Remember Love (Ravenswood #1)(80)
But . . . Marriage with Gwyneth? No. Absolutely not. He wanted his marriage to be the sort of business arrangement he had described to her earlier. Something controlled and sensible and dispassionate. An alliance, a partnership.
They were coming up on the poplar walk, and Devlin slowed his steps. It had not occurred to him until now to shorten his stride to match hers. But she had kept up with him. She was wearing riding boots. He had been unconsciously listening to the skirt of her riding habit swishing against them.
The wide grassy alley stretched ahead of them, the poplars like guards on either side. A scattering of fallen leaves dotted the grass. In a few weeks a thick carpet of them would crunch underfoot. And that brought back childhood memories of leaf fights with Ben and Nick, and even Pippa in later years, and building mounds of leaves so that they could burrow carefully into them for the pleasure of jumping up in a rush and scattering them far and wide while whooping with exuberance or roaring ferociously. Pippa had always preferred to fall backward onto the mounds, arms spread, shrieking and giggling with fright and glee.
“It was definitely a marriage proposal,” he said abruptly, breaking a long silence. “There never was a proper engagement, so there is nothing to resume. You were eighteen, a minor, and your father’s permission was neither asked for nor given. As for now, I would be the poorest possible choice for you. I have nothing whatsoever to offer apart from the obvious material things.”
“Then offer me those,” she said.
He stopped walking. So did she.
He turned to regard her with a frown. “You covet the role of Countess of Stratton of Ravenswood Hall, then?” he asked, and he could hear the steel in his voice.
“Yes, I do.” She lifted her chin. “Because you are the earl.”
Oh, devil take it. He had been aware of her passionate nature when she was a girl. He had not doubted her when she told him at that infamous fete that she loved him with all her heart and had loved him in secret for many years. But he had always seen her also as an intelligent, firm-minded female who did not base her life and her happiness upon romantic drivel. Could she not see him for what he was now? Did she not understand that the old Devlin Ware was long dead and could never be resurrected? Did she have a sentimental image of herself as angel and savior, able to release him from his demons and soothe him back to his boyhood self so that they could be in love again and live blissfully ever after?
“And because you think you can unfreeze my heart,” he said harshly.
“No.” She tipped her head slightly to one side, and her eyes roamed over his face. “I think you will do that all on your own, Devlin.”
He laughed. “There is no heart to thaw,” he said.
She turned to walk onward, and he fell into step beside her.
“Shall we forget about marriage proposals and hearts for the moment?” she suggested after a while. “Look at how beautiful this place is, Devlin. Green and secluded, as though one had stepped off the world for a short while in order to be comforted and restored before returning. It even smells peaceful.” She drew in an audible breath through her nose and lifted her eyes to the tops of the trees as she let it out. “Tell me about your visit to the inn last week. Everyone has been buzzing with news of it ever since. It provoked the committee that sent a delegation to you this morning. But one can never quite distinguish fact from fiction in such cases. Tell me why you went there.”
“Perhaps,” he said testily, “I went for a glass of ale.”
“What an anticlimax that would be,” she said, laughing with what sounded like genuine amusement. “Tell me.”
“When you have been given much,” he said, “you can hoard it, or you can share it. The just and fair thing to do is share. We were taught that as children and came to believe it. It still makes practical good sense. What have we ever done, after all—what have I ever done—to deserve such a home and such wealth as I have? The answer is nothing except to be born into the right family. And that was no choice of mine. Who knows what higher power makes such decisions? Unless it is a purely random thing. It is not fair. But much in life is unfair. It is how one deals with what one has been given that matters—whether one has been given poverty or riches or something in between. I would rather not be who I am, but it seems I am stuck with being Devlin Ware of Ravenswood, Earl of Stratton, for the rest of my life.”
“And this explains why you went into the taproom at the village inn?” she asked him, sounding amused. “It is no wonder you needed a glass of ale.”
Yes, it did explain why he went there.
“Ravenswood is home to my mother and brothers and sisters and me and a number of servants,” he said. “It is large enough to house an army battalion. The park would be considered more than spacious enough if it were set down in the middle of a crowded city for the use and pleasure of all its citizens. I cannot in all conscience keep it entirely to myself, for my private use and that of my immediate family. You heard me at that tea last week informing our guests that the park would be open to everyone again on certain days of the week. When I learned about the upcoming assembly, I remembered that the assembly rooms above the inn have long been inadequate for the numbers who always like to attend. I went to the inn to suggest to Jim Berry that the ballroom at the hall be used again, as it apparently has not been since I went away.”
“Did he raise any objection?” she asked. “Or was your suggestion more like a command?”