Remember Love (Ravenswood #1)(102)

Colonel Wexford announced the next set and suggested that the gentlemen lead their partners out to form the lines for it. But since he chose not to use his military colonel’s voice again to restore order and move things along, he was largely ignored for a good ten minutes.

But finally those who wished to dance again asserted themselves, and Gwyneth was able to slip away, followed soon after by Devlin. He met her on the terrace outside a couple of minutes after that, while music played merrily inside the ballroom and large numbers of people danced.

She was wearing a dark cloak, the wide hood drawn up over her head. The sky was clear and the moon and stars were doing their best to light up the darkness. But it was not nearly as bright a night as the one that must be in both their memories had been. And the moon was not in a position to be beaming across the lake.

“It is chilly,” he said, taking her hand in his.

“The ballroom is stuffy,” she said. “The air feels good.”

He was warm inside his greatcoat. Through her glove her hand felt warm too.

They walked in silence to the pavilion hill and up it to stand before the stone pillars and look outward over the river and the village and the dark shape of the lake off to their right. He thought of his father inside the pavilion six years ago and felt a twinge of sadness that he was gone forever. That they had not said goodbye. He wondered briefly what had happened to the woman who had called herself Mrs. Shaw. He thought of all the women he had known on the Peninsula, with some of whom he had slept. He thought of Ben’s mother.

“Do you think one grows more tolerant as one gets older?” he asked.

“Not necessarily,” she said. “Only if one is the sort of person whose heart is always open.”

Well. That did not apply to him, did it?

He had not brought her here, though, to stand on this spot, remembering, and gazing out upon a landscape that was not clearly visible despite the moonlight. These were not the memories he wished to arouse, perhaps even relive. He led her around the pavilion and down among the trees. It was quite dark down there, but they did not have far to go, and he had come here very recently to find the leaves he had wanted. He turned her and set her back to the tree where they had stood that night. He traced the shape of her face with his fingertips, pushing them beneath her hood. Her arms came about his waist and drew him closer.

He kissed her, teasing her lips with his own, the inside of her mouth with his tongue. He feathered kisses over her eyelids and temples, down over her cheeks to her jaw and chin, and he kissed her mouth again. She kissed him back, her mouth growing hotter, her breath more audible. His body was pressed to hers, all the heaviness of their clothing between them.

“I long to have a bed at your back,” he murmured against her lips, “and nothing between us but skin.”

“Mmm,” she said.

He wanted to impregnate her and watch her womb swell. He wanted to make a family with her and raise them with her and play with them and enjoy them. He wanted . . .

He touched his forehead to hers. He had brought her here to say something to her.

“Gwyneth,” he said. “I can say the words if it is important to you to hear them. I will even mean them in an impersonal sort of way. I just cannot feel them.”

“It is important to me,” she said, and he closed his eyes. Not that he could really see her anyway.

“I love you,” he said. “I honor you and I . . . I want you. I want you as my countess and my companion and lover. I want to have children with you. I came here to remember. I did it on my own a day or two ago. But I needed you here with me. Not to remember what happened but how it felt. I can remember love. I can remember the euphoria and the hope and the . . . trust. I can remember being in love. I believe I can offer you almost all I could offer when I was able to love. And I will do my best. I will even remember to tell you from time to time that I love you, and I will not be lying. But I am not that young man any longer.”

Was he sounding as idiotic as he felt? She was laughing softly, and her hands had found his face to cup it between her palms.

“Devlin,” she said. “Love is not a feeling. It can reveal itself in feelings. It can bring intense happiness and the depths of despair. But it is not a feeling. It is not a belief or action either, though it can show itself in both. It is . . . But there I am stumped, of course, for the word itself means nothing, and what it represents cannot be confined within words at all. I did not even know you very well six years ago, even though I had been in love with you for at least six years before that. But I am very sure that you love far more deeply and compassionately now than you did then. Including me. You love me more now than you did then. If that word does not suit you, then let it go from your vocabulary. It is not important. It is just a word.”

He gazed into her face, though he could see it only very dimly. As it seemed he could see everything. Very dimly. He had left behind the controlled, disciplined outlook upon life he had adopted in the Peninsula. It had worked well for him there, but it could not be applied here. Here he had felt all asea since his return, unable to go back, unwilling to go forward. Afraid to go forward. Unable to see anything clearly.

He sighed. “Unfortunately we need words,” he said. “I am not sure we would do very well without them. I do love you, Gwyneth. I have the strange feeling you are the air I breathe. Help me?”

“Always.” She brought his face closer and spoke against his lips. “Always, Devlin. But only if you will help me. Not in any dependent way, but in the way that we will always be better together than separate—two independent wholes choosing to act together. I love you too. I love you, I love you.”