As Phoebe reached the guest cottage, she gave the door two quick knocks and let herself in. “Good morning,” she called out softly, closing the door behind her.
She had redecorated the cottage as well as the main house. The main room, a parlor with sage green walls, fresh white plasterwork, and gilded accents, was perfumed by the vase of fresh flowers that occupied a satinwood console table beside the door.
In the silence of the cottage, West emerged from one of the bedrooms, his head tilting in perplexity to find her there. He was very tall in the low-ceilinged room, a potent masculine presence with his shirt left untucked and the sleeves rolled up to reveal hairy forearms. Phoebe’s heart thudded heavily as she thought of what she wanted and feared might not happen. The idea of going the rest of life without ever having been intimate with West Ravenel was starting to seem no less than tragic.
“I’ve brought shaving supplies,” she said, gesturing with the basket.
West stayed where he was, his gaze slow and hot as it swept over her. She wore an “at home” garment that combined the appearance of a dress with the convenience of a robe, as it required no corset and fastened with a minimum of buttons. The scooped neck of the bodice was trimmed with spills of white Brussels lace.
“My thanks,” he said. “I expected a footman or housemaid to bring them. Forgive me for putting you to trouble.”
“It was no trouble. I . . . I wanted to find out if you’d slept comfortably last night.”
He smiled slightly, appearing to debate the answer. “Well enough.”
“Is the bed too soft?” Phoebe asked in concern. “Too firm? Are the pillows sufficient, or—”
“The surroundings are luxurious in every regard. I had unsettled dreams, that’s all.”
Tentatively Phoebe moved forward with the basket. “I brought Henry’s razor,” she blurted out. “I would be glad for you to have the use of it.”
West stared at her, his lips parting with what seemed to be dismay. “Thank you, but I couldn’t—”
“I want you to,” she insisted. God, how awkward this was turning out to be. “It’s a Swedish razor, made of the finest-grain steel. Sharper even than a Damascus blade. You’ll need it, with a beard like yours.”
Letting out a breath of amusement, West reached up to rub the brush-wire surface of his jaw. “How do you know so much about men’s beards?”
“I shaved Henry quite often,” Phoebe said matter-of-factly, “especially near the end. I was the only one he would allow to touch him.”
Light angled across the upper half of his face, striking unearthly blue gleams in his eyes. “You were a good wife,” came his soft comment.
“I became very proficient.” A self-conscious smile tugged at her lips as she confided, “I love the sounds of shaving.”
“What sounds?”
“The swoosh of the lather brush, and the scratchy-scraping of the blade cutting through whiskers. It sends a tingly feeling down the back of my neck.”
West laughed suddenly. “It’s never done that to me.”
“But you understand what I mean, don’t you?”
“I suppose.”
“Isn’t there a sound you find so pleasant that it seems to waken all your nerve endings?”
A long pause ensued before he said, “No.”
“Yes, there is,” Phoebe protested with a laugh, “you’re just not telling me.”
“You don’t need to know it.”
“I’ll find out someday,” she told him, and he shook his head, still smiling at her. Slowly she approached him with the lidded basket. “West . . . have you ever had a woman shave you?”
His smile faded at the edges, and he gave her an arrested stare.
“You haven’t,” she guessed.
West tensed as she drew closer.
“I dare you to let me,” Phoebe said.
He had to clear his throat before saying in a rusty voice, “That’s not a good idea.”
“Yes, let me shave you.” When he didn’t respond, Phoebe asked softly, “Don’t you trust me?” She was standing very close to him now, unable to fathom his expression. But she could almost feel his visceral response to her nearness, his powerful body radiating pleasure, like fire throwing off heat. “Are you afraid?” she dared to tease.
It was a challenge West couldn’t resist. His set his jaw and backed away a step, staring at her with a mixture of resentment and helpless desire.
And then . . . he made a brief motion with his head for her to follow him into the bedroom.
Chapter 25
“How do I know that your tingles from the sounds of shaving implements won’t cause you to accidentally butcher me?” West asked, seated in a wing chair beside the bedroom washstand.
“The sound doesn’t send me into fits,” Phoebe protested, pouring hot water into a white ceramic bowl on the washstand. “It’s only that I find it satisfying.”
“I’ll be satisfied to have this scruff removed,” West said, scratching his jaw. “It’s starting to itch.”
“It’s just as well that you’re not going to keep it.” Phoebe went to set the small kettle back on the box stove at the hearth. “The fashion is for a long, flowing beard,” she continued, “like Mr. Darwin’s or Mr. Rossetti’s. But I suspect yours would turn out curly.”
“Like a prizewinning sheep,” he agreed dryly.
Carefully Phoebe soaked a towel in the steaming water, wrung it out and folded it, and pressed it gently over the lower half of West’s face. He slouched lower in the chair and tilted his head back.