Kathryn Smith (6 page)

And just what were her own? She hardly knew Devlin well enough to fancy herself in love. She liked him, that much was for sure, and she liked the feel of his arms around her and his body against hers. That merely made her wanton, not lovelorn. She would have to be careful and on her guard. Devlin Ryland was the kind of man she could actually imagine going to when those “urges” came upon her. She’d wager he’d not only stop the ache, but fill the emptiness inside her as well.

All of this after only a few days’acquaintance. Good Lord, what state would she be in by the time the house party finally ended?

Heated not only by her dance with Devlin, but by the direction of her thoughts, Blythe flipped open her fan and applied it vigorously to cooling her flushed face. She strode across the dance floor toward the French doors that led out into the courtyard. A little fresh air would set her to rights.

Outside the air was warm, but cooler than that of the ballroom. A soft breeze blew through the west archway. The house was built around the courtyard, forming a square. Arches were built into the east, west, and north sides to allow guests alternative ways in and out of the courtyard.

A kind of garden, the courtyard had a stone floor with a large fountain in the center. Mermaids, a regular topic of conversation in most seaside villages, frolicked in the constantly
burbling water. A table and several chairs were positioned under a canopy for the family or guests to dine alfresco if they wished. Rose bushes, potted shrubs, and marble statuary gave the courtyard its “garden” feel and seclusion. The courtyard was huge, and there were many private spots where the glow of the lanterns didn’t reach, especially toward the back where lovers could escape for a bit of privacy.

It wasn’t Blythe’s intention to go looking for such a display. She simply wanted to cool off and put all thoughts of Devlin Ryland out of her mind. Honestly, how foolish was she? A man paid attention to her and she immediately became infatuated with him. Maybe Miles was right. Maybe she needed to spend more time in town. A week or two in London ought to cure her of any romantic fantasies.

“Why are you acting this way?”

Blythe jumped at the harshly uttered question. Where had it come from?

“I do not understand you at all!”

A man and a woman, obviously having an argument. If she wasn’t mistaken, the lady was crying. Well, she wasn’t an eavesdropper, so she’d give them all the privacy they wanted.

“Teresa, my love. Please do not cry.”

Blythe froze. All thoughts of leaving vanished. It was Carny. Carny and his wife who were arguing. Why?

Oh, it was none of her business—in fact less so now than it had been before she discovered their identities—but she couldn’t help herself. Quietly, she crept closer to the wall of roses that separated her well-lit path from the dim corner that concealed the couple.

“You make me cry!” Teresa replied in her thick Spanish accent. “You are so mean sometimes!”

“You know I would never hurt you.”

Blythe grimaced. She’d heard
that
before. She had no doubt of Carny’s sincerity at this moment, but she hoped for Teresa’s sake that they didn’t go to war again anytime soon,
otherwise Carny might find someone he liked even better than her.

Oh, that wasn’t fair—not to Carny or to Teresa. Jilting her was one thing, but she couldn’t believe even Carny would forsake his marriage vows.

“Just go away. I have to stop crying and I will not stop with you here.”

“Teresa—”

“Go!”

Much to Blythe’s surprise, Carny did as he was told. Hugging the side of the bush so as not to be seen, Blythe watched him go as a dozen thorns bit into her backside. It was only that she would rather suffer pain than talk to Carny that kept her from cursing.

As soon as she was certain he was gone, Blythe moved away from the bush. She’d go back inside before Teresa—

“How much did you hear?”

—saw her.
Blast.

Turning, Blythe offered what she hoped was an apologetic smile and not the grimace it felt like. “More than I should have. My apologies.”

The little woman nodded, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. She looked so tiny, so fragile. Protectiveness rose up in Blythe’s breast, even as her common sense cried out in exasperation.

She did
not
want to befriend Carny’s wife. That would be too much, even for her.

“I know I would not be your first choice of a confidante, but…”
Sigh.
“Would you like to talk?”

Wide, dark eyes stared up at her from a tear-ravaged face. Another nod. “I would, yes.”

Blythe slipped an arm around the other woman’s narrow shoulders and led her to a bench further into the courtyard’s more secluded area.

Teresa didn’t say much about her marriage, and Blythe
couldn’t blame her for not trusting her with that immediately. They talked about themselves mostly, about their lives and families. And by the time Teresa’s tears had dried and her eyes didn’t seem quite so swollen, Blythe had found a friend.

Funny how one found things in the least likely of places.

The sun wasn’t far from rising by the time Devlin finally retired to his room. He hadn’t spent so much time on his feet since his soldier days. Of course, the ball had been a much more pleasant way to spend his time, not to mention much easier on his wardrobe.

He’d spent much of the evening talking to Miles and Carny and their charming wives, both of whom he had danced with. Dancing with Varya had been a little easier because she was taller, but dancing with Teresa had been sheer hell. She spent most of it laughing at him because he was so worried about doing something that might hurt her. She hadn’t been worried at all. Never mind that he was a foot and a half taller than she was, at least seven to eight stone heavier.

No, the only woman he had felt comfortable dancing with had been Lady Blythe, and not just because she was the perfect height—the perfect everything, so it seemed. She hadn’t made him feel awkward or nervous, even though it had been a long time since he had waltzed with a woman. And when she tossed back her head and laughed during that first dance…well, he’d lost a bit of what little heart he had to her right then and there.

Devlin didn’t know much about love. He loved his brothers, and he had felt a certain degree of emotion for the friends he’d lost during the war. He still got a little teary when he thought of Patrick Flynn. And he supposed, in a way, he had loved his parents as well, even though their deaths hadn’t wrenched even half a tear from him. One thing was certain; his parents hadn’t been overwhelmed with parental love for
their youngest son. How could they when he was a reminder of a night both viscount and viscountess would have preferred to forget?

Regardless of his own experiences, he knew of people who had been in love and professed to be in love still. Carny and Teresa, for example. He had watched them fall in love. Miles and Varya still seemed very taken with each other, so maybe there was such a thing as lasting love.

How did a person even know if he was in love anyway? Taking his rifle from its case, Devlin toed off his shoes and sat down in the chair by the window. He took a slightly oily, stained rag from a tin and started polishing the Baker’s barrel. Cleaning it every night before going to sleep had become a habit so long ago that it would feel stranger not to do it than to continue.

Perhaps a man knew he was in love when he started spouting poetry or buying the lady flowers. Perhaps it was more of an intuition, or perhaps it was simply sex. A man found a woman he could imagine bedding for the rest of his life, she agreed, and that was it. Maybe love was just really good sex with a nice woman.

It sounded like a good deal to him. His brother Wynthrope would certainly concur. So why did it sound so empty? A life spent with a decent woman—one you could safely call a friend—having a splendid physical relationship sounded like the perfect combination.

The problem wasn’t in the woman. The problem was in
him.
He had no trouble imagining being reasonably happy with such a woman, but what about her? He didn’t want to be just some nice man a lady thought she could spend her entire life mating with. He wanted to be the sun and the moon to his wife. He wanted adoration, trust, and complete devotion. He wanted to be loved the way the poets wrote about. He wanted to be the most important thing in some-one’s life.

And God help him, he wanted the same for himself.

He couldn’t imagine it ever happening. Couldn’t imagine a woman—one such as Lady Blythe—falling in love with a man like him. She deserved so much better than a man as damaged and damned as himself. And as much as he wanted to believe love existed, he couldn’t imagine feeling it, or someone feeling it for him.

He wanted her, that was for certain. Seeing her in that flimsy gold gown had only intensified that wanting. He had never been the kind of man who was easily ruled by his loins, but that night he had actually fantasized about taking Blythe into a dark room and making love to her until neither of them could stand.

She was Miles’s sister and Carny’s ex-fiancée. She was also far too innocent and good to be dirtied by his touch. He shouldn’t be thinking about her this way, but none of that seemed to matter.

Even worse, he liked her. Genuinely liked her—what he knew of her. Granted, he had only been in Devon less than a week, but he was more comfortable with Lady Blythe than he was with anyone other than Miles. He even felt calmer around Carny when she was near.

With the Baker cleaned, Devlin slipped the rifle back into its case, washed his hands, undressed, and crawled into bed. He drifted off with images of Lady Blythe in his head, her laughter ringing in his ears.

And for the first time in a long time, Devlin’s dreams were almost entirely pleasant.

Not even five hours after going to bed, Devlin was awake again. He rose, washed, and dressed quickly and quietly. A trip downstairs confirmed no one else in the house was up yet. The only activity came from the servants, bustling about their morning chores.

He had a cup of coffee and headed out to the stables where
he spent half an hour chatting with the head groom, a man who reminded him much of Samuel, who had been Devlin’s father’s groom for many years while Devlin was growing up. He had been very attached to old Sam—he still was. Sam treated him more like a son than his real father had.

After that he saddled Flynn and went for a ride down to the beach. The tide was high, lapping gently against the pebbled shore. Devlin let Flynn run along the water’s edge, laughing as the cool water sprayed up over his face and clothes. The wind stung his eyes and whipped through his hair as the sweet salt air filled his lungs. He felt good—better than he had in too long to remember. He wanted to hang on to it, yet he knew better than to believe such happiness would last. He hadn’t earned the right to grab on to it and keep it.

But for now, he would enjoy it. Once he took possession of Rosewood he would make riding along the beach a daily occurrence. Perhaps he could convince Lady Blythe to join him.

Good God, could he not go at least two hours without thinking about her? This was foolishness, truly. He strove to put her out of his mind and think instead about Rosewood and all the changes he would make if he managed to take possession. He wanted to see the inside in detail as well; peeking in windows wouldn’t do.

By the time he returned to Brixleigh it was late morning, and many of the guests were up and about, taking breakfast, enjoying coffee in the garden, or playing at various games and diversions. Some of the footmen were setting up an expanse for target shooting.

“Ah, Dev, there you are,” Miles greeted him as he entered the dining room. “I received word not even half an hour ago that Adams is expected back on Tuesday. Is that fine with you?”

“Of course.” It was only Friday now—the house party would go on for another fortnight at least. There was plenty
of time to meet with the solicitor, take a more detailed tour, and discuss purchasing Rosewood.

He joined Miles and the others—Varya, Teresa, Carny, Lord and Lady Westwood, and Lord Harcourt—at the table after helping himself to the array of dishes on the sideboard. He was ravenous.

Blythe joined the party a few moments later. She wore a blue morning gown that was obviously for her brother’s benefit and had her hair twisted into a neat coil on the back of her head. Devlin preferred it piled up on top of her head with little bits curling free as it had been the night before. What he really wanted was to see the thick auburn mass unbound, but that wasn’t likely to happen.

“Good morning, everyone,” she said cheerily as she crossed to the sideboard. Obviously she had been up for some time as well. She hadn’t the look of someone who had just gotten out of bed.

Now there was something he’d like to see as well. Blythe as she woke up in the morning.

It was enough to make a man hard just picturing it.

She joined them at the table with a plate piled almost as high as Devlin’s own and surprised him by taking the empty seat beside him. There were other vacant chairs around the table, why sit next to him?

“You are not going to eat all that, are you?” Carny’s incredulity was barely contained, and Devlin could have slapped him for it, were it not for the fact that Carny looked as though he’d like to slap himself.

Blythe regarded him coolly, despite the heightened color in her cheeks. “Why yes, I am. I make it a point to never take or ask for something I do not want.”

There was a deeper meaning in her words. There had to be or Carny wouldn’t have flushed as he did. Was Blythe referring to their broken engagement? Was it indeed Carny who had done the jilting?

Stupid idiot.

Lady Blythe ate with as much gusto as she danced. That she enjoyed food was obvious with every ecstasy-filled bite. She actually closed her eyes in rapture at the bacon. It was marvelous to watch. And she drank enough tea to satisfy a whole regiment.

“Are there any more scones?” she asked a few moments later when half her plate had been cleaned.