Remember Love (Ravenswood #1)(79)

“Gwyneth,” he said, “was it for this you came here to see me?”

“No,” she said, suddenly not knowing what to do with her hand that was not holding her whip. Let it dangle at her side? Clutch the side of her riding habit? What did she usually do? She tucked it behind her back.

He gazed at her, narrow-eyed. She stared back. Joy was chattering to Owen across the fence, and he was grinning back at her and telling her he absolutely agreed with everything she said.

“Well?” Devlin said.

“I was wondering,” Gwyneth said, feeling as though she had just run over from Cartref on foot and needed a few minutes to catch her breath. “No, not that. I think you ought— Not that you ought on your own. But that we ought.”

“We ought to what?” he asked her. “Dance with each other at the assembly? I have not danced in six years.”

“Not that,” she said. Why had it seemed so easy when she had imagined it yesterday and last night and this morning? Well, not easy, perhaps. But at least possible. With just a bit of courage and determination. She swallowed and said it.

“Devlin, I think we ought to marry. Each other, that is.”

But instead of being outraged or overjoyed or any of a dozen or more things in between those extremes, all of which she had been prepared for, he merely continued to lean back against the fence. His arms were still folded over his chest, his ankles still crossed, his eyes still narrowed, his jaw still looking like granite—and he said nothing.

“You asked me to marry you more than six years ago,” she said. “You were going to talk to Dad the next day. You went away instead. I do not remember everything you and I said before you left. I know I was upset and angry and frustrated and said things I did not mean, but I do not remember telling you I was rejecting your offer, that I no longer considered myself betrothed to you. I do not remember you asking to be let out of the commitment you had made. I may be wrong, but I do not think so. Is there a term limit on a betrothal that has not yet been converted into a marriage? Is there such a law?”

“You are about to sue me for breach of promise?” he asked her. It did not sound as if he was joking. Or as if he was in any way amused.

“It was never a formal engagement,” she said. “I would probably lose the case.”

“Well, that is a great relief,” he said. Still no sign that he was joking.

“I told you last week,” she said, “that I had never got over you. Or something to that effect. I have tried to feel for other men what I once felt for you. I really thought I had succeeded this time with Aled Morgan. But it has never worked. And you have not found someone else either, as Ben did. At least I assume you have not. You told me last week, in a quite impersonal way, that you would be marrying and having a family in the foreseeable future, as one of your duties as Earl of Stratton. I do not believe you had anyone in particular in mind. Why not me, then? You loved me once.”

“I was another person once, a long time ago, Gwyneth,” he said. “I will marry, for the very reason you have just stated. But not for love. It will be a business alliance. I will choose someone who clearly understands that and feels the same way about marriage as I do. That would not be possible with you.”

“No, of course it would not,” she agreed. “And what nonsense you speak, Devlin. As though any marriage could remain on the footing of a business arrangement for a lifetime. When by the very nature of its principal function, the procreation of children, it must also be an intimate relationship.” Her cheeks suddenly felt uncomfortably hot.

He broke eye contact with her and glanced in the direction of his brothers. They were still talking—Joy had turned her head and set her cheek against Ben’s back and fallen silent—but they were also glancing curiously Devlin’s way.

“Let me go and fetch my coat from the stable,” he said, turning back to her. “We need a little more privacy than we have here. It is not every day I receive a marriage proposal.”

He still did not sound amused.

“Then take my hat and whip with you and leave them there,” she said, handing them to him.





Chapter Twenty





It was not a marriage proposal,” she told him. “It was a betrothal resumption suggestion.”

They had been walking for several minutes, striding along as though they were late for some appointment. They were going in the direction of the poplar walk, Devlin realized, though it had not been a conscious choice. It was the first time either of them had spoken.

Betrothal resumption suggestion, for the love of God. Had it taken her all this time to dream up that one?

It was the worst suggestion he had heard since he returned to England. And the very idea that they might be betrothed because as a young man hot with lust more than six years ago he had asked her to marry him and then abandoned her the very next day was preposterous. Why the devil would she still want to marry him anyway? He had abandoned her. And he did not for a moment believe that she had an eye on the title or the fortune that would come with him. He had never known Gwyneth to be either ambitious or mercenary.

The devil of it was that he did need a wife. Ravenswood ought to have a countess—one who was married to the earl, that was. He ought to have sons to secure his line. And probably daughters too—just because. It had actually felt good to grow up in a home with siblings of both genders. He had not thought much about it at the time. He had just lived it. And he was not looking forward to Ben’s leaving, though it was inevitable. They had already come to an agreement over Penallen, and Ben was in the process of purchasing it. He would have a few renovations done, and then he would move to his new home—probably sometime after Christmas, by spring at the latest. Devlin would miss him—a massive understatement. He would also miss Joy, though, a realization that took him by surprise. She somehow lit all their lives with . . . Well, with joy.