Remember Love (Ravenswood #1)(33)

He had brought Mrs. Shaw here to show her the temple and the view from it at night. The moonlight was probably still shining in a band across the waters of the lake.

Gwyneth’s hand was beginning to hurt.

“We really must be careful, Cal,” Mrs. Shaw said, her voice quite distinct now. “We mustn’t stay up here long. You can come to me later tonight. It will be safer.”

“Half the family is staying at the hall, alas,” the earl said—there was no mistaking the fact now that it was he. “It will be impossible for me to slip away, Liza. And I cannot miss church in the morning.”

She laughed, a throaty, seductive sound. “I suppose I had better not miss it either,” she said. “Village life is very quaint.”

“I told you it would amuse you,” he said. “A quick ten minutes here, then. No one will come. And if anyone does, I am playing friendly neighbor and genial host, showing you the moonlight on the lake.”

They were not speaking loudly, but their voices were disastrously clear. As was their intent—and their familiarity with each other.

Oh dear God.

“Come on,” she whispered to Devlin. “We must get back before this set ends.”

But his hand was like a steel band about hers, and though she was not touching any other part of him, she could sense the rigidness of his body.

He moved then. But not downward with careful stealth, as he had intended. Rather, he strode upward, drawing her along with him. Perhaps he had forgotten she was even there.

“Devlin,” she whispered, desperate to stop him.

He ignored her. It was too late anyway. They were at the top of the rise and moving between two of the pillars of the temple. Gwyneth was aware briefly of the two figures sprawled on one of the love seats, clasped in each other’s arms, of the fact that at least one of Mrs. Shaw’s silk-stockinged legs was exposed to the knee. Then Devlin spoke, and the two of them jumped to their feet, and the earl stepped in front of Mrs. Shaw, shielding her while she shook out her skirts.

“Get her out of here,” Devlin said, his voice tight with fury. “Get her away from here. Right away. Now.”

“Dev.” His father’s voice sounded quite as it normally did, except perhaps for a little breathlessness. “Taking the air too, are you? With Gwyneth, I see. A beautiful evening, is it not? A fitting end to what has been a perfect day. Don’t jump to conclusions now. I have been showing Mrs. Shaw the lake with the moonlight on it. I suppose, though, we ought not to linger here, welcome as the cool air is. We should all be making our way back to the ball.”

“Get her away from here,” Devlin said. “Away from Ravenswood. Away from Boscombe. Get her back to whatever love nest you usually keep her in.”

“You are being overhasty and a bit offensive, Dev,” his father told him.

“Yes,” Devlin said. “A dull dog. Get her away.”

“Cal.” Mrs. Shaw took a step forward and set a hand on the earl’s arm. “I will walk home. It is not far, and it is not a dark night. I do apologize, Lord Mountford. Your father kindly offered to show me the lake from up here, and the promise of some fresh air tempted me and made me forget that our coming here together might be misconstrued.”

“I have not misconstrued your use of the name Cal, ma’am,” Devlin said, his voice cold with stiff contempt as he turned briefly toward her. “Or the proprietary hand you have placed on my father’s arm. I have not misconstrued the compromising position in which I found you.” His attention snapped back to his father. “Get her out of here.”

“It is time you calmed down, Dev,” his father said, “and remembered who you are and where you are. And whom you are with. I apologize for my son, Gwyneth. Sometimes he can be a bit hotheaded. Stay out here for a few minutes longer, the two of you, while I escort Mrs. Shaw back to the ballroom in time for us both to join our next partners. You and I can talk tomorrow, Dev, if you deem it necessary.”

He drew Mrs. Shaw’s arm beneath his and walked briskly away with her down the slope in the direction of the ballroom. The music was ending.

“It is time I remembered who I am?” Devlin said to his father’s retreating back. His voice was raised now to be heard from a distance. “I am Devlin Ware, Viscount Mountford, heir to the earldom of Stratton. Sir. And where I am is Ravenswood Hall, ancestral seat of the Wares, home of my mother, the Countess of Stratton, and of my sisters and brothers. I am with Gwyneth Rhys, daughter of Sir Ifor and Lady Rhys, our neighbors. I will not have this home sullied with the presence of your whore. Sir.”

He was striding down the slope in pursuit of his father, Gwyneth’s hand still clasped tightly in his.

“Devlin,” she said, laying her free hand on his sleeve, desperate for him to halt and to be quiet. Though it was too late for that, of course.

There was a small group of dancers out on the terrace. They were no longer dancing, though. There was no music to dance to. And they had become aware of raised voices coming from the direction of the hill. A hush had fallen on them, and they had turned to find out what was happening. A few people inside the ballroom had moved closer to the doors too.

“Devlin,” Gwyneth said again. “Don’t make a scene. Talk to your father tomorrow.”

She was aware of feeling slightly sick, as though she might disgrace herself any moment and vomit. She was aware that the opportunity to avoid a scene was narrowing but that Devlin appeared not to have seen the disaster that was looming. Or perhaps he was seeing a greater disaster and was unable to think rationally about the immediate crisis that was upon them.