Remember Love (Ravenswood #1)(81)



“A command?” he said. “No. I do not believe that is how he took it. It was not how it was intended.”

“Did he ask that he be allowed to order and serve the drinks?” she asked him. “Or that Mrs. Berry be allowed to provide and prepare the food?”

“It seemed to me,” he said, “that they would have everything arranged by the time I spoke with Jim, that they would have already put in orders for all the supplies they would need. I knew there was an admission charge for the assembly, to cover the rental cost, the orchestra’s fee, and the refreshments. I was aware that the Berrys stood to lose financially from my offer of the ballroom at the hall. But it was a problem easily solved—provided Jim was not offended at the very suggestion that the assembly rooms were inadequate. If he had been, I would have dropped the idea. He seemed delighted, though. He and his wife will still be in charge of the refreshments, and I think that fact is more important to them than having everyone invade the inn and fill it to bursting. I am happy because my mother will not feel obliged to have anything whatsoever to do with the planning of the event. So, is it being said that all these arrangements were forced upon the Berrys? And that I insisted they do all the work while I basked in the glory of being the grand, generous host?”

“No!” she said so emphatically that they both stopped walking again. “Everyone is amazed that you even thought of how your offer would adversely affect Mr. and Mrs. Berry. Your father never did. But everyone was also indignant to learn that you intended to pay all the expenses, even the rental fee on the assembly rooms despite the fact they were not going to be used. Your generosity made everyone feel like a charity case again. Or like dependents of the hall again.”

Again? Was that how his father, with his openhanded largesse, had made everyone feel? Had he ever been told? He would have brushed off any protest, though. He would have insisted not upon sharing but upon giving, focusing all attention on his generosity and the jovial good nature with which he distributed it. But perhaps that was being a bit unfair. His father was no longer here to speak for himself. Perhaps no one had explained the effect his generosity had on their pride.

“Do you not see?” she asked him when he said nothing. “You care, Devlin.”

“I think you ought not to refine too much upon the fact that I have offered the ballroom, which sits idle and empty in my home, for a village assembly, Gwyneth,” he said. “It does not follow that I suddenly have a heart to lay at your feet.”

“It is not just the offer of the ballroom,” she said. “It is the fact that you care how people feel. I doubt that caring has ever died in you, for you are basically a decent man.”

“Ah, that is right,” he said. “I had forgotten for a moment. Whenever the French were sending their vast columns to break through the British lines, I used to call out to them to get back, to go home to their wives and mothers, because I really, really did not want to hurt them. Unfortunately, the sound of their drums and all their men chanting Vive l’empereur drowned out my decent voice. Or perhaps they did not understand English.” Too late, he heard the bitterness, the anger in his voice. And he wondered not for the first time how many hundreds or thousands of deaths he was responsible for, either directly by his own hand or as the result of orders he had bellowed. Fire! He had always been hoarse after a battle—from the smoke of all the guns, yes. But mainly from yelling that one word over and over again.

They were almost at the end of the alley. The summerhouse was just ahead of them.

“I had better get you back to your horse,” he said. “I will ride home with you.”

“May we sit in the summerhouse for a while?” she asked, and when he looked at her he could see that she was blinking back tears.

He needed a wife. Suddenly, dizzyingly, he could not remember why she could not under any circumstances be Gwyneth.

He led the way without replying or showing that he had noticed her tears. There was a lock on the door. There was even a key somewhere—or had used to be. But the door had never been kept locked. What sort of a message would that send to their neighbors on open days? his father had once replied when Nicholas had asked about it. The boathouse had never been locked either. And nothing had changed, he found now. He opened the door and stood back so that she could precede him inside.



* * *





The sun had warmed the inside of the summerhouse. There was no discernible dust on the ledges or furniture. The floor was clean. There was no musty smell. The Ravenswood gardeners must clean here regularly, Gwyneth thought as she sat on one of the comfortable chairs she remembered from her girlhood, when she had used to come here sometimes with Nicholas. Devlin sat on the sofa and looked at her. His shirt was buttoned to the neck, but he was wearing no cravat or neckcloth. The shirt itself was rather untidily bunched beneath his waistcoat and hastily donned coat. His hair was still disheveled.

She tried to remember the Devlin of six years ago, the one who had kissed her down among the trees below the pavilion. But it was impossible to transpose that youthful face onto this dour man. And why would she want to? She was no longer the girl who had returned his kiss. And he was far more attractive now. A strange word, that—attractive. It had very little to do with looks or perfect grooming or personality. But she had not come here to analyze a word in her mind.

“I have been doing a lot of thinking,” she told him. “About honesty and lies.”

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