Kathryn Smith (24 page)

She shrugged, laying her head against his shoulder. She could hear the faint, reassuring pounding of his heart through his clothes. “Now I feel almost sorry for him. Is that silly, do you think?”

He squeezed her. “No. I don’t think it’s silly at all.”

She glanced up. All she could see was his ear. “Did you see how he looked at us as he was leaving? It was almost as though he was…” She couldn’t bring herself to finish.

Apparently, Devlin could. “Envious.”

Yes, envious.

“Who do you suppose he’s envious of?” Devlin asked, glancing down at her with a slight smile. “Both of us, or just me?”

She kissed his chin. His stubble was rough against her lips. “Both of us, of course.”

“Of course,” but he didn’t sound convinced. Not at all.

It was his wedding day.

“There,” Wyn announced, giving Devlin’s cravat a final adjustment. “Now you look fit to be seen in public.”

They were in Devlin’s bedroom at Creed House, the four of them. Wynthrope agreed to put aside the tension between himself and Brahm for his youngest brother. Brahm tried to make the best of it, and Devlin loved them both for trying. North sat on a trunk at the foot of the bed, legs splayed wide, watching the goings-on with an expression of amused boredom. He would no doubt rather be chasing criminals around the city than sitting around waiting to sit around and wait some more.

“I can’t breathe,” Devlin gasped as his brother tightened the starched linen around his throat. “Loosen it.”

Rolling his eyes, Wynthrope did as he was commanded. An arbiter of fashion, Wyn had never understood why his youngest brother couldn’t bother to learn more than one way to tie his cravat. “Better?”

Devlin nodded. “Much.”

He was dressed in buff trousers, gold embroidered waistcoat, and dark blue jacket. Wyn had tried to convince him to wear breeches, but Devlin refused. He felt silly dressed up like some dandified nob. He wasn’t Beau Brummell by any stretch.

“I have something for you,” Brahm spoke when Wynthrope was done fussing. Leaning on his cane, he came forward with slow, uneven steps. His leg was healing, but not fast enough for Devlin’s liking.

Like the other brothers, Brahm was dressed in his finest daywear, but he wore trousers to hide his lame leg. In his free hand he carried a small black box, which he held out for Devlin to take.

“I know you bought Blythe a betrothal ring rather than give her one of Mama’s, but I thought you might want to give her this one. It was Grandmother’s.”

Their grandmother Ryland had been a favorite of all the boys. She adored them all equally. She was long gone now, and her loss was a hollowness in his chest. She would have liked Blythe.

Devlin took the box. It was so small, so dainty in his hand, but inside was a large, square-cut topaz on a slender gold band.

“I thought it would suit Blythe,” Brahm said, a hopeful note in his voice.

“It will.” Both bold and delicate, simple yet elegant, the ring would be perfect for Blythe’s hand. Trust Brahm to understand that on such short acquaintance.

“Nice touch, Brahm,” North said from his perch on the chest. His pale blue eyes sparkled at his eldest brother. “Well done.”

Even Wynthrope, who would rather cut out his own tongue than utter a kind word to Brahm, nodded in agreement. A look passed between first and second born. Devlin couldn’t quite decipher it, but it appeared as though a truce had been reached—for his wedding day at least.

Brahm pulled his watch from his pocket and flipped it open. “We should be going.”

The wedding was to be held at St. George’s—at Miles’s insistence—with a breakfast to follow at Wynter Lane. Varya had offered them her town house for the wedding night and the remainder of their time in London, and they had readily accepted. Time alone was what they wanted most. Once preparations and renovations at Rosewood were complete, they would return to Devonshire for their honeymoon. Blythe had refused the offer of a trip abroad. She wanted to be at Rosewood,
their
home. Traveling could wait. Devlin didn’t mind; as long as he never had to step foot in Spain or Portugal again, they could go wherever Blythe wanted. They would be in London for perhaps another month, but no longer.

Truth be told, Devlin couldn’t wait to return to the country. London’s bustle and harried atmosphere were beginning to fray his nerves. The city was so loud, voices and sounds and smells all pushing in on one another. It was like cannon fire, complete with smoke.

And perhaps at Rosewood, where things were quiet and secure, Devlin might take Brahm’s advice and finally confide to Blythe the truth about Waterloo. It was a terrifying prospect, revealing himself as a murderer, but Brahm was right—it was the only way they could truly have a future together. A braver man would tell her before the wedding, but Devlin never laid any claim to bravery. The chance of losing her was not something he was prepared to risk. Even if she turned away from him, she would still be his wife, and there would still be a chance he could win her back.

Slipping the ring into his jacket pocket, Devlin pushed
thoughts of what the future might hold from his mind. Today was his wedding day. Soon Blythe would be his. He wasn’t going to spend the day worrying about what might ruin it.

“Let’s go.”

As far as ceremonies went, it was quick, simple, and relatively painless. The breakfast was longer, definitely more ornate and incredibly filling. But it was the time alone with Blythe that came later that Devlin would remember with the most fondness.

They left Wynter Lane late in the afternoon, with plenty of hours to go before they had to return for the “small gathering” Varya was throwing in their honor. Small by Russian standards, perhaps. The guest list had at least two hundred people on it. People had actually traveled up from various parts of the country to attend the wedding and the following festivities.

Devlin carried his bride over the threshold of their borrowed town house, and when she suggested he put her down, he simply laughed, kicked the door shut with his foot, and carried her up the stairs—two at a time.

The master bedroom was filled with vases of roses of all different kinds and colors. The covers were turned down, and a bottle of champagne sat chilling near the bed. Varya had thought of everything.

“Shouldn’t we wait until tonight?” Blythe asked, laughing as his big fingers struggled with the tiny buttons on the back of her pale blue gown.

“No.” Damn buttons.

“But I have lingerie!”

Lingerie? Devlin paused. Seeing Blythe in some lacy confection was definitely tempting, but seeing her naked was even more so.

“You can wear it later. I want you now. Frigging buttons!”

He offered to slice the gown off her with a knife, but she adamantly—laughingly—refused. In the end, she managed
to undo enough of the buttons so that he could remove the gown over her head.

Stripped down to the skin, they fell onto the bed together, the afternoon sun warming their bodies as it slanted through the windows. Their coupling was quick and needy, driven by the twenty-plus days they’d waited for this moment. They made love a second time before sharing a bath and a luncheon of cold meats, bread, and cheese. The bath took longer than the luncheon and lovemaking combined as they leisurely explored each other’s bodies without the haze of passion taking over. They talked and they laughed, and Devlin was sorry when the water turned cold.

The luncheon they ate on the rug by the hearth. They ate with their hands, feeding each other with their fingers, and acting like children.

Devlin couldn’t remember the last time he’d acted like a child—not even when he was one. Blythe made his heart feel light and free. He wasn’t going to think about the darkness in it, not now when there seemed to be so much promise in his life. He wanted to enjoy it while it lasted.

When it finally came time for the evening, Devlin was loath to leave their private sanctuary, but he wouldn’t put it past Varya to personally come and collect them, so he donned his evening attire, allowing his wife—his
wife!
—to tie his cravat.

“Wynthrope did a better job,” he teased with a grin.

Fastening the horseshoe pendant around her neck, Blythe stuck her tongue out at him. “Too bad you hadn’t the forethought to marry him then.”

It was then that he remembered the ring. “I have something for you. Brahm gave it to me.”

Her eyebrows arched upward. “That was nice.”

So was the look of surprise on her face when she opened the box. “Devlin, it’s beautiful!” Taking it from the velvet, she slipped it onto her finger.

“It was my grandmother’s,” he explained with a smile.
“She was a statuesque woman too. Very tall and very bold. Brahm thought it would suit you.”

“Remind me to give Brahm a kiss when we see him tonight.”

Such a public display would go a long way in easing his scandalous brother back into society.

He hauled her close. “What do I get?”

Her clear eyes lit with sensual mischievousness. “I’ll give you that later.”

“In lingerie?” Lord, he was growing hard already!

Soft hips pressed against his. “If you are good.”

Smiling, he released her. She was an amazing woman, his amazon princess.

I love you.
The words came unbidden, almost blurting themselves into the air between them.

Devlin swallowed, taking the words deep inside him, back where they belonged. It was a reflex, the urge to say them. Hadn’t he said them before, to a woman whose face he couldn’t remember? A woman who had offered him comfort and solace after Waterloo—a woman who had washed the blood from him, stitched his wounds, and allowed him to use her body for a night of forgetting? He had told her he loved her and in a way perhaps he had, but not the way he was supposed to. Not in the way he should love Blythe.

He supposed this meant that he believed in love after all. Or maybe he just wanted to believe. Right now he wasn’t sure there was a difference, but he knew better than to go making such a vow when he wasn’t certain of it—and when he wasn’t certain it would be returned.

They made the journey to Wynter Lane in the carriage Miles had loaned them. Devlin had wanted to hire his own, but his brother-in-law insisted. He said it would make him feel better knowing they would be driven by someone he trusted.

They were among the last to arrive, entering the ballroom to a roar of applause. Holding Blythe’s hand, Devlin glanced
at her, wanting to see her reaction to all this sudden adoration.

She was like a rose blossoming under the attention. How could she have ever felt like a wallflower? Everyone he met seemed to adore her, as was evident by their happiness for her.

Clad in a gown of shimmering copper silk, her hair swept high on top of her head, her cheeks blooming with delight, Blythe was easily the most beautiful woman there. How could she not know it? He knew it—like a sharp blade in the heart he was so acutely aware of her beauty.

A crowd soon gathered around them, many of them guests wanting to extend their felicitations and well wishes. Devlin smiled and nodded politely, saying the appropriate words whenever he was spoken to, all the while waiting for the crowd to disperse. There was nothing more suffocating than the feel of too many bodies pressing around one’s own.

Finally the music started and the crowd around them thinned, everyone drawing back to watch them make their way to the dance floor for the first set of the evening. Thankfully, it was something simple so Devlin didn’t have to worry about flubbing the steps with so many eyes watching.

They were joined in the set by Carny and Teresa, who then accompanied them off the floor when the dance ended. Devlin and Carny were then charged with the responsibility of fetching refreshments for their wives—not that Devlin minded.

“Blythe is in good looks tonight,” Carny commented as Devlin poured a ladle of punch into a glass for him.

Devlin nodded with a smile. “She always is.”

Carny grinned as well. “Spoken like a besotted husband.”

Devlin couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something about Carny’s attitude toward Blythe bothered him. It was strangely proprietary, but not exactly threatening. It made him uneasy but not quite jealous. He wasn’t certain whether it was he Carny envied or his situation. One didn’t have to be a genius to notice that things were not as they should be with Carny and Teresa. But why was that? And was it their trouble that seemed
to make Carny gravitate toward Blythe, or was it Carny’s attention toward Blythe that was the cause of their trouble?

And how had he gotten to the point where he would trust a man with his life but not with his wife?

“Would you mind if an old friend stole her for a dance?” Carny asked—innocently as far as Devlin could tell—as they walked back to the women.

“You will have to ask her yourself,” Devlin replied easily. “It is not my decision to make.”

Carny chuckled again. “Oh yes, you have learned quickly how to be a proper husband!”

Devlin only smiled, uncertain if he had been complimented or not.

Blythe seemingly had no opposition to the dance. “Do you mind?” she asked him.

Devlin shook his head. “Of course not.” Really, he didn’t. Regardless of Carny’s motives, he was certain of hers. Blythe had no interest in Carny other than possibly being friends again. He knew this because his wife was not very good at hiding her emotions. If she was nervous about dancing with Carny, it would be obvious in the way she held herself. If she still had feelings for him, Devlin would know just by the way she gazed at Carny, but there was nothing in her gaze to cause alarm. No, it was only Carny he couldn’t quite read.

Teresa excused herself to go talk to a friend as Blythe and Carny walked out onto the floor, leaving Devlin alone to watch his wife dance with another man. If Teresa had stayed he might have danced with her, but apparently she hadn’t thought of that. Or maybe she had and didn’t want to risk having his huge feet tread on her much smaller ones.

He wasn’t alone for long, however. Wynthrope soon joined him.