Remember Love (Ravenswood #1)(95)

How on earth, her mother had asked her, were they going to solve the problem of Sir Ifor playing the organ at her wedding and at the same time escorting Gwyneth into the church as father of the bride? Oh, and did Gwyneth think there was any merit in suggesting a double wedding with Idris and Eluned? She answered her own question in the negative before Gwyneth could open her mouth, however, for of course Marged, Eluned’s mother, already had that wedding more than half planned. And could there be any mother anywhere happier than she, Bronwyn Rhys, was today, with two children getting married and the hope of grandchildren in the foreseeable future? And would they have Adeline Proctor make Gwyneth’s wedding clothes, or should they go up to London to a more fashionable dressmaker? But would Adeline be hurt if they did that? Oh, and what did Gwyneth think about . . .

And so it had gone on through the day until Gwyneth was ready to suggest to Devlin that they elope. Not that she was seriously considering it, of course, but really . . .

Sir Ifor had come home with ideas for music he would play at the wedding. He had discussed the matter at great length with himself and confirmed his own ideas and contradicted them quite indiscriminately while Idris had winked at his sister and was probably relieved that his own upcoming nuptials were no longer the full focus of his parents’ attention. Today, anyway.

Gwyneth was very glad, then, that she was to have an unexpected evening out, and on her own, without her family. She was going to brush up on the steps of the waltz, and tomorrow evening she was going to dance it at the assembly—with Devlin. She did not know how that would be accomplished, but it would be. He might even think it was all his own suggestion. Oh, she did know something about feminine wiles.

She could hardly wait to see him again.

But it was Stephanie who came hurrying down the steps of the carriage, her arms spread wide. “I am so happy,” she cried, folding Gwyneth in her embrace and squeezing tight. “One story at least is to have a happy ending. May Pippa and I be bridesmaids? It is quite all right if you say no. Who would want me anyway? But I thought I would ask. Oh, Lady Rhys. And Sir Ifor. Is this not exciting news?” She rushed up to the door to hug them too.

Gwyneth laughed while Devlin came down the steps to hand her into the carriage. She set her hand in his and felt unabashed happiness. His eyebrows were raised.

“Need I say,” he said, “that my choice of bride has met with the approval of my sister?”

“I would never have guessed if you had not told me,” she said.

She was surprised when she climbed into the carriage to find the elder of his sisters sitting there. “Oh,” she said. “Hello, Philippa.”

“I am happy for you too,” Philippa said, her voice quiet and grave. “I agree with Steph. Sometimes stories really do have happy endings.”

“Thank you.” Gwyneth smiled at her. “Are we all going to take the assembly by storm tomorrow night with our waltzing skills?”

“Yes,” Philippa said. “We are.”

She looked very like Devlin at that moment, Gwyneth thought in some surprise. Serious, hard-jawed, a whole lot shut up inside herself. Gwyneth could not recall seeing her at an assembly during the past couple of years or so. She did not attend many other social functions either, except the occasional tea, when she sat beside her mother and participated very little in the general conversation. She seemed to have distanced herself from all the friends of her own age she had once had, both male and female. Yet she could not have made friends elsewhere to compensate for their loss. She had never had a come-out Season in London despite the fact that she was Lady Philippa Ware, daughter of an earl.

It was a very damaged family into which she was about to marry, Gwyneth thought as she took a seat facing Philippa and made room for Devlin beside her. Stephanie climbed back in and sat beside her sister. It was a daunting task she had set herself. Though perhaps not, for she had not really set any task at all. She had decided simply to love and to do it quite openly and without apology. If she was being quite disastrously na?ve, then so be it.

Devlin surprised her by taking her hand in his and setting it palm down on his thigh. He kept his hand over it. She wondered if he had done it deliberately. To convince his sisters that he felt some regard for his betrothed, perhaps? It did not matter. She turned her head to smile at his stern profile.



* * *



—

Sidney Johnson and Edwina Rutledge had already taught the steps of the waltz to the regular group of maypole dancers. They were all dressed as though for a performance, Devlin was interested to find, the women in their pastel-shaded dresses, the men with shirts to match. The garlands for the women’s hair were absent, however. Sidney and Edwina awaited the raw recruits, of whom there were several. And no one was to be without an experienced partner. Sidney had it all organized.

Sidney himself would dance with Philippa, Bradley Danver (Owen’s friend from the vicarage) with Stephanie, Clarence Ware with Gwyneth. It was all very satisfactory to Devlin, who had agreed to come as an escort for Stephanie and had been prepared to dance with her if absolutely necessary. It was not going to be necessary, however. Everyone had a partner. Except—

“I need not be a wallflower after all, Sidney,” Sally Holland, looking pretty in her peach dress, called. “Here is the Earl of Stratton cowering in the corner. Looking ferociously military. I can remember you once dancing about the maypole, Devlin, and doing a creditable job of it. Waltzing is far less intimidating. I will show you.”