Kathryn Smith (17 page)

The front door opened as he slid off Flynn’s back to the gravel. Miles and Varya came out first, followed by a towering vision in dark forest green. Devlin had to smile when he saw the bonnet in her hand. He knew full well it would never make it onto her head. She would carry it all the way to London if she had to, but she would never wear it.

He watched them as they approached the carriage. Miles saw him first, then Varya. They exchanged pleased glances before smiling at him. Miles knew enough not to approach. He simply helped his wife into the carriage and followed her in, leaving Blythe alone outside.

She looked up just as she reached the open carriage door. For a second Devlin thought he would have to call out for her attention. She stared at him, seemingly uncertain if he was real or not.

Then she came toward him, her steps quickening the closer she came, until finally she broke into a run. She stopped not even a foot from him, her gaze as questioning as he knew his own must be.

As had become habit with them, they didn’t even speak. He took her face in his hands and she clutched at his forearms, the unwanted bonnet bumping against his hand in the breeze.

It’s going to rain,
he thought absently as his lips touched hers, and then he thought of nothing but Blythe and how damn good it felt to kiss her again. She tasted like tea and cinnamon, two things he’d never really liked until meeting her.

She kissed him like a thirsty man drank water—as though it was the last time she would ever kiss him. It scared him.

Their lips broke apart, but he didn’t release her. His forehead rested against hers, his hands still holding the sides of her face. She kept her gloves wrapped around his wrists.

“Don’t go.” His voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.

She sniffed, and he knew she was crying. “I have to.”

“No, you don’t.”

She pulled free of his hold, her eyes red and her chin quivering. “Yes. I do. It is time for me to stop hiding.”

It wasn’t said maliciously, but it stung all the same. How could he have accused her of hiding from life? Even if it was true, who was he to criticize her? He’d spent enough time hiding from the truth about himself.

He offered her his handkerchief and she took it, pressing it to her eyes and nose.

“I’m going to want that back,” he informed her, surprised at how strong his voice sounded, especially since his chest and throat were so tight.

She nodded, not even acknowledging his reference to how he had returned her handkerchief. “I shall send it to you.” Her gaze locked with his. “Good-bye, Devlin.”

She spun on her heel and dashed away before he could say anything in reply. That was all right. He hadn’t planned on saying good-bye.

He didn’t wait for the carriage to leave before spurring Flynn into motion. He had things to do that morning and no time to waste in doing them.

He was going back to Rosewood and then he was going to pack because he was going to London. And once in London he was going to visit his brother Wynthrope’s tailor and get
some new clothes made, because every soldier needed a good uniform when going into battle, and that’s what this was—battle. Blythe had started it when she refused to marry for less than love, and he was determined to finish it.

If there was one thing Devlin Ryland knew how to do, it was win a war.

L
ondon was better than Blythe remembered.

For one thing, the season was over, so there wasn’t the endless stream of balls and parties to attend. There were a few, of course; there always were. No matter the time of year, one could always find good
ton
in London, though perhaps not in great abundance. Blythe attended what events she wanted and passed on the rest.

The people seemed friendlier as well. Matrons who once seemed intimidating and ladies whose friendship she once questioned seemed genuinely happy to see her. After two years of near solitude in Devonshire, it was a bit overwhelming to suddenly be in such demand.

Still, that restless feeling that had started at Brixleigh continued at Wynter Lane. Despite her busy schedule, the company, the shopping, the entertainment, she was undeniably lonely. Surrounded by people, many of whom she enjoyed being with, she longed for something—someone—different.

Pleasure came in quiet teas with friends, both new and old, in dinners where the conversation touched on more than just the latest gossip, and in soirees where the card play was low,
the music soft, and the topics ran to important current events, such as what to do with all the poor soldiers who had returned from the Peninsula unable to find work and were now reduced to begging and worse to feed themselves and their families. In the last two years the situation had gotten worse, not better.

Of course, as was bound to happen, the topic of soldiers eventually led to the one man Blythe was trying not to think about. This happened at a soiree held by the Countess Wickford at her London town house one Thursday evening.

They were in the drawing room—a serenely peaceful room of cream, rose, and taupe, filled with sturdy yet feminine furniture. Every chair and sofa was filled with a female body, enjoying cake, biscuits, little sandwiches, tea, and sherry. Some of the women hardly spoke at all, some only when spoken to, and then there were those who never seemed to stop.

Lady Letitia Rexley lowered her plate of thickly frosted cake, chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed. Letitia was a few years younger than Blythe, shorter and more slender, with brown eyes and a wide mouth. Her hair was a similar shade to Blythe’s, but that was the end of any resemblance. Still, Blythe liked her. Letitia liked to talk—a lot.

“I hear Devlin Ryland hired quite a few former soldiers to work on his new estate in Devonshire,” Letitia remarked innocently after washing down her cake with a sip of tea.

Blythe’s heart broke into a gallop at the sound of his name. She had to grip the smooth arm of her chair to keep her fingers from trembling. Soldiers working at Rosewood? Why had he not mentioned it to her? She remembered him saying he wanted to hire some men from London, but it hadn’t occurred to her that they might have been men he fought beside.

“That does not surprise me.” Lady Wickford, a frigate of a woman despite her short stature, took a sip of sherry. “He talked his brothers into doing the same.”

Lady Jersey nodded her dark head. “I hear no one else would work for the oldest Ryland. Horrible man.”

Horrible? Viscount Creed? Scandalous maybe, but horrible? The few times Devlin talked of his family, he had nothing but good things to say about his oldest brother Brahm. Brother or not, Blythe couldn’t believe he would be so generous if the viscount were unworthy.

“I hear Lord Creed is quite reformed,” Lady Letitia informed them. “He has turned over a new leaf since assuming the title.”

“As well he should,” Lady Jersey retorted with an indignant sniff. “He showed every sign of following in his father’s footsteps, and the other boys are
such
gentlemen, especially Wynthrope.”

“Even Northam?” Lady Pennington joined the conversation with such a deceptively innocent tone that Blythe almost scowled at the snooty matron. Early in Miles and Varya’s relationship, Lady Pennington had made her true nature known, and despite the fact that she tried to make herself agreeable to the Christian family, Blythe couldn’t stand her.

Lady Jersey affected a very feminine shrug. “The poor boy cannot help what he is. At least Creed acknowledged him and raised him with the others.”

“Of course he did!” Lady Pennington took over again. “He was the old lord’s favorite.”

Blythe was confused. Again she had no idea what they were talking about. Devlin had never mentioned his father having a favorite—at least not that she could remember. Nor had he given her any reason to suspect the old viscount held any of his sons above the other—he seemed to ignore them all. “What is wrong with Northam?”

“Nothing is
wrong
with him,” Lady Wickford replied, slanting an annoyed glance at ladies Pennington and Jersey.

“The boy was the product of Creed’s long-standing affair with an actress named Nell Sheffield. Creed never tried to
conceal his birth and often took Northam into his own house.”

“Much to the displeasure of the viscountess,” Lady Pennington added.

Lady Wickford shot her another dark look as she lowered her cup to her saucer. “When she was there long enough to be displeasured. Those Ryland boys were raised by a succession of nannies and governesses. Lord and Lady Creed were too busy with their private pursuits to bother much with their children.”

From the sound of it, Lady Wickford didn’t think much of either the viscount or his viscountess. Blythe would love to know more—she hadn’t even known that North was illegitimate! But asking now would just invite gossip. Lady Wickford might be discreet, but Lady Pennington wasn’t, and Lady Jersey hadn’t earned the tongue-in-cheek nickname of “Silence” for knowing when to keep her mouth shut.

Trust the two of them to turn what was supposed to be a discussion of the plight of poor, unemployed soldiers into foolish gossip. If it hadn’t been about Devlin’s family, Blythe wouldn’t have listened to a word.

Lady Letitia obviously thought it was time to turn the direction of the conversation. “I wonder if Mr. Ryland will continue his advocacy for the soldiers now that he is back in town.”

This time Blythe’s heart actually stopped. She almost dropped her cup. Suddenly tea wasn’t enough. She wanted something stronger. Devlin was in town? No, he couldn’t be. She’d been there for over a week and hadn’t heard a word from or about him.

Lady Jersey raised her glass to her lips. “I would imagine so. He had a
private
dinner with Wellington the other night, you know.”

A private dinner with Wellington! Devlin truly was in town! Why hadn’t he come to see her? Did he not want to see
her? Perhaps he had discovered the answer to whether he loved her, and the answer was no.

Oh dear. She was going to be ill.

“I hear he plans to attend Lady Homewood’s ball tomorrow night.”

“Oh good! He will add some enjoyment to an otherwise drab affair.”

Blythe didn’t even look up as Lady Jersey and Lady Pennington spoke. She couldn’t even tell who had said what. Devlin was going to be at the same ball as she tomorrow evening. She would see him again. She would have to ensure that he saw her as well—not that a six-foot-tall woman was easy to miss. If he had decided he didn’t love her, she would have to look good enough to make him regret that decision.

Because even though she had yet to make up her own mind, she wasn’t prepared to let him go so easily, even though she had willingly walked away from him.

And didn’t she kick herself for it at least once a day? Coming to London had been the right decision—the only way to find the strength she needed to make order of her life. Being in town had taught her an important lesson already—there were gentlemen who found her appealing. She could no longer blame her infatuation with Devlin on the fact that he paid attention to her. Many men had begun paying attention to her lately, and not one of them compared to her sweet, gentle giant.

“—Lady Blythe?”

Her head jerked up. “Hmm? Oh, I beg your pardon, Lady Jersey. What was that you asked?”

Sally Jersey raised a disapproving brow. “I asked whether Mr. Ryland was invited to your birthday celebration.”

Her birthday. It was just a little over a week away. She would be five and twenty and come into her inheritance. It didn’t matter that Miles had decided that her money should come to her as a monthly allowance while she remained un
married. It was still enough for her to lease a nice little town house, should she decide to stay in London. She could still be independent.

“Yes, I imagine he will be on the guest list.” He certainly would be! And perhaps the rest of his brothers as well. Now that she had heard more about them, she was exceedingly interested in meeting the rest of the Ryland family.

“Excellent,” Lady Jersey enthused. “As if your return to society was not enough reason to come out, an appearance by Mr. Ryland will certainly add to the evening’s pleasure.”

She made it sound as though Blythe and Devlin would be on display, like exotic animals in a menagerie.

Well, Blythe would have to make certain she looked the part. Why settle for just Devlin’s attention when she could attract the notice of all the
ton
? Perhaps then Devlin would realize that she was more than a woman tall enough to dance with. That she was a woman worthy of loving.

She wanted him to love her. The realization came as no real surprise. Of course she wanted his love—everyone wanted love. Why his meant so much to her, she could only attribute to the fact that she cared very deeply about him. She had missed him terribly since leaving Brixleigh. She missed the sound of his voice, the earnestness of his gaze. She missed the loose-limbed way he walked and the way he treated Flynn more like a friend than a horse.

She wanted him to love her because no man had ever loved her before—other than Miles and their father—and she wanted to know what it was like to be an object of such affection. Perhaps if he loved her it would be easier to decipher her own feelings for him, although she was beginning to suspect they ran deeper than she’d first thought. She was waiting for what Miles told her was going to happen, for the realization to suddenly strike her. It hadn’t yet. The fact that she wanted it to was more than telling.

But her feelings didn’t matter at the moment. Right now
she had more important things to worry about than how deep her feelings for Devlin ran.

She had to figure out what she was going to wear tomorrow night.

The twenty-plus hours until the Homewood ball dragged by like a boat adrift on a sea of cold molasses. It wasn’t until Blythe started to fuss with her appearance and worry whether she had chosen the right dress that the time seemed to pass with any speed at all.

She left with Miles and Varya at a fashionable hour, dressed in a low-cut gown of bronze silk and matching gloves and slippers. Her hair was styled in the Greek fashion—with the sides and some of the back pinned up on her crown and the rest trailing down her back in thick spiral curls that had taken Suki hours to accomplish. For jewelry, she wore her grandmother’s four-tier pearl choker and matching drop earrings.

Miles’s eyes had widened when she came downstairs. For that matter, so had Varya’s. They stood on the chessboard marble floor, both in their evening finery.

“You look beautiful!” her sister-in-law gushed. “I have never seen you so fashionable.”

Miles frowned. “You are showing too much bosom.”

His wife swatted him on the arm with her fan. “She is not!” Clad in a gown of rich green satin, Varya was showing just as much if not more skin than Blythe was.

“Shall we go?” Blythe suggested as Forsythe, the butler, brought her shawl. She had put too much energy into getting dressed to have Miles order her to change now.

Grudgingly, Miles agreed, shrugging into the greatcoat and top hat Forsythe offered him.

Outside Blythe didn’t even stop long enough to appreciate the August night, but bolted into the shiny burgundy lacquered carriage as if her very life depended on it. Varya and
Miles followed, seating themselves on the opposite side of the carriage from her.

It was a beautiful night, warm enough for light wraps but cool enough that the dancers at the ball wouldn’t become overheated. The scent of rain and damp flowers hung in the evening air, along with the ever-present smells of London—some more pleasant than others.

As usual, the streets were alive with activity. The sound of turning wheels and clopping hooves echoed off the cobblestones, voices occasionally rising over the chaotic rhythm with incoherent verbosity. Acutely aware of the pounding of her heart and the dampness of her palms, Blythe tried to fix her attention on these sounds, or on Miles and Varya—anything but where she was going and who she was going to see once she got there.

Devlin.
She was going to see him again. It seemed forever since they’d last met.

They arrived at Lord and Lady Homewood’s Berkeley Square home along with a small group of other guests. They greeted family acquaintances and good friends as they filed up the stone steps to the door.

Inside the blue and white marble hall, chattering guests milled about the thick Grecian columns. There were several maids and footmen to take their outerwear, followed by another servant to direct them toward the receiving line. Lord and Lady Homewood and their son and two daughters shook hands, bussed cheeks, and greeted everyone in the same jovial manner. Lady Jersey might find them dull, but Blythe thought they were just very nice people who had the good sense to throw a party when the lack of society in town made an outing all the more appreciated.

The wide double doors between several other rooms had been opened up to accommodate all the guests, with the gallery serving as ballroom and a drawing room as a supper room. The butler announced everyone who entered the long,
spacious area decorated with dozens upon dozens of white and yellow flowers and yards of white and butter yellow fabric, glowing warm and inviting beneath the chandeliers. The carpets had been rolled up and stored elsewhere, leaving the gleaming polished floor open for dancing. It was the perfect look for a late summer ball and brightened what had been a cool and rainy day.