Remember Love (Ravenswood #1)(5)
Fortunately for everyone in the neighborhood, Sir Ifor had never expressed any intention of returning to his original home, which no longer belonged to him anyway. His English house had been named Cartref—the Welsh word for home, and that was exactly what it was to him and his Bronwyn. As for Wales, it was not that far away and could be visited at any time, despite the deplorable condition of the roads. And visit it he did. He spent a few weeks of every summer there with his family.
Gwyneth had turned eighteen just after Easter. She was no longer a girl but a woman, and her thoughts had shifted inevitably toward her future—toward romance and love and matrimony, that was. Not that she had not thought of those things before, of course. Like most of her female friends, she had dreamed of boys and happily-ever-after since she was twelve, maybe even younger. But there was a difference now. She was eighteen, and everyone would fully expect her to be seriously contemplating courtship and marriage. The young men she knew, and there were quite a few hereabouts, had begun to eye her with increased interest, just as she was eyeing them. Last summer, even though she had been only seventeen at the time, a few young neighbors and friends of her uncle and aunt and cousins in Wales had begun to look upon her with an interest they had not shown to any marked degree before. She had looked back with an answering awareness that they were no longer boys but young men. Attractive young men in some cases.
There was one problem, though. Or perhaps two.
One of those young men was Nicholas Ware, the Earl of Stratton’s second son, who was just a year older than she. He was truly gorgeous to look upon, though she had fully noticed it only recently. Before then he had been merely her very best friend. He was good-natured and sociable and a huge favorite with all her friends, some of whom claimed to suffer heart palpitations if he should merely happen to glance their way. He was not a flirt, however, and was perhaps not even aware of the effect he was having upon the young female population of their neighborhood.
Nicholas had been Gwyneth’s friend as far back as she could remember. A closer friend, in fact, than most of her female companions, who as children and growing girls had not been free to come visiting whenever they wished and, even when they did come, had been expected to remain in the drawing room with the adults or at least to stay somewhere within their sight while behaving with ladylike decorum.
Nicholas had come riding over to Cartref frequently, and it was for Gwyneth’s company he came. They had spent hours and days of their childhood chasing each other and playing hide-and-seek among the trees and skipping rope and tumbling and climbing trees and chasing sheep—though that last was strictly forbidden and earned them a scolding if they were caught. They had talked and laughed endlessly and occasionally squabbled. She had ridden with him, at first on her pony while a groom hovered close by, and then on her horse, neatly seated on the sidesaddle she despised, or bareback and astride whenever she could avoid the scrutiny of that same groom.
As they grew older, Nicholas had still come when he was not away at school. They had talked and talked, sitting up in a tree if it was a summer day, shut up in the parlor on colder days. She had told him about the freedom she always enjoyed when she was in Wales, running along the wide sandy beaches with her cousins and their friends, climbing the cliff faces, even swimming in the sea and diving beneath the foam of the waves. He complained to her of the tedium of school and the tyranny of the masters there and the bullying of the older boys, whom he delighted in defying. He even told her about the girls he and his friends would see occasionally despite the cloisterlike nature of the school, and of sneaking out occasionally to meet them—only to be disappointed by their giggling silliness.
Gwyneth’s female friends were envious of her, for the gorgeous Nicholas Ware had eyes for no one but her. Yet to Gwyneth he felt a little like Idris did. Like a brother, that was, except more so. She tried sometimes to see him as her friends did and succeeded for a few moments. He was handsome and vibrant with life. Quite the stuff of romantic dreams, in fact. But then it was as though her eyes refocused and all she saw was Nick, her friend.
It was actually a little annoying.
He usually chose to sit beside her rather than anyone else at neighborhood parties and concerts, perhaps because conversation with each other never required any effort, or because they shared the same sense of humor. He always asked her first of anyone to dance with him at the assemblies—once she was deemed old enough to dance at them at all, that was. They could often amuse themselves for hours on a chilly or a wet day, singing duets while she played the spinet or the harp in the parlor. Occasionally her father came in to make a suggestion, the most common being that a duet was made to be sung together, in harmony with each other, not attacked as though they were in a competition to see who could finish first.
Sometimes she and Nicholas sang together at social gatherings during which all or most of the guests were expected to share their talents, however meager. And the suspicion gradually grew in Gwyneth’s mind that perhaps the two of them were being looked upon as a couple, as potential marriage partners, even though Nicholas would be going away soon to begin his military career. The realization was a bit disturbing because the perception was not true. Moreover, it was actually damaging, for other potential suitors might be keeping their distance from her.
Specifically Devlin Ware, Viscount Mountford. Eldest son of the Earl of Stratton. Eldest legitimate son, anyway. Nicholas’s brother. With whom she had been deeply, hopelessly, passionately in love all her life, or since she was eleven or twelve, anyway.