Of all the mistakes in his life, and God knew there had been many, the worst had had been kissing her. He would never recover from it. He could still feel her head in his hands, and the softness of her lips against his. Twenty years from now, his fingers would still be able to shape the exact curves of her skull. Every sweet kiss she’d given had been like a promise, one hesitant leap of faith after another. He’d forced himself to be careful, gentle, when he was dying to crush and devour her. It had felt as if his body had been made for no other purpose than to pleasure her, his mouth to stroke her, his hardness to fill her.
As for what Phoebe might think or feel, West had no illusion that his desire was reciprocated. Not fully, anyway. If there was one thing he was good at, it was gauging the level of a woman’s interest in him. There was liking and attraction on her side, but it didn’t come close to matching his. Thank God. She had enough problems as it was—she didn’t need to add him to the list.
“Here are the latest banking and investment statements,” came his brother’s voice. Devon walked into the room with a document folio and dropped it on the table in front of him with a smart thwack. “So far, Winterborne’s advice has paid off well, especially concerning the railway shares and commodities.” He pulled a chair back and sat with his legs stretched out before him. Contemplating the tips of his polished shoes, he commented, “The only blot on the portfolio, as usual, is the Norfolk estate. Still losing money.”
A house and land in Norfolk had been among the various properties Devon had inherited along with the title. Unfortunately, the past three earls had neglected the maintenance of the estate, as they done with everything else. Most of the fertile fields had gone to rough grass, and the elegant Georgian country house had been closed and abandoned. “There are only five tenant families left,” Devon continued, “and we’re paying more in annual taxes than we’re taking in. We could sell the property, since it’s not entailed. Or . . . you could do something with it.”
West glanced at him quizzically. “What the devil would I do with it?”
“You could make it your home. The house is in good condition, and the land is suited for the kind of experimental farm you said you’d like to start someday. You could attract new tenants to bring in revenue. If you want it, it’s yours.”
A smile came to West’s face. He would never cease to be grateful for his brother’s generosity. Perhaps if Devon had been raised as a privileged scion and heir, he would have behaved like an entitled jackass. Instead, he was unsparing with praise and rewards, recompensing West handsomely for his contributions to the estate’s success.
“Are you trying to get rid of me?” West asked lightly.
“Never.” Devon’s gaze was warm and steady. For years, all they’d had was each other—their bond was unbreakable. “But it occurs to me that you may want your own life someday. The privacy of your own house. A wife and children.”
“As much as I appreciate the gift of your tax liability . . .” West began dryly.
‘I’ll assume the tax burden until you start to turn a profit. Even after you hire an assistant manager to undertake your work here, you would continue earning a percentage of gross income in lieu of management fees. Obviously, we’ll still need as much oversight as you can spare—”
“Devon. You don’t owe me that.”
“I owe you my life, in the most literal sense.” Devon paused, his voice softening. “I want your life to be no less full than mine. You should have your own family.”
West shook his head. “The day I decide to marry will be long in coming.”
“What about Lady Clare?”
“I might have an affair with her in five or ten years,” West said, “after her next husband starts to bore her. For now, however, she’s not seasoned enough for my taste.”
“Every time she enters the room, we can all hear your heart beating.”
West felt his color heighten. “Bugger off.”
Devon wore an expression of concern blended with a touch of exasperation. It was the same older-brother look he’d given West whenever he’d had been caught bullying or cheating back in their school days. “For our entire lives, West, I’ve always taken your side. You’ve nothing to lose by telling me the truth.”
Folding his arms on the table, West rested his chin on them and glowered at the bookshelves. “I think I’m in love with her. Either that, or I have a stomach disease with a side effect of uncontrollable sweating. But there’s no doubt about one thing: I have no business marrying and reproducing. Somehow, you’ve managed to rise above our upbringing. You’re a good husband, and by some miracle you’re a good father. I won’t tempt fate by trying to follow suit.”
“What’s stopping you? The fact that you used to be a rake?”
“You were a rake. I was a wreck. Two years of moderately decent behavior doesn’t wipe away an entire personal history.”
“It doesn’t matter now.”
“It will. Imagine Justin a few years from now, meeting another boy whose family was ruined because I once had an affair with his mother. Or when someone tells him about a formal party at which I turned up too drunk to walk straight. Or the charming fact that I was booted out of Oxford because I set fire to my room. Or how about this?—Imagine the moment I have to tell him that his father hated me to his dying day for bullying him at boarding school.”
“If his mother forgave you, don’t you think he’ll be able to?”
“Forgiveness be damned. It doesn’t make any of it go away.”
“I think you’re missing the point of forgiveness.”
Lifting his head, West said bleakly, “We have to stop talking about this; Phoebe will be here soon to look at the farm account ledgers.” He sorely regretted inviting her. It had been a stupid impulse.
Sighing, Devon stood. “Before I leave, let me share a piece of hard-won wisdom about women.”
“God, must you?”
“It’s not all about what you want. It’s also about what she wants. No matter what your intentions, most women don’t like it when you make their decisions for them.”