Remember Love (Ravenswood #1)(76)

But he was not Devlin.

Perhaps if Devlin had not come back . . . But he had come back.

Of course, Devlin was not Devlin either. Which was a head-spinning piece of nonsense. He was Devlin as he had become over a six-year retreat into cold, seemingly impenetrable darkness. When he had kissed her out in the meadow—at her invitation—she had been almost frightened by the barely leashed violence with which he had pressed her to him and invaded her mouth. It had been nothing like the sweet, youthful, romantic kiss of six years ago. And yet—oh, he had been Devlin. She had felt that long-lost man trying desperately to get out, and more than anything else in her life she had wanted to help him. To heal him.

It could not be done, of course.

Only he could heal himself.

And that realization had shattered her heart. All over again. For it was surely impossible.

He had spoken of taking a wife and having children as a duty. He had not offered her the position. She would not have accepted anyway. How could she? He was so terribly damaged and might—probably would—remain that way for the rest of his life. She could not take that upon herself.

And yet . . . Oh, there had been that look in his eyes while she was playing her harp earlier, so fleeting that she might have imagined it. Though she did not believe she had. And—I wish you all the good things in the world. But don’t love me. Ah yes. There had been those words too. Cold, crisp, decisive—yet surely there had been yearning behind them. The understanding that he had hurt her. The fear that he would do it all over again.

Love can bring only unbearable suffering, Gwyneth.

Which was true if one omitted the word only. That was not all love could bring. When love was at war with other powerful forces, which it had been in their case, then it seemed very easily vanquished. It seemed the weakest of all forces. But what if people got their definitions of strength and weakness backward? What if love was the one thing that always survived and could carry one through to the other side of suffering?

In front of the mirror in her dressing room she took her hair down, brushed it out, and coiled it at the back of her head again without summoning her maid. She leaned closer to the mirror to see if any of the aftereffects of that kiss still showed on her face, was satisfied with what she saw, and went back downstairs. She had heard carriage wheels crunching over gravel, and she could hear her father’s voice as soon as she began to descend.

Aled came toward her, his hands outstretched for hers, a warm smile on his face.

“We practiced those poor young people until they had almost lost their voices,” he told her. “But I was able to tell them at the end of it all that they are the best youth choir I have ever heard. I did not add the words outside of Wales. But I do believe I spoke the truth anyway. And I told them they were fortunate indeed to have the best accompanists anywhere in the world.”

“But you did not add the words outside of Wales, did you?” Gwyneth said, setting her hands in his.

“They were not necessary,” he told her, laughing. “I claim both you and Ifor for Wales. Did you get your letters written?”

“One of them,” she said. “It is three pages long.”

“Women are a marvel,” he said. “I have to work very hard and use my largest, most sprawling handwriting to achieve six lines.”

She took him into the library after dinner, on the pretext of finding their copy of the poems of William Wordsworth, which he had mentioned while they were eating. She put it into his hands and looked into his face.

“What is it?” he asked, setting the book down on a table beside him without opening it.

“I find myself embarrassed,” she said, clasping her hands at her waist. “You have not actually asked me, and you have not spoken to Dad, or I would have heard about it. But I believe—”

He came to her rescue when she hesitated. “You believe correctly, Gwyneth,” he said. “I do wish to marry you.”

“I want to save you the embarrassment of asking and being rejected, then,” she told him, wishing there were another way to say it. Something less abrupt and harsh. She supposed she could have waited for him to bring up the subject first, but it would have been unfair. “I cannot marry you, Aled. I am sorry. I like you exceedingly well.”

“Ah,” he said. “That dreaded word like. I would want more than liking from a wife. It is as well to know now that I would not have it from you. I am sorry too, Gwyneth. Am I right in believing that you did mean to have me even as recently as yesterday?”

“Sometimes love does not work,” she said, “and one tries to forget it and find it with someone else. I wanted to love you, Aled. I thought I did. And the fault is not in you. It is in me.”

“Your mother mentioned at dinner,” he said, “that Idris went in person to fetch her home after the misadventure with the carriage, and that he left the Earl of Stratton here to keep you company.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Did I hurt you yesterday,” he asked, “when I described him as a morose man?”

“You described what you saw,” she said. “The wars do appear to have hardened him.”

“He would not be a good husband for you, Gwyneth,” he said. “There is coldness and cruelty in that man. He would kill your soul, which is full of music and light.”

She half smiled and looked about the room, more shadow than light with only a single candle burning. “It is fortunate, then,” she said, “that he has not offered to be my husband.” Not in six years, anyway.