For the First Time (16 page)

Blythe sincerely doubted that, but she would give Miles the benefit of the doubt. He was much older than she, and had been wildly in love with Varya for three years now. Surely he knew something on the topic.

“And if tomorrow comes and I still do not know whether I love him?”

His smile was kind. “Then it might happen the next day.”

She raised both brows. “I could go on like that for a long time.”

Miles nodded. “Yes and it could still happen two months from now. Let me ask you something, when Devlin proposed to you, what was your first reaction?”

He hadn’t proposed.
Sigh.
It’s not like it really mattered now. How could she admit this, even to Miles? It was like admitting to a weakness or deformity.

“
If
he had actually asked”—she had to cling to it, it was the only thing saving her pride—“I suppose my first thought would have been to say yes.”

His eyes lit up. “Then I say you already have your answer.”

Her tone was dry. “If I had my answer, I wouldn’t have an
nounced in front of him that I have no intention of marrying over a mistake.”

A mistake. No, what had happened in the maze had been a lot of things—rapturous, for one—but not a mistake.

Miles brushed her hair back from her face, gently tugging at her scalp. Were it not for the agitation brought on by their conversation, he could easily put her to sleep. “You think he does not love you.”

“He told me he does not love me!”

That made him frown. “He actually told you that?”

“Oh yes!” She laughed bitterly as she stood and walked away, leaving him standing there with the brush in his hand. “He said he did not know if he loved me.”

Her brother’s sigh of relief was as loud as a winter wind. “That is not the same thing at all, as you well know. That is what every frightened man says when he is backed into a corner. We are like rats, you see; all we can think of is escape.”

Blythe turned her head, staring at him in disbelief over her shoulder. “Rats? You liken your own sex to rats?”

He nodded agreeably. “Varya thought it a very appropriate analogy. Devlin does not know his feelings any better than you do, but unlike you, who initially wanted to say yes, his first thought was not to do anything that might trap him in a bad situation.”

She turned to face him, fists on her hips. “How might marrying me be a bad situation?”

“My darling baby sister.” Miles tossed the brush on her dressing table. It clattered against her cosmetic jars. “There is not an unmarried man alive who truly believes marriage to be a good situation.”

He was mad. “That is ridiculous!” But didn’t she feel the same way on some level? She had felt backed into a corner by the overwhelming conclusion that she and Devlin would have to marry, and so she had done everything she could to fight her way out—including hurting Devlin’s feelings.

He shrugged. “Women are taught from the cradle that marriage is something to be aspired to as soon as possible. Men are taught that marriage robs them of all freedom.”

“At least you have freedom. Women do not have any!”

The smile that curved his lips was condescending at best. “I think you have enjoyed plenty of freedom in your life.”

Perhaps he had a point, but that didn’t make any of this easier.

“He said he didn’t believe in love.”

Miles didn’t seem surprised by that either. “I do not doubt that he believes that now, but if he truly did not believe in love, he would not have spent his entire life trying to earn it.”

“Earn it?” What did Miles know that she didn’t? Probably a lot. He had known Devlin for several years.

Her brother ran a hand through his thick russet hair. “Did Devlin happen to tell you anything about his parents?”

Blythe nodded. “A little.” It wasn’t her place to share the details.

“He never spoke much about it, but it did not take a genius to figure out that he was out to prove himself to them. He became the perfect soldier. It did not matter what the mission was. Devlin would volunteer for it and he would do it, and afterward you would find him sitting off alone somewhere, cleaning his rifle. Nothing he did ever seemed to please him, as though he was holding himself up against an invisible standard.”

Blythe saw where he was going with this. “You think it was his parents’ approval?”

Miles shrugged. “I think so, but his mother died while he was away and his father died not too long ago.”

He hadn’t mentioned that. When her father died Blythe had gone into full mourning for a year. Devlin came to a house party.

“Do you remember Viscount Creed at all?”

Blythe’s eyes widened. “The drunkard?” Hadn’t there been some scandal attached to the oldest son—the heir? Something about him doing something very rude at a party—something that included a punch bowl.

He nodded. “That was Devlin’s father. His mother was of course Lady Creed, who became known as one of the coldest, unhappiest women in England. The only love in Dev’s life came from his brothers and what he saw of his father with his mistress—an often volatile relationship.”

No wonder Devlin had such a horrible notion of love and marriage. He’d grown up in a house where two people who should adore each other couldn’t stand each other.

“Oh Miles.” She sighed. “I do not know what to do.” Did she go to Devlin and tell him she’d changed her mind about marriage—when she really didn’t know if she had or not—and hope he’d actually ask her to become his wife? Or did she wait? And if she waited, did she run the risk of losing him in the process?

He laid a warm hand on her shoulder. “I will make it easy for you. You either marry Devlin or you come to London.”

She raised her gaze to his with a smile. “And if I refuse to do either?”

“You do not have a choice.”

He wasn’t joking. “Miles—”

“I mean it, Blythe.” His tone brooked no refusal, and she knew better than to try. “For two years I have watched you hide away here in the country, and I will not stand for it any longer. You will either marry Devlin or you will come to London when Varya and I return. It is your choice, but those are your only choices.”

What was worse—marriage to a man who might never love her or returning to London long enough to figure out what she wanted?

Marriage, definitely. She would rather lose Devlin forever than enter into a loveless union.

She believed that. Truly. She just had to keep reminding herself of it. She had almost married a man who didn’t love her once, and he made a fool of her. It would not happen again. She had too much pride to let it happen again.

“I need to think about it.” She covered the hand on her shoulder with her own. “Would you mind if I let you know later?”

He smiled sympathetically. “Of course not.” He kissed her forehead. “I love you, brat. I am sorry if it does not always seem that way.”

Blythe’s eyes stung with tears. She was turning into a watering pot. “I know.”

Miles left the bedroom just as Blythe’s maid entered.

“Good morning, Suki. Oh, you brought tea, bless you.”

“Some of Lord Wynter’s guests are leaving today, I see,” the young maid remarked later as she separated Blythe’s hair into thick sections to be twisted and pinned.

Blythe took a sip of tea. “Yes, thank God. It will be nice to have a little peace and quiet again.”

Suki twisted a thick chunk of hair. “I daresay you are right, my lady. I hope you do not mind me speaking so freely, but things will be a lot more comfortable belowstairs without us having Lady Ashby to deal with.”

Chuckling, Blythe set her cup and saucer on the vanity. “She has left, has she?”

“Oh yes.” Suki wound Blythe’s hair into a smooth coil. “She and Lord Ashby departed this morning shortly after Mr. Ryland.”

Blythe froze. Devlin was gone? “Where did Mr. Ryland go, Suki?”

The maid seemed surprised by her question. “Did you not hear, my lady? He’s gone to stay at his own estate. At Rosewood. He said he could oversee the repairs from there.”

A cold chill settled over Blythe’s heart. Devlin was gone.
She felt his absence as surely as she would feel the loss of a limb. He had left her.

Perhaps the thought of staying under the same roof as the woman who refused to marry him was more than he could bear. Or perhaps he didn’t care for her as much as he claimed. No, she didn’t want to think that.

It really didn’t matter one way or another. Devlin’s leaving didn’t change things. He still didn’t love her and she didn’t know how she felt about him. Right now she was a little miffed that he had left without so much as a farewell.

However, knowing that he was gone made her decision that much easier. In fact, she decided right then and there what she was going to do. She wasn’t going to chase after him to Rosewood. He knew where she was if he decided he loved her. In the meantime, she would do something about her future. Miles was right. It was time to stop hiding.

“You will need to start packing for us, Suki,” she said as the last pin was slid into her hair. “Make sure you take enough to do us both for quite some time. We’re going to London.”

The day Blythe was to leave for London, Devlin rose earlier than normal. Hell, who was he trying to fool? You couldn’t rise when you hadn’t slept.

Miles had sent him a note the day before, detailing the particulars of their departure. No doubt the marquess hoped Devlin might still talk his younger sister into being his bride.

If only he could, but he knew that nothing he could say could change Blythe’s mind. Unless he lied.

They would be leaving at ten o’clock. They would wait until five minutes past ten if Devlin wanted to say good-bye—or anything else of importance. If not, they hoped to see him in town at a later date.

Him, in London? It was laughable. He hated London—not so much the city but the society. People treated him like a trained parrot, only interested in his war activities, never in
him. Well, he knew how to fix that, didn’t he? He could tell them he was a killer.

He wasn’t going to think of that now. He had more important things to tend to.

A leisurely soak in the bathtub, followed by a close shave and a strong cup of coffee, got him feeling some semblance of normalcy. The war and the dreams that followed once he returned home from Waterloo had made him used to getting very little sleep at night, but he didn’t want to look like shite when Blythe saw him.

He dressed in soft buckskins and a dark green jacket. His cravat was tied in a simple knot because he didn’t know any other styles, and his boots were polished to the highest shine old leather could achieve.

“I still look like a frigging farmer,” he muttered at the reflection in the mirror.

After breakfast and another cup of coffee, he went out to the stables to talk to the groom and ready Flynn. He wasted as much time as he could before anxiety finally drove him onto the massive horse’s back and on the road to Brixleigh.

He hadn’t seen her for days, not since the night she’d made her opinions of love and marriage clear. It had been hell to stay away; even more hellish was the waiting—and hoping—that she would come to him.

But he had kept his promise. Every night as he climbed into that huge mahogany bed in his chamber, he thought of her and that day he had held her and kissed her on the counterpane. Each night the scene had grown and changed in his mind, until finally it wasn’t just a kiss they shared. He removed her clothes, she removed his, and then he made love to her until they were too exhausted to move.

No wonder he was having trouble sleeping. All he could think about were those full, wide lips; strong, slender hands; and long, firm legs—and everything else, of course, even her narrow, bony feet.

He missed her. Missed her more than he had missed England or his family when he first went to the Peninsula. In fact, he’d come to realize that Blythe was a lot of “more thans” for him.

Missing a person eventually went away, did it not? Back then he had gotten used to his new surroundings and made friends to replace his brothers. Some of those friends had died, and few filled the void Brahm, Wynthrope, and North had left, but they had made being away from home easier. Someday he might find someone to fill the void Blythe left behind as well.

The very idea of never holding her again, never touching her again, made his chest ache, but it wasn’t unbearable. Shouldn’t it be unbearable if he loved her? Perhaps if he didn’t know he would be seeing her in a little while it would be harder to accept. Perhaps love didn’t hurt as much as the poets claimed.

Or perhaps he was no closer to believing in the elusive emotion, or trusting in it than he had been before coming to Devonshire. Perhaps the only thing that had changed was that since meeting Blythe, since becoming obsessed with Blythe, he hadn’t dreamed about the war as much as he used to. Now he dreamed about her, which was almost as tormenting.

He’d be a good husband to her. He wouldn’t stray—not ever. He would be loyal until the day he died. He would never get drunk and say horrible things. He wouldn’t be cold and unforgiving. And if they had children, he would make sure they all knew that he loved them. He would spend time with them and let them know that they could always come to him, always trust in him.

Odd, how he believed so deeply in the love of family, but not in the love between man and woman. He loved his brothers and knew they loved him. Of all the things he had doubted in his life, his brothers had never been among them, even when it looked as though Brahm was headed down the same dark road as their father. He had kept his faith.

It was that same faith that had him in the saddle, bound for Brixleigh. He might not be smart enough to understand them, he might wonder at the depth and meaning of them, but he had faith in his feelings for Blythe. And he had faith in her feelings for him, despite the little voice in the back of his head that insisted of
course
she would never marry a man like him, not when she deserved so much better.

The carriage was sitting in the drive when he rode up to the front of Brixleigh Park. Footmen loaded luggage on top of it and into a second cart already piled high with boxes and trunks, no doubt more than half of which belonged to Blythe and Varya.