Kathryn Smith (5 page)

Miles stopped dead in his tracks and turned fully to face him. “That was different. Decolletage is acceptable. All women display their breasts to some degree. They do
not
wear fashions that display their limbs in such a brazen manner!”

Devlin shrugged again, but Miles had already spun on his heel and continued toward the crowd of spectators watching the archers. Perhaps Blythe was displaying her legs, but it wasn’t as though they were bare. Personally, Devlin preferred the gown she wore to dinner. A hint of breast was better than trousers any day.

Sighing, he jogged after Miles just as Blythe let her arrow fly. It sliced through the air as a blur and hit the target dead in the center with such force, it vibrated for nearly a full minute before going still.

An appreciative murmur rose from the clapping spectators. Devlin thought their response a little restrained, but that was the aristocracy. He’d been too long out of society to know what was done and what wasn’t. He’d joined the army when most young men entered society—social rules and regulations were the least of his concerns.

He stood on the outer fringe of the group, just far enough behind that no one noticed him. Lady Ashby was among the group, and he had no desire to speak to her. Either she’d be rude because of his disregard for her the night before, or she’d try all the harder to coerce him into her bed. Even if she didn’t talk to him, someone else would, and he didn’t want anything to interfere with his study of Blythe.

She selected another arrow from the quiver and took aim.
Whoosh. Thwwwang.
Another bull’s-eye.

“Incredible,” he whispered when she repeated the performance a third time.

In front of him, Lord Compton leaned toward his wife and brayed, “Rather mannish, ain’t she?”

“She’s amazing,” Devlin said without thinking. When several heads turned to stare at him, he added, “Hits dead center every time.”

Too late he realized he should have kept his mouth shut. Lady Ashby was already prowling toward him.

Her voice was as low as a cat’s purr and her nails like claws as she wrapped her hand around his sleeve. “I did not know your taste ran to aging, lumbering spinsters.”

Obviously she was still sore over his failure to fall at her feet. She hadn’t much liked being forcibly shoved out of his room at two o’clock in the morning. “You would rather it ran to aging, unfaithful wives?”

Once the words were out of his mouth there was nothing he could do about them. It wasn’t in his nature to be cruel or unnecessarily rude, but Lady Ashby’s remarks about Blythe were undeserved and untrue. It wasn’t that unusual for women Blythe’s age to be unmarried, nor was she lumbering. In fact, she was uncommonly graceful.

Lady Ashby flushed a dark, unbecoming red. Her fingers tightened around his arm, just enough so that he could feel her nails digging into the fabric of his coat. Were his arm bare she surely would have broken the skin.

If Lady Ashby wanted to play rough, she’d picked the wrong man. Years dealing with enemy soldiers, spies, and all manner of cutthroats had left Devlin with the realization that women could be just as ruthless and dirty as men. It only took being kicked in the privates twice by female Bonapartists before he stopped being chivalrous and started fighting back.

He caught Lady Ashby by the wrist, his soiled glove en
gulfing her delicate bones hard enough to make her gasp in pain. Still, she didn’t immediately relinquish her hold on him. He had to bring tears to her eyes before she did that.

Oddly enough, he had the strange suspicion that she actually enjoyed it.

Devlin didn’t speak, nor did Lady Ashby. She simply smiled a coy smile and turned away, rubbing the dirty spot on her arm where his fingers had been.

He watched her go, knowing better than to turn his back on the enemy before making certain there was no possibility of a second attack.

Finally certain she wouldn’t be coming back, Devlin allowed himself to relax. He started to turn his attention back to the archery competition, only to notice Lady Blythe walking toward him. Had she witnessed the scene between him and Lady Ashby?

She smiled—it lit her entire face. Good God, but she was arresting. His chest tightened in response.

“Good morning, Mr. Ryland.”

“Lady Blythe.”

She glanced over her shoulder at the spectators. “I see Joyce the Jackal tried to sink her claws into you. I trust you escaped unharmed?”

He couldn’t help but chuckle at her nickname for Lady Ashby. “Quite.”

Her expression changed to one of uncertainty. Her bright green eyes were veiled by the sudden lowering of her auburn lashes. “Everyone is preparing to go inside to tidy up for breakfast. I thought perhaps you might escort me inside.”

Devlin’s brow furrowed. Lady Blythe didn’t strike him as the kind of woman who wanted or needed a male escort to enter her own house.

“What is it?” he asked. “Are you trying to escape your brother?” He couldn’t help but notice that Miles was watching them. Nor could he miss the scowl on his friend’s face.

Blythe grinned sheepishly as she raised her gaze to meet his. “Exactly. Would you mind rescuing me once more?”

This was the second time she had referred to his interruption of her meeting with Carny the night before as a rescue. Perhaps there wasn’t anything between the two of them after all.

He was more relieved than he cared to admit.

He offered her his arm. “With pleasure.”

Her smiled broadened, and the ache in his chest deepened. What the devil was wrong with him that this eccentric, wonderfully individual woman affected him the way she did?

It wasn’t a question he could answer, but as they walked toward the house, there was a lightness in Devlin’s heart that he hadn’t felt in a very, very long time.

Varya was in the nursery with little Edward when Miles found her. He had yet to change and was still wearing the same clothes he’d worn on his ride with Devlin, right down to his muddy boots. At least he hoped it was mud.

His wife raked him with a critical but loving sapphire gaze. “You smell.”

Three years, and he still loved the sound of her voice—low and husky with a smooth Russian lilt.

“You like it,” he teased, taking his son from her arms. Edward was two years old and bounced back and forth between being an angel and being a holy terror. He had his mother’s eyes, which made it hard for his father to say no, and his grandfather Vladimir’s temperament, which made for some interesting power struggles between father and son.

Still, he was the most beautiful thing Miles had ever seen.

“You should be resting,” he told Varya as Edward pulled on his ear. “I do not want you wearing yourself out.”

Varya scowled and rubbed a hand across the back of her neck. She looked fine, but Miles didn’t care how she
looked.

“For God’s sake, Miles. I am with child, not an invalid.”

He bounced Edward on his hip. “The doctor said you should be careful.”

The scowl deepened. Lord, she was magnificent when angry. The sharp V of her brows was as black and imposing as a raven’s wings.

“No,
you
said I should be careful. The doctor said I was fine.”

He could hear the edge in her voice, that irritated-female sound that meant she was more than prepared to give him a fight if he came looking for one. A change of subject was in order, because in a verbal sparring match with his wife, Miles
always
lost.

“Ryland said something interesting to me this morning.”

He could literally see the tension drain from her shoulders. “Oh? What was that?”

“He said Blythe was beautiful.”

Varya crossed to a small dresser with a pile of clean nappies on top of it and started putting them in the drawer. It was a job that should have been left for Edward’s nurse, but Varya was one of those rare mothers who had a difficult time allowing someone else to care for her child. “She is.”

“And interesting.”

“She is that as well.” She paused, several nappies in her hand. “Although I must give Mr. Ryland credit for seeing it this early in their acquaintance.”

Miles put his squirming son down on the rug with his toys and moved toward his wife. “So you are not surprised that a man finds my sister appealing?”

“No, why should I be? I’ve known since I first laid eyes on her that she was an amazing young woman.”

She did? “Why did you not tell me this before?”

Rolling her eyes, Varya shut the drawer and braced her hands on her full hips. In a few months her condition would
be impossible to hide. “You have eyes, Miles. Could you not see it yourself?”

Miles ran a hand through his hair. “I suppose I’ve always been biased. Of course she is amazing. She’s my sister. I thought she was the most beautiful thing in the world when I first laid eyes on her. ’Course I was ten at the time and had yet to meet you.”

That
got a smile out of her—and a blush. “Flatterer. Why should it bother you that Mr. Ryland finds Blythe appealing?”

Pleased that he could still make her blush, Miles shrugged. “It does not. I think they would be a perfect match.”

“You do?” Apparently he could still surprise her as well.

“Of course I do, just as I knew she and Carny would not be.”

She wrapped her arms around his waist, stepping closer so that the fullness of her breasts pressed against his torso. “So what is the problem?”

“The problem,” he growled, pulling her tight against him,

“is making the two of them see it.”

She ran her hand up his chest. “Do not attempt matchmaking, Miles. You would not be good at it.”

“What would you suggest I do?”

Varya smiled, lifting her face for a kiss. “If it is meant to be they will figure out for themselves, just as we did.”

“That is what I’m afraid of.”

Her answering laughter was cut off as Miles lowered his head to hers. Then he kissed her, and even after three years Varya’s kiss was still able to make him forget everything else—even Blythe and Devlin.

T
here was more to Devlin Ryland than Blythe had first thought.

She had expected him to be more like Miles and Carny—talkative, arrogant even. She had expected him to expound upon his escapades during the war—people certainly asked him to enough—but he didn’t do that either. He was quiet and solitary. He avoided large groups, and consequently was on his way to becoming a great favorite among the wallflowers, the shy, and the elderly guests with whom he spent a great deal of time conversing.

And one day, while walking through the garden, Blythe spotted him playing fetch with some of the estate dogs while other guests played at pall-mall. It was one of the few occasions since his arrival almost a week ago that he looked as though he was truly entertained.

It wasn’t that she thought him distant, but rather that he enjoyed himself more when nothing but throwing a stick was expected of him, or when he could sit back and do the listening rather than the talking.

So it was a bit of a surprise when he appeared in the ball-
room the night of Varya’s formal ball dressed in evening wear and acting as though he actually intended to dance.

A few heads turned as he entered the room. Several of them belonged to guests already swirling and gliding along the polished center of the dance floor. Why everyone didn’t simply stop what he was doing and stare, Blythe didn’t understand.

Simply put, Devlin Ryland cut one hell of a figure. There were few men who didn’t look good in evening finery, but Devlin took “fine” to a whole new level. His dark coloring was the perfect complement to the austere black of his coat and trousers. The golden tan of his skin made the white of his collar and cravat seem that much whiter. His shoulders were broad—no padding in that coat, oh no. Incredibly long legs ate up the floor with every confident step.

Perhaps that was the most amazing thing about Devlin Ryland—the way he moved. Blythe was used to men like her brother, men born to privilege and power. Miles walked like a man who knew his place in the world—on top of it—while Devlin walked like a man comfortable in his own skin. He was a man who knew what his body was capable of because it had been stretched to its limits in the past.

Blythe envied him. She straightened her own shoulders as she watched him stop and greet two elderly ladies who tittered like schoolgirls at his attention. She stretched her spine and rose to the full reach of her height when two younger, unmarried women joined the group. Such tiny little girls, both of them together wouldn’t be woman enough for such a man.

And what? She would be?

It was a sad day when all she could name to recommend herself to a man was her size. Yes, she was freakishly tall. Yes, she was rounder than was the fashion, and she was willing to bet she could best half the men in the room at an arm wrestle, but that didn’t make her someone Devlin Ryland would want as a mate. Did it?

Why was she even thinking it? Mr. Ryland hadn’t given
her any indication that he was interested in anything more than friendship, and even if he had, she knew better than to let her thoughts run away with her. She would not make a cake of herself again where a man was concerned.

Besides, she’d watched Devlin Ryland enough over the past few days to know why these young things liked him.
Everyone
seemed to like him. He treated everyone exactly the same—with great patience and kindness. Who wouldn’t be drawn to such condescension? No doubt, tonight he would partner all those poor women no one else would stand up with.

At least
she
wasn’t in that group. The only thing that saved her was the fact that many of the men present were personal friends of Miles. Two of them had already requested dances. Blythe wasn’t certain which was more embarrassing; not dancing, or dancing because your brother’s friends felt sorry for you.

It wasn’t that she couldn’t dance—she could. It was her height that kept many men from asking. It took a man very comfortable in his skin to dance with a woman his height or taller. The fact that Blythe had instructed her maid to pile as much of her hair on top of her head as she could didn’t help either. It made her even taller.

She had also worn her flashiest gown. It was made of shimmery gold gauze over a pale cream silk underskirt. The low square neckline showed a scandalous amount of her bosom, but was still less shocking than other gowns in the room. She loved this gown. It flattered her figure and complemented her coloring perfectly. This dress made her feel like a woman—or rather how she’d always believed a woman should feel.

Powerful. Pretty.

And she didn’t care if she danced. No doubt if someone other than his friends asked her to dance, Miles would try to marry them right there on the spot. She didn’t want to explain
that Lord So-and-So was only after her dowry or that Lord Fat Pants just wanted her because she had “good hips for breeding.”

Besides, Miles might have actually gotten to the point where he was desperate enough to accept one of them! And then that would just lead to more trouble when Blythe refused and then—

“…dance?”

“Hmm…what?” She turned around and found herself staring at a very simply but well-tied cravat and a smoothly shaven jaw. She raised her gaze. Staring down at her, as though she were the only woman in the room, were two gorgeously dark eyes, set beneath long, arched brows and framed by eyelashes so thick and lush any woman would envy them.

His smile was lopsided. Her heart skipped a beat. “Oh. Forgive me, Mr. Ryland.”

His gaze was teasing, but there was a touch of flush along his high cheekbones. “Do you ignore all men who ask you to dance, Lady Blythe?”

“Dance? Oh no, you do not have to dance with me, see?” She held up her dance card. “I have several partners for this evening.”

He frowned at the card. “It’s not full.”

Heat suffused Blythe’s cheeks. “Well, no, but I do have partners. I am not one of your wallflowers.”

Thick brows crept high up onto his forehead as he returned his attention from the card at her wrist to her face. “Wallflowers? Lady Blythe, I asked you to dance because I want to dance with you, not because no one else will.”

Her cheeks became even warmer. “Oh.” He wanted to dance with her.
Wanted
to dance with
her.
Why?

The answer was simple. She was the only woman in the room that he wouldn’t get a pain in his neck from looking down at. Of course he would want to dance with her.

Or perhaps he thought she looked pretty in her gown. Maybe he wanted to dance with her just because he wanted to. Did there have to be another reason?

“Forgive my rudeness, Mr. Ryland. I would be honored to dance with you. Which dance would you like?”

“The first and last waltzes.”

The waltz? How long had it been since she had waltzed? The last man she waltzed with had been Carny. Good Lord, she didn’t know if she remembered how to waltz! And he wanted the first and the last. With her!

Her cheeks warmed. She would make an idiot of herself, of that there could be no doubt. “I have not waltzed in a long time. I’m afraid I will not be very good at it.”

Devlin smiled—a subtle tilt of his mouth. He had dimples. She’d never noticed before now. “Just follow my lead.”

His lead? Oh Lord, whenever she waltzed,
she
always tried to lead! This was going to be humiliating at the very least. The wise thing to do would be to beg off.

“All right,” she heard herself agree. She even smiled. “I will dance with you.”

He looked pleased—so pleased that a shiver of pleasure raced down Blythe’s spine. Perhaps—just for a moment—she would let herself believe that he had been nervous about asking her, that for a moment she was a beautiful, desirable woman whom this man wanted to hold in his arms.

But only for a moment. Such thoughts were dangerous, as she well knew. They often led to thinking a gentleman’s feelings ran deeper than they did, and Blythe had promised herself never to make that mistake again. It simply hurt too much to find out she was wrong.

As luck would have it, the opening strains of the first waltz of the evening started at just that instant, eliminating the need for Blythe to think of something charming and witty to say.

Devlin offered her his hand. She hesitated only a fraction of a second before placing her pale gold glove in the stark
white of his. Even his hand made hers look smaller—delicate almost.

Oh yes, these were dangerous thoughts indeed.

Out into the middle of the floor he led her. Was it her imagination, or did the chandeliers somehow seem less bright? Conversations dropped to dim murmurs as the music swelled until there was nothing but the orchestra and the two of them.

Devlin’s free hand came up to her waist and slid around to her back. Gooseflesh dotted Blythe’s skin as she fought a shiver at the warmth of his touch. Reaching up—so wondrously far it seemed!—she placed her right hand on his shoulder. She was right about the lack of padding in his coat. All she felt was the unyielding firmness of bone and muscle beneath her palm.

And then he began to move. She followed easily. His steps were so sure, his hold on her so confident and firm that her natural instinct to lead never had a chance to rear its head and embarrass her. He was in control, and there wasn’t an inch of her that minded.

They weren’t the most graceful of couples. Looking around, Blythe realized that honor had to go to Carny and Teresa, who danced together as though carried by clouds. Strangely enough, she didn’t care. She had never felt this graceful, this
right
dancing with anyone before, not even Carny.

For once she didn’t have to watch the length of her strides. She didn’t have to affect tiny ladylike steps. Devlin’s legs were long—even longer than her own—and he made bold, sweeping circles that she followed with ease. He also held her closer than society deemed proper.

Secretly, Blythe liked the way he held her. Liked the occasional brush of his leg against hers. Liked that all she had to do was tilt her chin up and she could study the tiny lines fanning out from his eyes, smell the bay rum he used—wonder what it might be like to press her lips to his.

He met her gaze with a quizzical smile. “What?”

She shrugged. “I am simply enjoying myself.”

“You should enjoy yourself more often. It becomes you.”

It wasn’t much as compliments went—not when Carny had once compared her eyes to pale emeralds—but it hit home all the same. There were no false comparisons, no flowery odes, just the simple admission that she looked nice when happy.

“I usually have to shorten my steps,” she admitted.

Devlin’s smile grew. “I can lengthen mine if you like.”

Blythe shook her head. “People would stare.”

Something in his expression changed. His smile faded but his eyes lit with a bright, inner light. It was an intimate gaze—one that caught her breath in her throat. “You deserve to be stared at.”

Oh Lord, she was blushing again! How did he do that? How could he take something that had always been an embarrassment, had always bothered her, and turn it into a positive thing? He made it sound as though people stared at her because they admired her face and figure, not that they saw her as an oddity, a woman to be pitied.

Before she could think of a reply, or even mumble an inane thank-you, he did just what he threatened to do. He lengthened his strides, forcing her to lengthen her own to keep from stumbling. Soon they were sailing around the floor with great, wide, sweeping arcs. The couples around them became a blur as Blythe focused on the sparkle in his eyes.

He should enjoy himself more often. It became him.

So fast he whirled her around that once, Blythe imagined he had literally swept her off her feet. He was certainly holding her close enough to do it—she could feel the buttons of his coat through the thin fabric of her gown—but it was impossible. Surely she was too heavy for him to pick up with one arm—oh! He did it again. How did he make her feel so weightless?

Breathless from keeping pace with him, flushed from the sheer joy and exertion of the exercise, Blythe threw back her head and laughed out loud, ignorant of whatever glances came their way. She didn’t care who stared. Didn’t care who might whisper about them later. Right now she was having fun, more fun than she had experienced in years. Anybody who didn’t like it was welcome to look the other way and be damned.

Too soon the music ended. Blythe’s stop was less graceful than Devlin’s. Her feet tangled in her skirts, and she stumbled into the solid wall of his chest. For a moment, she could feel his breath warm against her temple. For a moment, he held her flush against him, closer than any man had ever held her before. So close that she could feel not just his buttons, but
every
inch of his body against hers.

Oh God.

Then he stepped back, once more putting a respectable distance between them.

Strangely bereft, Blythe managed a smile. “Thank you for the dance, Mr. Ryland. It was very…exhilarating.”

Devlin bowed. “My pleasure. Until our next dance.” And then he did something totally unexpected. He kissed her hand, and not on the knuckles like most gentlemen. He turned it over and kissed her palm, where her glove was warm and moist from gripping his shoulder. It was an incredibly erotic feeling, his lips against her palm—even if there was a layer of silk between them. The pressure of his lips, however brief, warmed her even further. Who would have known that warm and damp could be so pleasant?

Apparently Devlin Ryland had, if the appreciation in his gaze was any indication.

Murmuring a soft farewell, she watched him walk away from her original position outside the circle of dancers, where he had guided her. Could it be possible that Devlin Ryland, a national hero, found
her
appealing?

Well, what was so surprising about that, if he did? While
she wasn’t the most beautiful woman in England, she knew she wasn’t without a certain comeliness. After all, Carny had found her pretty once. Why couldn’t Devlin?

She gave her thoughts a mental tug on the reins. Finding her attractive and falling in love with her were two entirely different things. It was fine to think that perhaps Devlin was drawn to her, but beyond that she could not—would not—imagine. She would develop a sense of caution about men if it was the last thing she did. Never again would she assume a man’s feelings matched her own.