Fortunately there was no one in the rose arbor at the center of the courtyard. It had always been one of Devlin’s favorite spots. The roses grew in great profusion in beds about the stone fountain and over the trellises that had been constructed around it to give a sense of seclusion to anyone sitting on one of the wrought iron seats within. And it did indeed seem a bit cooler there after they sat down side by side on one of he seats, though perhaps it was merely the sound of gushing water that gave that impression. The midsummer scent of the roses was heady and might have seemed a bit oppressive without the sight and sound of the water. Devlin handed Gwyneth her lemonade.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Are you enjoying the day?” he asked her.
“Oh, very much indeed,” she said, her face a warm glow. “The Ravenswood fete always makes every other day of the year seem pale in comparison. But this year it seems more than usually festive and joyful.”
“Does it?” She was smiling, but she was gazing at the fountain rather than at him. “You are not missing Nick?” For as far back as he could remember the two of them had spent the fete days together and with other young persons of their acquaintance. They had always seemed to be exuberant and dashing about at a run rather than a walk. He had always felt old and dull in comparison. Though it had never occurred to him to be jealous. Only envious.
She turned her face toward him then. “He has told you what we have agreed to?” she asked. “We are just friends. Oh, I know people say that all the time when really they mean there is more. That is not true of Nicholas and me, though. I love him dearly, and I believe he loves me. But not in a romantic way. If we were of the same gender, I daresay we would be bosom friends for the rest of our lives. But we are not, and unfortunately some adults have a way of teasing young men and women who enjoy each other’s company, as though embarrassing them is amusing and cannot possibly upset them or damage their relationship. It does hurt to be told, albeit with an indulgent smile, that I am angling after the son of an earl. It hurts Nicholas to be told that he is trying to introduce some Welsh blood into his line. We have agreed not to spend as much time as usual together before he goes away in September. Or any time together, as it has turned out.”
“I am sorry that had to happen,” he said. “I know Nick is sorry about it too.”
“In a way, though,” she said, looking back at the fountain, “it is not such a bad thing. Nicholas is free to mingle with his friends today—his male friends, that is. It will probably be the last fete for him for a long time. And I am free to spend the day with anyone I want. I am eighteen. And I must confess that I enjoy being free to admire and be admired. I enjoy a little light flirtation.”
“But no more than that?” he asked.
“Not until he is the right man,” she said.
The sounds of voices seemed far distant, though that was a bit of an illusion. The water in the fountain muted them. So did the trellises and the droning of bees among the roses. Neither of them spoke for a minute or two.
“Will you dance the opening set with me this evening?” he asked then. “Or is it still too early to ask?”
“I will,” she said, and she looked around for somewhere to set her empty glass.
He took it from her hand. “Thank you,” he said as he set it with his own on the small round table beside him.
They sat together in silence again, their shoulders not quite touching, until it was time to go back for the final bout of the log-splitting contest. It was a strangely companionable silence, during which he did not feel any of the usual social compulsion to find some topic upon which to converse.
Sometimes silence was perfect in itself.
And the day was almost at an end, though there was still the evening to look forward to, and more than ever now she had promised to dance with him.
Excerpted from Remember Love by Mary Balogh Copyright © 2022 by Mary Balogh. Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
