For the First Time (18 page)

As soon as she entered the ballroom and her name was announced, Blythe was aware of the stares. Some of them were appreciative, others were not. But there were more smiling faces than frowning ones, and more than one person was heard to remark favorably on her appearance.

There was no sign of Devlin. A man his size couldn’t possibly hide at such a gathering, no matter how he tried. He wouldn’t try, however. He would be where everyone could see him and be damned if they didn’t like the view. It was she who was accomplished at hiding, even in a room full of people.

Not tonight, however. Tonight she was going to stand with her shoulders back and her head high. She was going to dance with every man who asked, no matter how short or tall. She was going to make an effort to talk to other ladies her age, and especially to those who were younger and more shy. Tonight she was going to show everyone that she knew how to be a lady, and show Devlin Ryland that she wasn’t at home crying over him.

She’d cried before she came.

She danced the allemande with Letitia Rexley’s brother Julian, Lord Wolfram. He was a nice gentleman, a little taller than herself, but far too pretty for Blythe’s liking. That was all right; she didn’t think she suited his preferences either.

As Lord Wolfram escorted her back to Varya and Miles, a ripple of excitement ran through the crowd. Blythe didn’t have to hear the whispers to know what had everyone so agitated. Devlin Ryland had arrived. She knew it as surely as she knew how to breathe.

Like everyone else she turned her attention toward the door, watching as a path cleared through the little crowd. People stepped back to let him through.

He came into view seconds later, a lean giant with shining sable hair. He’d had it cut recently, she noted. It was a little shorter than she remembered, and neater.

Unlike the other gentlemen present, most of whom wore the standard black evening dress, Devlin wore the “rifle green” jacket of the Ninety-fifth Rifle Corps. The dark jackets were made to fit snugly, and only a lean man with a broad chest and shoulders could carry it off successfully. Devlin was such a man. The horizontal black braid accentuated the width of his chest just as the accompanying red sash showcased the leanness of his waist. Silver buttons lined both sides of the braiding, glinting like newly minted coins under the chandeliers.

His cravat, stock, and gloves were black, as were his trousers. New and crisp, they hugged his long legs without being the vulgarly tight style many gentlemen preferred. Even his shoes were polished to a high gloss.

He must have shaved just before leaving because only the faintest shadow showed along his jaw. Good Lord, he cleaned up well. Never at Brixleigh had he succeeded in looking as sharp and handsome as he did now.

Even though she liked it, Blythe’s chest pinched at his appearance. Where was her Devlin? The scruffy, slouching giant who didn’t give a fig about his appearance?

Perhaps he would wonder the same about her. Had he taken these extra pains for the same reason? Had he sought to impress her?

He’d certainly succeeded.

He was headed straight toward them. His path never faltered even as he slowed to respond to the greetings called out to him or shake hands with someone who stopped him with a hand on his arm.

He was probably coming to say hello to Miles. Everyone knew they were friends. Carny and Teresa were present as well. Perhaps he wanted to inquire after them. It had to be something other than her, because Blythe would not—even if he was dressed to impress—allow herself to believe that Devlin’s sole purpose in coming there that night was to see her. Not when he’d been in town for a week and not come to call.

He smiled at ladies Jersey and Pennington—not his real smile, but that patently fake one that curved his mouth on both sides—before stopping in front of Miles. Was she disappointed or relieved that he hadn’t come straight to her?

Activity started back up again, even though much attention remained fixed on Devlin. Being out of society so long, Blythe had no idea that his effect on the general populace was so strong. If the usually fickle
ton
held him up so high, what did his fellow soldiers feel for him?

“Good evening, Lady Blythe.” He bowed.

Heart hammering, she raised her gaze to his. Lord, he was so tall! And his eyes—they seemed to see deep within her. They shone as though they knew all her secrets and darkened as though he wanted to tell her all of his.

She wanted to know them, the topmost on her list being how a man so adored could think he had never known love. The second was whether he still wanted to marry her, because seeing him right now, looking at her the way he was, she’d be very tempted to toss her principles to the wind and say yes.

If he ever asked, that was, she thought with an inward smile.

Somehow she remembered to curtsy. “Good evening, Mr. Ryland.”

His lips curved—into a real smile this time. How she loved that little lopsided smile. “I wonder if anyone has claimed you for the first waltz of the evening.”

Claimed her.
Not the dance, but her. A shiver thrilled
through her. She didn’t have to consult her dance card to answer. “No, that dance is open.”

Just for a second his gaze dipped to her cleavage, and a warm rush of blood flooded Blythe’s cheeks as his gaze once more met hers. “Then I ask that you save it for me.”

From the pounding of her heart someone might think he’d asked for her soul rather than just a dance.

“It would be my pleasure, sir.”

His smile grew, causing the same warmth that was in her cheeks to blossom elsewhere in her body.

“I assure you, Lady Blythe, the pleasure is all mine.”

Something in his tone of voice, the possessive way he looked at her, made warning bells go off in her head. Blythe didn’t know what he had in mind, but she did know one thing for certain.

She was in trouble.

Was the orchestra ever going to play a damn waltz?

Devlin watched moodily as Blythe danced with yet another gentleman. It was an entirely proper dance, of course, but that didn’t matter. Another man was touching his woman. As archaic a notion as it was, he wanted nothing more than to walk out onto the dance floor, swing her over his shoulder, and carry her off to his lair—or rather Brahm’s house, where he was living during his stay in London.

Apart from that, it was good to see her again—too good. The sight of her in that shimmering dress, her breasts high and bountiful, was enough to make suffering an evening in an itchy cravat and a tight jacket worthwhile.

She was beautiful, his amazon queen. Others saw it as well. He could tell by the way they looked at her, the things they said whenever she walked past. They noticed a change in her, the way she carried herself, the grace and ease with which she conducted every movement.

It was because of him—he knew it even if no one else did.
Whether Blythe’s confidence was a result of his attention or in spite of it, he wasn’t certain, but he knew that he was responsible for this change everyone spoke of. Good. If it made people see just how truly amazing she was, then he was proud of whatever involvement he had in it.

He wasn’t afraid of someone else seeing her true worth and pursuing her. They would pursue the lady they saw here tonight. They would try to win her with flowers and poetry—all the things she distrusted. They would compliment her looks and figure—things that meant very little to her. None of them would have the insight to know that she would rather talk of horses than gossip, or that the way to her heart was to treat her as a woman, not as a proper lady.

His Blythe was a mixture of sweet fragility and overwhelming strength, and the secret to winning her was to acknowledge that fragility while respecting the strength. So if she wanted to cry, he would let her cry, and if she wanted to arm wrestle, he’d accept her challenge and he would be serious about trying to defeat her, just as she would with him.

But right now he’d settle for a waltz.

The current dance ended and Devlin threaded his way through the crowd toward where Blythe and her partner were standing, chatting to Miles and Varya. Miles noticed his approach first and flashed him a grin so big Devlin almost laughed at it. His friend should have known that he wouldn’t give up on Blythe so easily.

He had left her moments after securing the first waltz. He hadn’t wanted to seem too eager for her company, and he had wanted her to see that he was considered something of a “good catch” by many of the mamas present. Perhaps she’d even be a little jealous when she saw him dance with other women.

If she was jealous, he didn’t know. She’d been too busy dancing with other men and making
him
jealous for him to notice.

She didn’t really
like
some of these fops, did she? Good
Lord, the one she’d just finished dancing with had diamond shoe buckles! What kind of man wore diamonds on his shoes? He was wearing heels as well. With them he was just barely the same height as she was. No, she couldn’t be interested in him at all.

Nor would she be interested in that last one—the one with lace on his cuffs. It was all Devlin could do not to grimace as he remembered it.

She looked up as he drew nearer, as though she sensed his approach. Her feline eyes brightened at the sight of him, warming his heart in a way he never thought possible. She couldn’t completely hide her feelings for him any more than he could hide his for her. His fingertips tingled at the thought of touching her, and his heart tripped heavily against his ribs.

She was his, even if she wouldn’t admit it. And soon, he would have her as his wife. Strong and stubborn Blythe might be, but he was stronger and even more stubborn. He hadn’t survived more than a decade in King George’s army just by being a good shot. He wanted her, in every way a man could have a woman, and he wanted to give himself to her. No matter that he wasn’t worthy of her love—he’d deal with that later. Love, if it existed, was secondary to having her in his life.

As luck would have it, the opening strains of a waltz began the moment he reached her. He nodded politely to her former partner, who still hadn’t left her side, and offered Blythe his arm.

“I believe this is my dance, Lady Blythe.”

“So it is, Mr. Ryland,” she replied, laying her hand on his sleeve. “Excuse me, Lord Mackleford.”

Heads turned as they approached the dance floor. What a picture they must make, he the tallest man in the room and she the tallest woman. Would the gossips consider them a good match? Or would they wonder why she would waste her time with a battered old soldier who had neither looks nor title to recommend him?

She pushed against his shoulder. “You are holding me closer than is proper.”

He held tight to her hand and waist, refusing to allow her any more room. “I know.”

“People will talk.”

He shrugged. “Let them.”

She relaxed some in his arms, as he steered her into the first turn. “It feels good to hold you again.”

Her lashes fluttered. How odd it was to see her so coy and flustered. “It feels good to be held.”

His heart thrilled at the words. Was it folly to feel this way? Did it make her as happy to say it as it did for him to hear it?

“How are you enjoying London?” He guided her closer to him as he asked the question. She didn’t seem to notice.

Blythe’s generous lips curved into an ironic smile. “It is not as I remembered.”

“Is that good or bad?” Bad would be good.

Her smile never faltered. “It is good, I think.”

Good meant that he would have to spend more time in London if he was going to court her. He hated London. The only thing that made all the stares and adulation bearable was knowing she was there as well. Going back to Rosewood without her, however, was not an option.

“How are you finding your time in the city?” Her tone was noticeably hesitant, as though she was afraid to hear his answer.

“Tolerable.”

She seemed genuinely bewildered. “Then why are you here?”

He gazed into the clear, unclouded depths of her eyes and allowed himself a smile. Did she truly not know? Or did she simply want to hear him say it? “You know why.”

Her lips parted in an inaudible gasp of surprise, perhaps at his bluntness or perhaps because she didn’t think he would answer honestly.

“I’m not leaving without you,” he continued. What had he to lose by being completely upfront about his intentions?

Some of the color left her face, then rushed back twofold. “Devlin, I thought we already discussed this.”

“We did, but I have always been more a man of action than a man of words.” How cocky that sounded! But it was true. He had always believed that what a man did meant far more than what he said.

The set of her jaw told him more than any words could have. She was not going to make it easy for him. “I cannot enter into a marriage without love.”

He opened his mouth to reply, and she cut him off, “I know, I know. You have not asked me to marry you.”

He smiled at her sweetly caustic tone and rolling eyes.

“But if you
did,
I cannot marry without love.”

He guided her through another twirl. “Then I shall just have to make you love me.”

Her steps faltered. Only his arm about her kept her from stumbling. She gazed up at him with frustration in her eyes and tension in her jaw. “That is a cruel jest.”

Poor amazon. She didn’t understand at all, did she? She had no idea how she affected him.

“I’m serious,” he replied, turning her yet again.

She stared at him, disbelief bright in her wide eyes. “What about you? Am I to attempt to make a man who does not know the emotion love me in return?”

He smiled. “That’s up to you, isn’t it?”

“And if it does not work?” Her eyes blazed with emotion—defiance, anger…hope.

“I would be more than happy to oblige you, my lady amazon, if only you would endeavor to try.”

She didn’t seem to know how to respond to that, and perhaps it was just as well. The music came to an end, and their time together was over. He released her.