
“I love cats! May I take her?”
“You can try.” But as Phoebe tried to lift the cat away, it hissed and dug its claws into the bodice of the dress. The harder she tried to pry away the cat, the more tenacious it became, growling and clinging desperately. Giving up the battle, Phoebe sat on the floor near one of the windows. “Ernestine, would you run down to the kitchen and fetch something to tempt her? A boiled egg, or a sardine—”
“Right away, my lady.” The lady’s maid dashed out.
Left in silence with the stubborn cat, Phoebe stroked her back and sides. She could feel the grooves between her tiny ribs. “Would you mind retracting your claws?” she asked. “I feel like a pincushion.” In a moment, the little needles withdrew, and Phoebe sighed in relief. “Thank you.” She continued to pet the silky dark fur and encountered a little knot beneath one of her arms. “If this is a tick, I’m going to start screaming like a lunatic.”
Fortunately, further investigation revealed that the knot was a clump of some resinous matter, like pinesap. It would have to be cut out. Slowly the cat’s body relaxed, and a resonant purring began. She clambered up to the sunny windowsill behind Phoebe’s shoulder and reclined on her side. Surveying the room with a bored, queenly air, the cat began to lick one paw.
Phoebe stood and tried to straighten her clothes, discovering the front of her gray dress was hopelessly frayed.
Soon Ernestine returned with a plate of shredded boiled chicken and set it near the window. Although the cat flattened its ears and viewed the lady’s maid with slitted eyes, the chicken was too compelling to resist. After jumping to the floor, the feline slunk to the plate and devoured it ravenously.
“She’s not such a wildling as the usual barn cat,” Ernestine commented. “Most of them never purr or want to be held.”
“This one seems at least half tame,” Phoebe agreed.
“She’s trying to rise above her station,” the lady’s maid suggested with a laugh. “A barn cat with dreams of being a house cat.”
Phoebe frowned. “I wish you hadn’t put it like that. Now when I take her back to the barn, I’ll feel terribly guilty about it. But we can’t keep her.”
A few minutes later, dressed in blue summer serge with a white silk bodice, Phoebe made her way to the wing of the house where the Ravenel family members resided. After asking directions from a maid who was sweeping the hallway carpet, she approached a long, narrow passageway. At the far end of the passageway, she saw three men conferring at the threshold of a private suite: Lord Trenear, her father, and a man holding a doctor’s bag.
Phoebe’s heart quickened as she caught a glimpse of West Ravenel, wearing a dark green dressing robe and trousers, just inside the threshold. The group talked companionably for a minute, before Mr. Ravenel reached out to shake hands with the doctor.
As the men departed, Phoebe backed away and went into a small parlor, staying out of view. She waited until the group had passed and the sound of voices had faded. When the coast was clear, she headed to Mr. Ravenel’s room.
It wasn’t at all proper for her to visit him unaccompanied. The appropriate thing would be to send a note expressing her concern and good wishes. But she had to thank him privately for what he’d done. Also, she needed to see with her own eyes that he was all right.
The door had been left ajar. Bashfully she knocked on the jamb and heard his deep voice.
“Come in.”
Phoebe entered the room and stopped with a head-to-toe quiver, like an arrow striking a target, at the sight of a half-naked West Ravenel. He was facing away from her, standing barefoot at an old-fashioned washstand as he blotted his neck and chest with a length of toweling. The robe had been tossed to a chair, leaving him dressed only in a pair of trousers that rode dangerously low on his hips.
Henry had always seemed so much smaller without his clothes, vulnerable without the protection of civilized layers. But this man, all rippling muscle and bronzed skin and coiled energy, appeared twice as large. The room scarcely seemed able to contain him. He was big-boned and lean, his back flexing as he lifted a goblet of water and drank thirstily. Phoebe’s helpless gaze followed the long groove of his spine down to his hips. The loose edge of a pair of fawn-colored trousers, untethered by braces, dipped low enough to reveal a shocking absence of undergarments. How could a gentleman go without wearing drawers? It was the most indecent thing she’d ever seen. The inside of her head was scalded by her own thoughts.
“Hand me a clean shirt from that stack on the dresser, will you?” he asked brusquely. “I’ll need help putting it on; these damned stitches are pulling.”
Phoebe moved to comply, while a thousand butterflies swirled and danced inside her. She fumbled to retrieve the shirt without overturning the stack. It was a pullover style with a half-placket, made of beautiful fine linen that smelled like laundry soap and outside air. Hesitantly she moved forward and dampened her lips nervously, trying to think of what to say.
Setting down the water goblet, Mr. Ravenel turned with an exasperated sigh. “Good God, Sutton, if you’re going to be that slow—” He broke off as he saw her, his expression turning blank.
The atmosphere in the room became still and charged, as if lightning were about to strike.