Remember Love (Ravenswood #1)(31)
“Me? Handsome?” And arrogant? He felt distinctly uncomfortable. He ought not to have brought her—
“—and because you told me last year,” she continued, “without a glimmer of a smile, that you would forget you had encountered me in breeches, riding astride my horse, my hair loose down my back. I do not believe it has ever been arrogance with you, though. I think you are just very unsure of yourself and your own worth.”
“I beg your pardon for the way I behaved on that occasion,” he said. “It is just that I—”
“I suppose,” she said, “it must be difficult having a brother like Nicholas and a father like the Earl of Stratton—bright, shining stars who draw attention wherever they go. But Devlin, you do not need to compete with them.”
“I—” he said, and wished like the devil he had not brought her out here but had been content simply to dance with her again. He felt gauche and dull and a bit miserable.
“You are unique and wonderful just as you are,” she said. “To me you are far more attractive than they are, fond as I am of them.”
He frowned, astonished, as he gazed into her face.
“You have always been more wonderful in my eyes,” she said. “But you never knew I existed until we met at the foot of that hill last year and you were disgusted with me. And today . . . Oh, goodness, my tongue is running away with me. I am very thankful we are out here in near darkness, because my cheeks are burning and doubtless they are flame red. I will have nightmares about speaking out this way.”
“Never knew you existed?” he said, and his frown deepened. “I went to Cartref often because Idris is my friend and your parents always made me welcome. But I went just as much to see you. You always hid from me indoors, as though you were shy or just did not like me. I believed it to be the latter, because when you were outdoors, as you very often were, and did not see me, you ran free and wild, more often than not with Nick. You played barefoot in your old dresses, your hair always loose about your face and shoulders. Even when Nick was not there, you ran and played and shouted and laughed with the dogs, and climbed trees and sat up in the branches, reading, as though it had never occurred to you that you might fall. I often longed to run free with you, but I was so much older and would have looked ridiculous. Besides, you did not like me. When I saw you last year, I was not disgusted. I thought you were lovely beyond words. But you seemed horrified to see me. I have always been so envious of Nick that . . . Well.”
“He was never more to me than a friend and a playmate,” she said. “And if I hid from you and was mute, it really was shyness. Only with you. Never with anyone else. For I always so desperately wanted you to like me.”
“I did,” he said. “Always.”
They gazed at each other, their faces no more than a few inches apart. And Devlin reminded himself that she was only eighteen, that he was only twenty-two, that his father had advised him not to marry too soon in life but to enjoy himself first—as he wished he had done. His father had married his mother when he was twenty-six and she not quite eighteen.
Their marriage, though, had always been a happy one. And why wait when the love of your heart has just admitted that you are the love of hers?
He glanced back at the pavilion. There were seats inside, beyond the pillars, and some hope of privacy. In there they would at least not be visible from the terrace outside the ballroom, as they must be now. But it might occur to other people to come up here. The cool air and the moonlight were very inviting, after all, in contrast with the heat and noise and crowds in the ballroom.
The hill was bare of any trees on three sides—deliberately so. The pavilion had been built on its crest so that anyone sitting within could enjoy an unimpeded view over the park and the river and village to the countryside beyond. The fourth side was wooded all the way to the foot of the hill.
“Come.” He released Gwyneth’s arm and took her hand in his. He laced their fingers and led her around the outside of the pavilion and down the wooded slope. The trees were not densely packed. There was darkness among them, but not pitch blackness. He stopped when they were partway down and turned with her, setting her back against the sturdy trunk of a tree.
A narrow band of moonlight slanted across the lower part of her face and the upper part of her body. She looked lovely and delicate in her silk and lace gown of palest yellow. Her pearls gleamed in the dim light. Her lips were slightly parted, revealing her perfect white teeth. He set his hands on either side of her waist and instantly felt the soft warmth and the shapeliness of her. Her own hands came to rest on his shoulders.
He wished he had some experience to bring to the moment. Though perhaps it was as well he did not. He suspected this would be her first kiss—as it would be his. Perhaps it was fitting that they find out together what it would be like. He was not going to feel embarrassed by any gaucherie on his part. You have always been more wonderful in my eyes, she had told him a few minutes ago.
“Gwyneth,” he murmured.
“Devlin.” Her lips curved into a smile. “Kiss me.”
And he did.
Chapter Eight
He kissed her. With warm, closed lips pressed lightly to hers. And Gwyneth thought the world might well have stopped.
He was Devlin. Devlin Ware.
He drew back his head, but his hands, warm and firm, were still on either side of her waist. Distinctively a man’s hands. Her own were gripping his shoulders as though her life depended upon not letting go. It was not quite dark down here, despite the trees. Moonlight shafted through the spaces between them and filtered between branches overhead. But she could not see his face, inches from her own. Not clearly, anyway. She knew, though, that his eyes were gazing very directly into hers, and she could imagine the blueness of those eyes. She was aware of music coming from the ballroom, but it seemed very distant. Strangely, it accentuated the quietness around them.