Authors: For the First Time
Kathryn Smith (3 page)
And here she was staring at him like he was a stallion on the block at Tattersall’s! What was wrong with her? She had met plenty of men before, and never had she stopped to study one in such detail—except for Carny. But Carny was a very handsome man. Many people stared at him.
No doubt many people stared at this man as well, especially when he was on the back of such a horse!
“His name is Flynn.” He spoke without glancing at her, but Blythe couldn’t help the feeling that he had been aware of her watching him.
“Flynn? Not Zeus or Aries, or something equally heroic?”
He smiled at her teasing tone, but it was a sad smile. “I named him after the Irishman who gave him to me.”
She knew without asking that the Irishman was dead, and that to this man, the name Flynn was more heroic than Aries or Zeus ever could be.
Stepping down from the door, Blythe stripped off her glove and offered the stranger her hand. “My name is Blythe.”
He towered over her as his hand engulfed hers. His touch sent a tingle through her hand, like a tickle, only under the skin. How strange to have to look up to a man—really look up. At six feet tall, Blythe didn’t often have to look up at anyone. How wonderful and unsettling it was to feel small!
“Devlin.”
She smiled. “It is nice to meet you, Devlin.”
His gaze bore into hers, staring at her with a warmth that rivaled John Dobson’s attentions. It was all she could do not to blush. She was too old to blush. “Likewise, Blythe.”
The sound of her name on his lips sent a warm shiver
down her spine. His voice, a strange combination of rough and smooth, was like a rich, plush velvet rubbed the wrong way—pleasant friction.
She had to let go of his hand and go back to the house or she’d never be ready for dinner in time. She knew this, and yet pulling her fingers free of his left her feeling strangely bereft. There was something about this man—
Devlin
—that made her feel as though she had known him all her life.
Reluctantly, she bid him good day and left the stables. It wasn’t until she was halfway to the house that she realized exactly who he was.
Devlin. Devlin Ryland.
The realization was enough to bring her to a dead stop. No. It couldn’t be. That incredible man with that deep voice who named his horse after a dead man could
not
be Devlin Ryland. But he was. He had to be. How many Devlins could there be at one house party? It wasn’t a common name.
Devlin Ryland, the one man to make her heart skip a beat in two years, was the same man who had taken Carny to Teresa Vega and saved his life.
And consequently, ruined Blythe’s.
Miles and Carny had some explaining to do.
In the middle of the Marquess of Wynter’s gold drawing room, surrounded by a bevy of party guests insisting that he regale them with daring and romantic recollections of the war against Napoleon, Devlin tried to prove entertaining while his gaze searched the opulent, gilded room for a glimpse of the incredible Lady Blythe.
Miles and Carny had always made her sound like a tomboy, a hoyden. Nothing they told him could have prepared him for the feline-eyed amazon he’d met in the stables earlier. He would never have put two and two together if she hadn’t told him her name, even though her height should have been a dead giveaway.
This was the most physically perfect woman he had ever seen. There was nothing fragile about her in face or appearance, but there was no mistaking her femininity. She was all woman.
“I’m afraid I never actually came face to face with Napoleon,” he replied, when one female guest asked about the Corsican. She seemed disappointed. Or at least he thought it was disappointment. It was hard to tell when the top of her head reached somewhere in the vicinity of his elbow. “I caught little more than a glimpse of him at Waterloo.”
“Waterloo,” came the breathy echo, as though it were some kind of mythical place rather than a blood-soaked field where too many soldiers found out just how mortal they really were.
“How very disappointing.”
Devlin turned at the new voice, anticipation stirring in his blood. How long had it been since the sound of a woman’s voice had been enough to garner such a response from him? Too long.
If Lady Blythe had looked good in trousers and boots, she was even more stunning in a shimmering gown of gold silk that matched the room around them. The low neckline revealed the long column of her throat and enough of her impressive bosom to entice without being vulgar. No cosmetics touched her face. Her skin, pale with a hint of rose along the high bones of her cheeks, was void of powder. Her lashes were naturally dark, as were her sharply arched brows. Her nose was long and straight. Her mouth was full and wide—on anyone else it would look too big for her face, but it suited Lady Blythe. Her hair, which was a rich, deep auburn, was piled on top of her head in an intricate style that added several inches to her already staggering height. Every inch of her was big and bold, and she didn’t try to hide herself. He liked that—and he straightened his own shoulders because of it.
Devlin sketched a bow. “It was no disappointment to miss Bonaparte, I assure you, Lady Blythe.”
“That is not what I meant,” she purred in that husky tone of hers, taking a glass of champagne from the tray a footman offered her. “Every man in the room seems to be talking about that wretched war, even though it ended two years ago. I was rather hoping you might discuss something else, Mr. Ryland.”
“What would you have him discuss, Lady Blythe?” the woman who came up to his elbow asked with a snicker.
“Crops?”
Blythe didn’t even spare her a glance, but Devlin saw a flush of embarrassment tint her high cheekbones. She held his gaze. “I admire the cut of your trousers, Mr. Ryland. Perhaps you can give me the name of your tailor?”
The woman and her companion gasped as Devlin fought to keep from laughing. It was shocking enough that Lady Blythe asked for the name of his tailor, and even more shocking that she spoke of admiring his trousers! He wondered if she really had been, or if she was simply out to appall the matron.
“You shocked her,” he needlessly remarked as the woman walked away, taking the rest of the crowd with her.
Blythe’s smile was wry. “I must warn you, I have developed a flair for dispersing crowds.”
“I don’t mind.” He didn’t either. He’d much rather be the center of this one woman’s attention than that of everyone else in the room. Odd, that. He normally didn’t like
any
kind of attention.
She eyed him curiously. “No, I did not think you would. When I first entered the room you looked so pained, I thought perhaps Lady Montrose had jabbed you with her lorgnette.”
Her dry tone brought a smile to his lips. “She is no different from anyone else who has never experienced war. They all seem to think it an adventure.”
“Not I.” She took a sip of champagne, pinning him with her gaze.
His smile faded. “Because your brother fought. You know the truth.”
“I suspect the only ones who know the truth are those of you who made it home. Champagne?”
Devlin’s attention jerked from the woman who had so succinctly summed up what he believed to be true, to the expectant footman who had suddenly appeared at his side. “No. Thank you.”
Blythe arched a brow as the man walked away. “You do not drink?”
“I’ve already had one.”
Her smile was something between disbelief and admiration. “A gentleman who does not like to talk about himself, who does not imbibe to excess and thanks the help. You are a rare creature indeed, Mr. Ryland.”
It took a great deal of strength not to preen under her praise. “I think perhaps you are a rarity yourself.”
Most women would have blushed and batted their eyelashes at such a remark. Lady Blythe looked at him with something that seemed very much like uncertainty in her gaze.
“Because of my height.”
The defiant edge in her voice, coupled with the self-awareness in her eyes, wiped all traces of humor from Devlin’s face. “Because you are different. Your height affects who you are just as much as mine does.”
She smiled faintly. “Perhaps that is why I feel more comfortable talking to you than to people I’ve known for years. You know what it’s like to have to look down at most people.”
Oh yes, he understood exactly what she meant. “And now you can look up.”
Blythe nodded. “Yes.”
“But what about me?” he asked with mock injury, as he leaned closer. Good lord, he was flirting! “I still have to look down.”
She looked up at him with a gaze that was part amused, part intrigued, and part coy. “Yes, but not as far.”
Devlin laughed. She had him there. But her words con
jured up—just for a split second—a vision of himself on his knees before this woman, gazing up at her as though she were a goddess to be worshipped. And with that came the realization that with his face on the same level as her hips, his idea of worship would be no doubt more pleasing for the lady than offering her a dead lamb.
They stood in silence for a moment, simply smiling at each other. By God, he couldn’t explain it, but he
liked
this woman. Ever since he had first laid eyes on Blythe that afternoon, his thoughts kept coming back to her. He admired her, though he barely knew her. He respected her, though they were strangers. And he wanted her. As he stood so close, breathing in the heady scent of her, his mind was filled with images of what it would be like to lie with a woman so tall and strong.
A woman,
a voice in his head whispered,
who seemed to be made for him.
“Ah, I see you two have met.”
The spell was broken as Miles and Carny joined them. Blythe’s face became completely void of expression, and her bright eyes lost all traces of good humor. Why? He’d been led to believe that Blythe was close to both men, especially to Miles, her brother.
“Yes,” he replied. “Lady Blythe and I met earlier this afternoon.” He intentionally left out the particulars. His first meeting with Blythe was something he wanted to keep for himself, for some strange reason. And was it his imagination, or did she move closer to him when Carny came to stand beside her?
“It is good to see you again, Blythe.” There was an edge of hopefulness in Carny’s voice that Devlin didn’t quite understand.
“Is it?” Her voice was hard and tight, her jaw clenched.
Miles’s expression sobered. “Blythe.”
There was obviously something going on among the three
of them that Devlin was not privy to. The air was charged with sudden tension. Both men stared at Blythe, one with regret, the other with apprehension, and Lady Blythe’s attention was focused solely on him, as though she were looking to him for support.
He would give her whatever was in his means to give, even though it meant opposing two of his oldest friends. Even though he had no idea what he was walking into.
“Might I have a word with you, Blythe?” Carny asked.
Blythe’s cheeks flamed as she stared at the carpet. “I would rather eat worms.”
His eyes bright with anger, Miles shot an apologetic glance at Devlin. “Blythe, you have forgotten your manners. What kind of impression do you think you are giving Devlin?”
Lifting her head, Blythe looked from her brother to Devlin. She ignored Carny. “Surely Mr. Ryland will forgive my rudeness. No doubt he knows the history between Lord Carnover and myself.”
History? Devlin couldn’t keep his surprise from showing. “I have never heard anything but good about you from Carny, Lady Blythe.”
It was her turn to look surprised. Miles looked murderous, and poor Carny looked downright humiliated.
“Oh, then you don’t know?” Blythe’s tone was laden with deceptively sweet innocence. “Before he went to Waterloo and found himself a wife, Lord Carnover and I were engaged to be married.”
H
umiliating Carny hadn’t felt nearly as good as it should have.
In fact, what little satisfaction there was had paled when held up against the tongue-lashing Miles was bound to deliver once he got her alone.
Devlin Ryland hadn’t looked too impressed by her outburst either. He’d just stood there, frowning. Who the frown was directed at, Blythe couldn’t say, but she had a sneaky suspicion that it was she.
At least he wasn’t frowning now. He wasn’t doing anything but eating. Around him, seated around the long, food-laden table, people laughed and chatted, but he seemingly paid no heed. He concentrated on his plate, carefully cutting his food, putting it in his mouth, chewing and swallowing. Occasionally he would take a sip from his glass of wine, but by the time most people were on their third or fourth glass, he was still on his first.
Blythe tried not to stare, truly she did, but no matter what she turned her attention to, it always ended up centered right back on Devlin. He intrigued her, and she couldn’t quite put
her finger on why. The way he looked in the stark darkness of his evening attire might have something to do with it, as the looks of all men were improved by such finery. His height was certainly part of it, but there was more. She liked the way he truly seemed to listen when someone spoke to him. She liked that he treated women the same as men—he didn’t flirt or flatter, not even when it was done to him. In fact, such attention from women seemed to make him uneasy, at least from what she had seen over dinner.
And there had been a lot of flirting. Lady Ashby vied with Lady Trundel for his attention, both of them all but hopping up on the table and offering themselves for his pleasure.
“Do tell us, Mr. Ryland, what it is like to be a hero,” Lady Ashby urged. “Is it very tiresome having all the ladies swooning at your feet?”
There were a few chuckles at this—mostly from Lady Ashby herself. One gentleman remarked that he didn’t think having ladies swooning over him would be very tiresome at all.
Devlin forced a smile. Blythe knew it was forced because both sides of his mouth curved up. In her brief acquaintance with the man she already knew that his natural smile was lopsided.
“I try not to pay much attention to that sort of thing, Lady Ashby,” he replied, taking a sip of his wine. He seemed to swish it around a bit before swallowing, as though there was a bad taste in his mouth.
Lady Ashby appeared both charmed and confused. “My dear Mr. Devlin, whyever not?”
“Because if someone hadn’t stuck the title of ‘hero’on me, most of those ladies would not swoon over me for two hundred pounds.”
Blythe opened her mouth to say something, anything to correct him, but Lady Ashby beat her to it. “Oh my dear sir, I am sure that is not true at all. Even without being branded a
hero, a big, strong gentleman like yourself has
many
charms that could make a lady weak in the knees.”
Good Lord, was she foxed? No, Lady Ashby was perfectly—astonishingly—sober. Her meaning was scandalously clear, and a few of the more ribald guests laughed uproariously, but Devlin did not.
He smiled at Lady Ashby, a more genuine smile this time, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You will have to ask my wife when I’m lucky enough to have one. Hers will be the only knees I’ll be concerned with.”
Oh, she could jump up and hug him! Instead, Blythe settled for laughing. Even Lady Ashby, to her credit, chuckled at his sally, though she didn’t look all that amused. It was well known that she had a penchant for young, virile men. At least she wouldn’t be able to add Devlin to her ever growing list of conquests.
Why this made her so happy Blythe did not know. Perhaps the instant liking she had taken to Devlin, despite the fact that his act of heroism had brought about her heartbreak, made her want him to be better than other men. Stronger, not so weak-willed or easily caught by a pair of large breasts and fluttering eyelashes. Setting him apart from the rest of his sex was not a wise idea. She had done the same to Carny, and the disappointment still stung.
Devlin must have heard her laughter, for he turned his head toward her. He smiled—crookedly—his dark eyes alight with boyish mischief. It was as though they were sharing a private joke or a moment of complete understanding. Whatever it was sent a frisson of awareness shooting through Blythe’s entire being—the kind of awareness a woman feels toward an attractive man.
Oh dear.
This could not continue.
“Speaking of marriage,” Lady Ashby continued, interrupting the moment. “When are you going to finally settle down, Lady Blythe?”
All eyes turned toward her, but Blythe wasn’t the least bit embarrassed. She’d been asked the same question at least a thousand times ever since her come-out and had her answer pared down to the shortest response she could give without seeming rude.
“When I am fortunate enough to find the right man, Lady Ashby.”
There were, of course, more than a few chuckles at this. One person not laughing was Devlin Ryland. In fact, he looked as though he would very much like to ask for a description of the “right man.”
If she listed the attributes she had in mind, how many of them would he possess?
Oh dear, dear, dear.
Lady Ashby laughed the hardest, or rather, the
loudest.
Somehow she managed to do it without changing her faintly amused expression—probably to avoid wrinkling her delicate ivory skin. Whatever the reason, it was somewhat disconcerting to see a lady laugh without really looking as though she enjoyed it.
“My dear girl,” Lady Ashby trilled. “There is no such thing as the
right
man. There is only the
tolerable.
”
How could a woman who flirted with and bedded as many men as Lady Ashby have such a low opinion of their sex?
Perhaps it was because she’d been with so many that she had such a low opinion. The more men Blythe herself became acquainted with, the more cynical she became.
Blythe pretended to find great humor in the other woman’s remarks. “Of course! Now I see what I have been doing wrong. I shall lower my expectations immediately. Thank you, Lady Ashby.”
Of course, laughter followed her wry pronouncement. The only people not laughing were Devlin and Carny. Devlin’s expression was curious, if not pleasant, but Carny simply sat there with a guilty look on his face. It was a little late for him to have regrets now.
You have no one but yourself to blame, Carny. Look as guilty as you want. I am invulnerable to it.
“I think you should keep your expectations as high as you want, Blythe,” Varya commented from her seat higher up the table. Miles shot her a curious glance.
Blythe smiled. Trust Varya to always be on her side. “Oh? Why is that?”
Her sister-in-law smiled serenely. “Any man worth his salt would accept the challenge to live up to them.”
The ladies laughed, the gentlemen protested, but only one person asked the question that made Blythe’s heart falter in her breast.
“Any man worth his salt would already live up to them. Is that not right, Lady Blythe?”
Taking a sip of wine to combat the sudden dryness in her throat, Blythe met Devlin’s curious gaze with a level one of her own. “Quite, Mr. Devlin.”
He smiled. Was that the sound of a gauntlet being thrown down? And why did her heart beat faster with anticipation rather than dread? It had been so long since it pounded in response to any man but Carny.
This was not good. This was very bad indeed.
Carny was still looking at her as though he wanted to tear his own heart out and offer it to her in penance, seemingly oblivious to his own wife a little farther down the table. Blythe didn’t want his guilt, not now. She wanted him to be sorry and mean it. That was all. All the guilt in the world couldn’t compare to a smidgen of regret.
After dinner, when the gentlemen were left to their port and cigars and the ladies followed Varya to the drawing room, Blythe took advantage of the lull to steal away for a moment’s peace.
She found solitude in Varya’s music room. Flopping onto a pale blue sofa, she blew out a long, gusty sigh. She had been
too long away from society if a simple dinner party could wear upon her so.
She toed off her slippers. Ahh, that was better. The air cooled her wriggling toes as she fell back into the sofa’s cushioned embrace. She simply sat there and enjoyed the relative silence. It would be a commodity hard to come by in the weeks to come.
A little while later she entertained the idea of not rejoining the party. It would be wrong of her not to. But would anyone notice if she spent the rest of the evening hiding in here? Oddly enough, she suspected Devlin Ryland would notice. The thought warmed her far more than it should have.
Oh Lord, how could she have been so rude to mention her and Carny’s engagement in front of him? He didn’t deserve to be dragged into their mess. He must think her so totally without manners and propriety. And yet, during dinner, he hadn’t looked at her as though he found her lacking.
“May I join you?” said a voice from the door.
Blythe froze, trembling ever so slightly.
Oh no. Not now.
Looking up, she met Carny’s pale gaze as he entered the room, impeccably dressed in buff breeches and a dark blue coat. His smile was rueful, as though he regretted the scene she had made in front of Devlin Ryland as much as she did.
She didn’t bother to stand. “If I say yes, will you run out on me as is your habit?”
There was some satisfaction in watching the color drain from his tanned cheeks. Once, shortly after his return from Belgium—when he returned to England with his
wife
—he had tried to apologize for his actions, but Blythe hadn’t thought he was really all that sorry. He had been too blissfully in love to be properly remorseful. Now, many, many months later, he looked almost as sorry as he should be for dashing all her hopes.
Almost.
“We were not betrothed, Blythe. Not formally.”
An icy heat crept up Blythe’s cheeks, and she resisted the urge to stand so that they were eye to eye because then she might be tempted to smash her fist into the perfection of his face.
“You asked me to wait for you. You told me that when you returned you were going to marry me. People expected it to happen—
I
expected it to happen. Had I known it would have taken being shot to actually get you to the altar I would have put a ball into you before you left.”
It was unkind of her to remind him of how he had almost died at Waterloo. Perhaps on some level she even understood how he could have betrayed her after coming so close to death. Devlin Ryland might have saved his life, but it had been Carny’s wife—Teresa—who had nursed him, kept the fevers and infections at bay. She must have been like an angel from heaven to him, while Blythe herself became little more than a distant memory.
A distant memory who had commissioned a seamstress to construct her wedding gown while her soon-to-be-betrothed romanced another woman. How she despised him for that. She had been so happy, so young and certain in his devotion—in her own. Never once had she suspected his love wasn’t true. Not once. And that was what she hated most. He had fooled her, and that one mistake had cost her so much, hurt her so deeply that she swore never to allow it to happen again.
The next time she fell prey to a man she would have his admission of love long before she ever gave hers. His heart would be in her hand before he held hers. She would not open herself up to hurt again.
That was if she ever met another man who made her want to take a chance on love. Here in Devonshire, the chances of that happening were wonderfully small.
Standing just a few feet away, Carny gripped the back of a dainty French chair. He seemed more interested in watching his fingers curl around the gilded wood than he was in looking at her. Blythe kept her own gaze focused squarely on his face, forcing herself to see him as a man, flawed and imperfect rather than the hero she had always believed him to be.
There were far too many heroes at Brixleigh right now.
“I never meant to injure you,” he murmured, his gaze resting somewhere in the vicinity of her nose. “Surely you know that.”
“Actually,” she replied, “I sincerely doubt I crossed your mind at all. I believe the person whose feelings you were most concerned with was yourself, and while I find that dishonorable, I am afraid I cannot hold it against you.”
Now his gaze snapped to hers. The surprise there was almost laughable. “You cannot?”
“No.” It was true. She had no idea what he had gone through at Waterloo, had never experienced what war could do to a person’s heart and mind. For all she knew, she might have done the same if the roles had been reversed. Although she perhaps would have handled things a
bit
differently.
A portrait of a distant ancestor hung on the far wall. It was tempting to stare at it rather than Carny, but he deserved to have her unwavering attention as she finally told him the truth of what was in her heart.
“What I cannot forgive you for, Carny, is for letting me believe you loved me in the first place. You obviously did not; otherwise your brush with death would have made you realize it, rather than turning your attentions to someone else. You have apologized for almost everything else, but you have never once said you were sorry for deceiving me where your feelings were concerned.”
He said nothing. In fact, he appeared to be incapable of speech of any kind. Blythe, on the other hand, was filled with
a strange, bustling elation. She had done it. She had confronted Carny. She hadn’t made a fool out of herself, nor did she feel any regret for having spoken as plainly as she had. She felt curiously relieved and free. His hold was slipping, but the scars were still fresh and far too tender.
His brow puckering, Carny opened his mouth, but whatever he was about to say was lost as Devlin Ryland entered the room, looking very dark and dangerous in head-to-toe black, save for the snowy white of his shirt and cravat. He begged no pardons for his interruption, nor did he try to pretend he had stumbled upon them by accident.
