Remember Love (Ravenswood #1)(34)

The earl had reached the terrace. He spoke, and included everyone in his geniality, as he always did.

“The moonlight on the lake looks quite magnificent from the temple up there,” he said. “It is well worth the walk and the bit of a climb. I thought Mrs. Shaw might appreciate it as a newcomer here, but alas we interrupted my son and Gwyneth Rhys up there admiring the view before us, and I do believe they did not appreciate our company. My son was quite upset by it, in fact.”

There was laughter, as there so often was when the earl spoke. Laughter at least partly at her expense, Gwyneth thought. But maybe it was not too late . . . She turned to smile at Devlin and inform him that she must go in so that his uncle, her next partner, would be able to find her.

Please do not say anything else. Not here. Not now.

He did not even give her a chance to get a word out or to pull her hand free.

“That woman is not going inside the ballroom,” he said in a disastrously loud and clear—and clearly furious—voice. “She is leaving here. Is it not enough that you keep her in London—I assume you do keep her in some cozy love nest there? Did you have to bring her to Boscombe too for your entertainment through the summer? And to Ravenswood itself today? Have you no sense of decency whatsoever? She is not going inside to be in a room with my mother and my sister. And my grandmothers. How dare you, sir? Get her away from here now.”

“Dear God,” Gwyneth murmured, and closed her eyes. But there was nothing God could do about the disaster that no longer loomed but was fully upon them. And closing her eyes would not make the whole scene disappear. She drew a shaky breath. And at last Devlin released his hold on her hand.

When she opened her eyes a mere second or two after closing them, it was to see that the attention of surely everyone inside the ballroom had been drawn to the scene out here on the terrace. The doorways were crowded with people, some of them demanding to know what was happening, others shushing them so they would miss nothing.

She had never seen the earl nonplussed. She had never seen him without his affable smile and genial manner. But in the light of the colored lanterns his face looked ghastly, and his smile looked painted on. It was a smile without any light behind it.

“I am afraid my son must have caught a touch of sun during the day,” he said. “He has forgotten his manners. He will no doubt apologize tomorrow—to his mother for disrupting the ball over which she has worked so hard, to Mrs. Shaw for—”

“You will not mention my mother and your whore in the same breath,” Devlin said through bared teeth as he took a menacing step toward his father. “How dare you! Get her out of here.”

“Cal,” Mrs. Shaw said, and laid a hand on his sleeve as she had done up at the temple.

“And get your hand off my father,” Devlin said.

Gwyneth wondered if he even realized how many people were looking on and listening. But dear God, how were they all going to extricate themselves from this mess? Mr. Greenfield was squeezing his way past the dense crowd in the nearest doorway, she saw, and stepping out onto the terrace. For a foolish moment she thought he must be coming to claim his dance with her. But he was looking grim and tight-jawed.

“Dev,” he said, putting one hand on his nephew’s shoulder and speaking softly, though no doubt everyone could hear. “Leave this to me. Caleb, go in and get the next set of dances going. Mrs. Shaw, ma’am, allow me to walk you home. If any of your belongings are inside, I will see that they are brought to you later.”

Even then Gwyneth entertained the hope that all would be well. Mrs. Shaw smiled graciously at Mr. Greenfield, murmured thanks, slid a hand through the arm he offered, and allowed herself to be marched off at a brisk pace toward the front of the house.

It was not a hope that lasted, however, for Mr. Greenfield senior, the countess’s father, had followed his son onto the terrace. A dignified, silver-haired gentleman of trim build and proud bearing, he spoke first to his grandson.

“Go somewhere private, Devlin, to your room, perhaps, and compose yourself,” he said quietly. “Come to the drawing room in half an hour. Caleb, this ball is over. Go inside and make the announcement. I will see you in the drawing room in half an hour.”

“We must not ruin Clarissa’s ball over a slight family quarrel,” the earl said in an attempt to reassert his old jocularity of manner. “What has happened to the orchestra? I must go and have a word with them.”

“The ball is at an end,” Mr. Greenfield said. “It has been a very pleasant day and a lovely evening, but it is over. It is time for these good people to go home. Go and make the announcement, Caleb. It is what my daughter sent me to say.”

Devlin went without another word and with only one hard look at his father. He did not enter the house through the ballroom doors but strode off toward the front. It seemed to Gwyneth that he had probably forgotten her very existence.

The earl swayed a bit on his feet and looked about in an obvious attempt to gather the shreds of his dignity about him. But Gwyneth did not find out if he succeeded or not. Her father suddenly appeared at her side.

“Here you are, Gwyn, fach,” he said, taking her arm in a firm clasp. Fach—little one. It was a Welsh endearment he had not used with her for many years. “Come along. It is time to go home.”

Her mother appeared at her other side and took her other arm. “I am so sorry you had to get caught up in that unpleasantness, cariad,” she said. “I do not know what it was all about. I cannot believe that the earl would . . . And I am stunned that Devlin could so forget his manners as to cause a public scene like that. And you caught up in the middle of it. We will get you home and make a nice cup of tea, will we, and perhaps by tomorrow . . . Oh, but the poor, poor countess. She does not deserve any of this.”