Remember Love (Ravenswood #1)(61)

“Stratton,” Aled said. “You must be very happy to be back safe and sound in England, though you do have a bit of a scar to remember the wars by, I see.”

More than a bit, Gwyneth thought. And her knees turned weak as she wondered how that slice of a saber blade could possibly have missed his eye. Or could possibly not have killed him.

“I would be a great deal happier,” Devlin said, “if a few thousand other men had been able to come back too. But such is war. Your love of music is beyond question. I observed it yesterday. You were absorbed in it at the church when Gwyneth left to stroll about the green with me.”

“Really?” Aled said. “Did she? I did not notice she was gone. But I am glad she did take the air and had some company. I do tend to lose myself in music sometimes, and that organ is as magnificent an instrument as any I have seen or heard anywhere.”

Devlin transferred his gaze to Gwyneth. Perhaps she only imagined that he slightly raised his eyebrows as though he were saying to her, He did not even notice you were gone? “Gwyneth,” he said politely. “Thank you for coming.”

She smiled though her lips felt tight. And if a large number of people were looking their way, she told herself, then it was surely at Aled they were gazing. Strangers invariably attracted notice in the country, where the monotony of the prevailing sameness always threatened. She held her smile as she looked about the room, and Devlin turned away to greet someone else.

“A morose man,” Aled murmured as they moved away. “It seems strange that he fought in the wars when he was heir to an earldom. And, stranger yet, he was in a foot regiment, Idris told me. Perhaps the joy of violence and killing meant more to him than duty to his position. But he did have younger brothers to inherit if he could not, I believe?”

“Nicholas is also a military man,” she told him, quelling the urge to jump to Devlin’s defense. “He is in a Guards regiment. Cavalry. And there is Owen, the youngest son. He is over there. Come. I will introduce you.”

She proceeded to present him to a number of people and was more than ever thankful to have him at her side. He was a sociable man—when there was no music to distract him—and conversed easily with people who were strangers to him. Gwyneth felt speculative eyes upon her and kept smiling.

A morose man. He had not used to be. Quiet, reserved, somewhat on the serious side, yes. And lacking in the open charm and allure that his father and Nicholas had both possessed in abundance. But not morose. And not without a certain charm of his own.

People were taking their places at the tables. There were no name cards. Everyone could sit where they wished, except those at the head table, of course. The countess sat in the central position there, Devlin on her right, Philippa on her left. Mr. and Mrs. Edward Ware, the late earl’s uncle and aunt, sat on the far side of Devlin, and Mr. and Mrs. Greenfield, the countess’s parents, on Philippa’s far side.

Gwyneth drew Aled to one of the tables that still had empty places and sat beside Ben Ellis after introducing the two men. She introduced him also to the other occupants of the table, Mr. George Greenfield, Miss Wexford, and Mrs. Lamb, Devlin’s great-aunt.

“I am so pleased to see you back home, Ben,” Gwyneth said, turning to him. “Though I was very sorry to hear about your wife.”

“Thank you, Gwyneth.” He smiled at her. His eyes had grown kinder, she thought, which was a strange thing to have happened after six years of warfare and a widowhood.

“You have a child,” she said. “Where is she?”

“Stephanie insisted upon missing the tea in order to play with her in the nursery,” he said. “She has a remarkable gift with children. Joy has been unwilling to let me out of her sight for a long time. Since my wife died, in fact. But she has taken to her new aunt. They are dancing to Steph’s singing. Dancing for my daughter, I should explain, means planting her feet firmly on the floor, holding someone’s hands for balance, and bouncing from the knees. And laughing gleefully.”

“I look forward to seeing her,” Gwyneth said. His daughter was obviously not an inconvenient piece of baggage he had been obliged to bring home with him from war. Aled was deep in conversation with Prudence Wexford, while Mr. Greenfield and Mrs. Lamb were chuckling over something with each other and footmen were bringing plates of sandwiches and dainties to the table and pouring the tea.

“Tell me about your wife,” Gwyneth said to Ben.

He thought for a few moments. “How does one describe a person in just a few words?” he said. “She was a good woman, Gwyneth.” He drew breath to say more but shrugged instead.

“And you loved her,” she said. “I wish I could have met her.”

“She spoke with a broad cockney accent,” he said.

“Did she?” She smiled.

“She was a washerwoman,” he told her. “Hardworking. Strong. I was her third husband. Husbands died in droves out there. And so did some wives, as it turned out. I beg your pardon. That is more than you wanted to know. She was a good woman. She was Marjorie.”

“I think I would have liked her,” she said. “Are you going to be Devlin’s steward?”

“No,” he said. “Fortunately the current steward seems to be a perfectly competent man, so I feel no obligation to stay. I am going to set up a home for my daughter and raise her there.”