Remember Love (Ravenswood #1)(13)
It had always seemed to Devlin that she was bursting with passion—a product of her Welsh heritage, perhaps.
He had looked upon her for years now with a young man’s yearning for what was unattainable. For it had always been clear to him that she was as different from him as night was from day. Yet he longed for her, for some share in that passion. He dreamed sometimes, with embarrassing foolishness, of running through a meadow with her, knee-deep in wildflowers, hand in hand, laughing. She played the harp, the instrument that to him looked most impossible to play, though it could produce music more haunting even than the organ. She played it well. She looked one with her harp when she was playing it. The instrument of Wales.
She did not like him. It was the one constant in his relationship with her—or, rather, in the total absence of a relationship. Or perhaps what she felt was not as active as dislike. Perhaps it was worse—a total indifference toward someone who was not of any interest whatsoever to her. Because he was dull and never wild. Or fun. Or spontaneous. He was the polar opposite of Nicholas, with whom she had had a close friendship all their lives and perhaps more than that now they were young adults. She had admitted that she would worry about him when he joined his regiment in the autumn.
Devlin had tried not to love Gwyneth. Loving her led only to pointless heartache, after all. For he would not cut in on a brother’s preserve even if he could. Some things were simply not done. Besides, he loved his brother. And besides again, she did not like him.
He had tried not to love Gwyneth Rhys and had failed. He was hopelessly in love with her.
That truth had landed upon him heavily last year when he had come upon her at the foot of these very hills while they were both out riding alone. He had known before then—he had seen it with his own eyes—that she occasionally wore breeches, but he had never seen her close while she was wearing them. She had been wearing a loose white shirt with them, tucked in at the waist, and its very looseness had somehow drawn attention to her shapely bosom. Her legs had looked long and curvaceous through the tight-fitting breeches. Her hair, dark and glossy and untidy, had been flowing behind her, framing her oval Madonna’s face. Her large blue eyes, a few shades darker than his own, had widened at the sight of him.
He had drawn rein, shocked to the core of his being. His body had reacted with sheer lust even while his mind had fought for control. His mind had won, of course—it always did. Ever the dull dog. He had looked her over slowly while steadying his breathing, had gazed into her eyes, keeping all expression from his own, and told her it would be better if he pretended this encounter had never happened. Or something to that effect.
That was what he had said and done instead of smiling and making some jesting remark, such as asking her if she was aware that she had lost her hat and her hairpins somewhere along the way. That might have drawn an answering smile from her to replace the cool, defiant look she was leveling upon him. Thinly disguised contempt.
He might have followed up that jest with a suggestion that he turn and ride back over the hills with her to admire the views. It had been a particularly clear day, he recalled. They might have spent a pleasant half hour or so together. Perhaps . . . But he had reacted predictably instead and she must have ridden onward, laughing at him. Or merely confirmed in her dislike of him. Certainly relieved to be away from him.
He had ridden off home. Hopelessly in love. Literally that, in fact—without hope. How could someone like him ever attract someone like Gwyneth Rhys, even if he did have his viscount’s title and was heir to an earldom and property and fortune? Especially when there was his brother, who was everything he was not and with whom she was probably already in love.
“What about you, Dev?” Stephanie asked, breaking a long silence as they descended to flat land out behind the hall and there was no longer any danger to hold her attention. “Are you going to fall in love and get married and live happily ever after?” Her mind appeared to have reverted to their conversation at the inn.
“When there is someone for me to fall in love with, absolutely,” he said, turning his head to smile fondly at her. “I know that to you twenty-two must seem ancient, Steph, but really I am only twenty-two. Give me time. And opportunity. One day she will appear—my forever-after dream woman. I will fall head over heels in love with her and she with me and we will marry—not by elopement but after all the usual formalities so the family will be able to celebrate with me. I will ask her to let you be a bridesmaid, and she will say yes because she will be in love with me and will therefore love you too. And we will live happily ever after.”
His sister sighed. “Pippa too?” she asked him.
“Of course,” he said. “I will ask my lady love to have both my sisters as bridesmaids.”
“I had better hope, then, that she does not have eight sisters of her own,” Stephanie said, and giggled gleefully as she patted his arm and gazed up into his face. “I would feel like part of a procession. Will you still love me after you find her?”
“Steph.” He turned his head to look fully at her. “There is nothing on this earth that could stop me from loving you. Or in heaven or hell either, if you want all the alternatives covered.”
“Ah.” She sighed.
Chapter Four
The village of Boscombe more or less emptied out on the day of the fete as everyone crossed the bridge over the river and walked or rode in their gigs up the slight incline leading to the house.