Remember Love (Ravenswood #1)(8)
“I love the maypole dancing, Dev,” she said. “It is my very favorite.”
“Perhaps one day you will lead the dancers,” he said, smiling at the back of her head.
“Very likely.” She made a derisive puffing sound with her lips and continued with her task. “You have to be dainty and graceful and light on your feet. And thin. And pretty helps too.”
None of which were possible for her, her tone implied. But there was no reason for it not to happen. She was neither physically lazy nor gluttonous, both of which manageable conditions were supposed to be main contributing factors to excess weight. The loss of her fat was not happening yet, however, and Devlin knew her appearance distressed his sister. He sometimes assured her he loved her just as she was—as he did—but she usually responded with that identical sound she had just made. She was his favorite sibling, though he loved them all. He loved Stephanie fiercely and dearly. Sometimes his heart ached for her.
“We will let them hang so they will not need an iron,” he said of the ribbons, “and replace the ones that are damaged or old. I’ll go into the village afterward to purchase new ones. Do you want to come with me?”
“In your curricle?” She jumped to her feet and turned a beaming face his way before smiling outright—her one claim to real beauty. “I do. And I get to choose the colors. You would probably pick black or gray. Or brown.”
“I was planning to go on foot since the shop is no farther than a hop, skip, and jump from here,” he said, and watched her smile fade. “But I suppose we can go by the scenic way, in which case a vehicle will definitely be necessary. The curricle it is, then, Steph, provided Mama does not have a fit of the vapors and forbid it. And you may choose the ribbons.” He laughed as he tried to picture the faces of the villagers—not to mention his mother—if they arrived for the fete to discover black, gray, and brown ribbons fluttering from the maypole.
“Mama does not have vapors, Dev,” she said. “She is not so silly. And she knows you always drive carefully when you have me for a passenger. I wish you would spring the horses sometimes, though. Nick might if I asked, but I know you would not.”
“An old stick-in-the-mud, am I?” he asked her.
“You have a strong sense of responsibility,” she said, stepping toward him and setting her arms about his waist to hug him, her cheek pressed against his chest. “I sometimes wish you would say yes, but I am always glad when you say no. I can trust you.”
He kissed the top of her head. “Let’s get these ribbons hanging and count how many new ones we will need.”
A strong sense of responsibility. His father had put it a different way last year when Devlin, twenty-one years old and newly down from Oxford with a first-class degree, which he had earned with hard work and years of conscientious studying, had been spending a few months in London to kick up his heels and begin enjoying freedom and adulthood. It was something to which he had looked forward with great eagerness. He would have his father all to himself. Just the two of them. Two men together. His father, whom he had idolized his whole life and tried without much success to emulate, had been delighted to have his company and had encouraged him to sow some wild oats before the time came for him to settle down and marry and set up his nursery.
“And do not let anyone persuade you to do that too early in your life as I did, Dev,” he had added. “Thirty is soon enough.”
Devlin had been uncomfortably aware that both he and Nicholas had been born before their father turned thirty. Did he regret tying himself down with them so soon in life, then?
The earl had introduced his son to his clubs and taken him to Tattersalls and Jackson’s boxing saloon and a fencing club. He had taken him to a few ton balls and private parties and select gambling houses. He had taken him to Vauxhall Gardens and the theater. After the performance at the theater, which Devlin had watched with avid interest, the earl had taken his son to the greenroom to meet and mingle with the performers.
Devlin had refused his father’s offer to engage the services of one particularly alluring dancer to go to supper with him and—presumably—to bed with him afterward. On another occasion he had refused to be introduced to the female proprietor of an exclusive house that catered to the needs of gentlemen who could afford the superior services of the young ladies who lived there.
His father had clapped him on the shoulder and squeezed while he laughed heartily and regarded his son with an indulgent smile. “You are in danger of becoming a dull dog, Dev,” he had said genially.
Devlin had always longed to be like his father—open and amiable in manner, forever smiling and laughing. Loved by all, adored by his wife and children. Adoring them in return. Alas, it had always been impossible. An easy sociability did not come naturally to Devlin. His love for his family and friends and neighbors ran deep, but so did an inner reserve of manner he had never been able to shake off. And a firm sense of right and wrong and a belief in doing his duty, whether it was studying his hardest at school because his masters asked it of him and his father was paying the bills, or fixing up the maypole each summer because his mother trusted him to do it and it was important that it look fresh and new for their guests. One could not completely change the person one was born to be, it seemed.
A dull dog.
He should have laughed off the words and forgotten them. For his father had not meant any insult. The words had been spoken with humor and affection. Devlin did not doubt his father loved him as much as he loved Nicholas, his second son, who far more nearly resembled him.