Someone perfect, p.37
Someone Perfect, page 37
Sometimes she and Nicholas sang together at social gatherings during which all or most of the guests were expected to share their talents, however meager. And the suspicion gradually grew in Gwyneth’s mind that perhaps the two of them were being looked upon as a couple, as potential marriage partners, even though Nicholas would be going away soon to begin his military career. The realization was a bit disturbing, because the perception was not accurate. Moreover, it was actually damaging, for other potential suitors might be keeping their distance from her because of it.
Specifically Devlin Ware, Viscount Mountford, eldest son of the Earl of Stratton. Eldest legitimate son, anyway. Nicholas’s brother. With whom she had been deeply, hopelessly, passionately in love all her life, or since she was eleven or twelve, anyway.
Unfortunately, he did not even know she existed.
He was four years older than she. That had seemed a very wide gap when she was a child. He had come to Cartref almost as often as Nicholas had, but he had come to spend time with Idris, his best friend. She had been about as visible to him in those days as a spider on the wall. Perhaps less so. But she had loved his visits anyway, except when he and Idris had gone off alone somewhere together. More often, though, she had been able to sit quietly in a corner, her head bent over some busy work, while they talked—about books and school and music and religion. Devlin had been a serious, earnest boy, quite unlike his younger brother, but she had loved to listen to him. He had had firm opinions and the knowledge to back them up. He had also, though, listened attentively to opposing ideas and sometimes acknowledged their merit. Not many people were like that. When most people appeared to be listening to an opposing argument, they were really just waiting for the moment when they could jump back in to reassert their opinion. Very few people listened.
The age gap had seemed to narrow as she grew older, though she was still invisible to Devlin Ware. Not that she had done much to make herself seen, for she had started to feel uncharacteristically awkward and shy when he came. He was so serious and intelligent and mature, and he had the title and would own the whole of Ravenswood one day. And in her eyes he was gorgeous, though in a quieter sort of way than Nicholas or his father. Indeed, whenever other people talked about the Ware men, it was always of those two they spoke with the greatest admiration. Most people seemed not to have noticed Devlin’s good looks, perhaps because he did not have the outgoing personality to go with them.
Gwyneth’s stomach had started to tie itself into knots whenever he came to Cartref, and she had continued to hide in a dark corner or behind her mother lest he notice her and not like what he saw. Not that he would look. He never had. If anyone had asked him, he might well have said that there were just three members of the Rhys family—her father and her mother and Idris. Though that was surely an exaggeration.
As she grew older, she had wanted desperately for Devlin Ware to notice her, yet she did all in her power to see to it that it did not happen. Sometimes the hardest person in this world to understand was oneself, she had thought in exasperation. For it was most unlike her to hide, to cower, to be unsure of herself, to behave like a chastened mouse. Most unlike.
Finally, though, he had noticed her. It had happened last year when she had been behaving most like herself. Their paths had almost crossed while they were both out riding—separately. She had been about to turn up onto the line of hills that divided her father’s land from his, and he had been on his way down. She had been riding alone—Nicholas had still been away at school. She had also been riding astride, as she had been allowed to do after she promised her mother and father one day when she was thirteen that she would never venture beyond their own property while doing so or when so scandalously unaccompanied by a responsible male.
“The English are far more straitlaced than the Welsh, Gwyn,” her father had said. “In some ways, anyway. But since we are living here, you must try not to offend anyone unnecessarily and find yourself being called a hoyden.”
“I despise that word, Ifor,” his wife had said. “It is applied exclusively to girls. Have you noticed? I know a few wild boys, and people generally think none the worse of them—boys will be boys. I have never heard any of them called hoydens. But listen to your dad anyway, Gwyn. He gives good advice. Most of the time.”
Gwyneth had been wearing breeches that day—also allowed on their own land, though her mother had begun to make rumbling sounds of disapproval—and she had been hatless. Her hair had been streaming loose behind her in a tangled mass. She had not bothered to braid it or even tie it back before she left home. The whole episode had been unfortunate. She had told herself it was quite safe and unexceptionable to ride up over the hills, which were sort of her father’s even if they were sort of the Earl of Stratton’s too. She was not sure anyone had ever actually surveyed the hills to discover where the boundary line lay. Right down the center of the track? It seemed unlikely.
He had drawn rein when he was still some distance from her—Devlin, Viscount Mountford, that was—while she had felt every inch of herself blush, a reaction she had disguised by throwing back her head and staring defiantly back at him since there had been nowhere she could hide. His eyes had swept over her from tousled head to booted feet in the stirrups, and he had nodded curtly and unsmilingly.
“Gwyneth,” he had said by way of greeting—he had not even paid her the courtesy of addressing her as Miss Rhys, though she had been seventeen at the time. “I believe I will pretend this has not happened.”
And he had turned his horse’s head and ridden away back toward Ravenswood, leaving her to her own thoughts. Well, at least he saw me today, no matter what he pretends to the contrary. And at least he does know I exist. He even knows my name.
They had not been particularly consoling thoughts. He had not looked disgusted or angry or startled or . . . anything. He had not questioned or scolded or said or done anything that would have given her an excuse to flare up at him. She flared anyway. What business of Devlin Ware, Viscount Mountford, was what she did or how she looked on her father’s own land?
I believe I will pretend this has not happened.
How dared he! And what a very stuffy thing to say.
He was not in any way like his father or his brother. He was lean and dark-haired and dour of countenance. Though dour was an unfair word to use. He did not glower or frown or display open ill humor. He was serious of countenance, then. And good-looking, even if no one else had noticed. He had very regular, finely chiseled features and blue, blue eyes. He did not make anything much of those eyes, it was true. He was not a man who smiled often, though he was not dour. His eyes were gorgeous. He was gorgeous.
He was a conscientious worker. He had apparently excelled at school—Idris had attended the same one, though he had been a class ahead of Devlin. He had studied hard at Oxford too, while Idris had apparently played hard, with predictable results academically. Her brother had scraped through his final examinations, while Viscount Mountford had flown through his. Now he worked on the estate, alongside his elder half brother, who was their father’s steward. Most young men of his social rank—or so she had overheard her father remark to her mother—were busy sowing wild oats at this stage of their lives. Though Idris was not. He was as devoted to their farm as Devlin was to his father’s land. It was no wonder they were friends.
Gwyneth was not sure why she loved Devlin so passionately. Some people might call him dull, though admittedly she had not heard anyone go that far. But he was indeed very different from Nicholas and his father and even Owen, the youngest boy in the family. Those three had a lively charm and charisma that appeared to be quite lacking in him.
It did not matter to Gwyneth. She loved Nicholas. But she was in love with Devlin Ware.
She had been for a long time. It was an infatuation she really must shake off now that she was grown up, however, for it was time to experience attraction and flirtation and courtship and marriage with someone who was also attracted to her. She knew a few men who were—or would be if they knew she and Nicholas were not a couple.
What better place to turn her attention toward her future life than the Ravenswood fete, which everyone from miles around attended, including every young single male? She would even have a new dress for the occasion. Her mother had been urging her to have Mrs. Proctor, the village dressmaker, make one for her, and Gwyneth had finally agreed. Something . . . pink, she had decided, though it was a color she usually avoided as being too daintily feminine for her vivid dark coloring. There was no chance of attracting Devlin’s notice when she had not done so all her life. And her friendship with Nicholas was leading nowhere except to more of the same—which was very pleasant, but a woman needed more than friendship from a man after her eighteenth birthday. She needed romance and love and a husband and a home of her own and a happily-ever-after.
At the fete, she would look around with serious intent. Perhaps, if the opportunity presented itself, she would do a bit of flirting and see if she could feel a romantic interest in someone who was not Devlin Ware.
Who, after all, would want to be in love with someone like him? Or married to him? Where would be the sunshine and the laughter? The passion? Such thoughts were pointless, of course, for she wanted to be married to him. But it was time to be realistic. Time to step out into the world and cast old dreams aside.
Gwyneth sighed and went in search of her mother.
* * *
* * *
Ben Ellis had gone off to the island on the lake with one of the gardeners to put a fresh coat of paint on the pavilion. He had taken Owen with him but had left him on the bank of the lake with another of the gardeners, who had been mending a slow leak in one of the boats, a task that had caught the boy’s interest. Now Owen was helping paint the boat after having been given a workman’s smock to wear, much to his disgust, and strict instructions to at least try to get more paint on the boat than on his person.
Philippa was in the schoolroom with Miss Field, her governess and Stephanie’s, making ribbon rosettes to be presented to the winners and runners-up of the various contests at the fete.
Nicholas was looking over the equipment that would be needed for the archery contest, to make sure nothing was missing and nothing had deteriorated since the previous year. A few of the contestants—Matthew Taylor, the carpenter, for example—would bring their own bows and arrows, but most would not.
The Countess of Stratton was occupied with her endless lists, convinced, as she usually was as the fete drew closer, that she had surely forgotten something crucial, yet knowing with the rational part of her mind that she had not. Her housekeeper would have reminded her if she had forgotten, or her cook. Or Ben or Devlin, her right-hand men.
The earl was in the village somewhere, socializing, keeping out of everyone’s way, though perhaps not out of the way of those villagers who had work to do. He was always welcomed anyway. It was hard to resist his hearty good nature.
Devlin was in the carriage house in the north wing of the hall, seeing to an overhaul of the maypole with one of the undergrooms. The pole itself was showing signs of rust and needed to be scraped off and painted if it was not to present a sad spectacle on the big day. The ribbons, though they had been carefully stored in a long wooden chest, had nevertheless become tangled and twisted. A few of them were fraying at the edges and needed to be replaced. Others, though still intact, had faded after a few years of use and also needed replacing. The undergroom set about restoring the pole. Stephanie, who had escaped from the schoolroom to help her brother, patiently untangled the ribbons and straightened them, spreading them out along the floor beside the big traveling carriage, which was used once a year to convey her papa to London and once a year to bring him home and not very much in between. She smoothed the ribbons with plump fingers to see if they would need ironing. A fat braid of fair hair swung forward over each of her shoulders.
“I love the maypole dancing, Dev,” she said. “It is my very favorite.”
“Perhaps one day you will lead the dancers,” he said, smiling at the back of her head.
“Very likely.” She made a derisive puffing sound with her lips and continued with her task. “You have to be dainty and graceful and light on your feet. And thin. And pretty helps too.”
None of which were possible for her, her tone implied. But there was no reason for it not to happen. She was neither physically lazy nor a glutton, both of which manageable conditions were supposed to be main contributing factors to excess weight. The loss of her fat was not happening yet, however, and Devlin knew her appearance distressed his sister. He sometimes assured her he loved her just as she was—and he did—but she usually responded with a sound identical to the one she had just made. She was his favorite sibling, though he loved them all. He loved Stephanie fiercely and dearly. Sometimes his heart ached for her.
“We will let them hang so they will not need an iron,” he said of the ribbons, “and replace the ones that are damaged or old. I’ll go into the village afterward to purchase new ones. Do you want to come with me?”
“In your curricle?” She jumped to her feet and turned a beaming face his way before smiling outright—her one claim to real beauty. “I do. And I get to choose the colors. You would probably pick black or gray. Or brown.”
“I was planning to go on foot since the shop is no farther than a hop, skip, and jump from here,” he said and watched her smile fade. “But I suppose we can go by the scenic way, in which case a vehicle will definitely be necessary. The curricle it is, then, Steph, provided Mama does not have a fit of the vapors and forbid it. And you may choose the ribbons.” He laughed as he tried to picture the faces of the villagers—not to mention his mother—if they arrived for the fete to discover black, gray, and brown ribbons fluttering from the maypole.
“Mama does not have vapors, Dev,” she said. “She is not so silly. And she knows you always drive carefully when you have me for a passenger. I wish you would spring the horses sometimes, though. Nick might if I asked, but I know you would not.”
“An old stick-in-the-mud, am I?” he asked her.
“You have a strong sense of responsibility,” she said, stepping toward him and setting her arms about his waist to hug him, her cheek pressed against his chest. “I sometimes wish you would say yes, but I am always glad when you say no. I can trust you.”
He kissed the top of her head. “Let’s get these ribbons hanging and count how many new ones we will need.”
A strong sense of responsibility. His father had put it a different way last year when Devlin, twenty-one years old and newly down from Oxford with a first-class degree, which he had earned with hard work and years of conscientious studying, had been spending a few months in London to kick up his heels and begin enjoying freedom and adulthood. It was something to which he had looked forward with great eagerness. He would have his father all to himself. Just the two of them. Two men together. His father, whom he had idolized his whole life and tried without much success to emulate, had been delighted to have his company and had encouraged him to sow some wild oats before the time came for him to settle down and marry and set up his nursery.
“And do not let anyone persuade you to do that too early in your life as I did, Dev,” he had added. “Thirty is soon enough.”
Devlin had been uncomfortably aware that both he and Nicholas had been born before their father turned thirty. Did he regret tying himself down with them so soon in life, then?
The earl had introduced his son to his clubs and taken him to Tattersall’s and Jackson’s boxing saloon and a fencing club. He had taken him to a few ton balls and private parties and select gambling houses. He had taken him to Vauxhall Gardens and the theater. After the performance at the theater, which Devlin had watched with avid interest, the earl had taken his son to the greenroom to meet and mingle with the performers.
Devlin had refused his father’s offer to engage the services of one particularly alluring dancer to go to supper with him and—presumably—to bed with him afterward. On another occasion he had refused to be introduced to the female proprietor of an exclusive house that catered to the needs of gentlemen who could afford the superior services of the young ladies who lived there.
His father had clapped him on the shoulder and squeezed while he laughed heartily and regarded his son with an indulgent smile. “You are in danger of becoming a dull dog, Dev,” he had said genially.
Devlin had always longed to be like his father—open and amiable in manner, forever smiling and laughing. Loved by all, adored by his wife and children. Adoring them in return. Alas, it had always been impossible. An easy sociability did not come naturally to Devlin. His love for his family and friends and neighbors ran deep, but so did a reserve of manner he had never been able to shake off. And a firm sense of right and wrong and a belief in doing his duty, whether it was studying his hardest at school because his masters asked it of him and his father was paying the bills, or fixing up the maypole each summer because his mother trusted him to do it and it was important it looked fresh and new for their guests. One could not completely change the person one was born to be, it seemed.
A dull dog.
He should have laughed off the words and forgotten them, for his father had not meant any insult. The words had been spoken with humor and affection. Devlin did not doubt his father loved him as much as he loved Nicholas, his second son, who far more nearly resembled him.
He had been unable to forget, however. For those words had been spoken at just the time when a horrible, stomach-churning suspicion had been creeping up on Devlin. His father was meticulous about performing his duty each spring and taking his place in the House of Lords even though it meant leaving his family and going to London alone. He hated to leave, he protested each year as he hugged them all and even shed a tear or two, and assured them that the coming months would be dreary and endless until he could return for the summer.
