As a child, Devlin Ware thought his family stood for all that was right and good in the world. They were kind, gracious, and shared the beauty of Ravenwood, their grand country estate, by hosting lavish parties for the entire countryside. But at twenty-two, he discovered his whole world was an elaborate illusion, and when Devlin publicly called his family to account for it, he was exiled as a traitor.
So be it. He enlisted in the fight against Napoleon and didn’t look back for six years. But now his father is dead, the Ware family is broken, and as the heir he is being called home. It’s only when Gwyneth Rhys—the woman he loved and then lost after his family banished him—holds out her hand to help him that he is able make the difficult journey and try to piece together his fractured family.
It is Gwyneth’s loyalty, patience, and love that he needs. But is Devlin’s war-hardened heart even capable of offering her love in return?
Author Mary Balogh (photo courtesy of Sharon Pelletier)
“Gwyneth?” he said. “My dance, I believe?”
He was not smiling. Not openly, at least. But there was a glow in his eyes and behind his face that suggested he was smiling inside. Not just a social smile, but something for her alone. Or so she fancied. Ah, she had so looked forward to this moment, and now it was here. She set her hand on his, palm to palm, and he closed his fingers about it and led her to the head of a new set, the original one having already stretched the full length of the ballroom. She stood next to Susan Ware, Devlin’s cousin, in the line of ladies while he took his place opposite her next to Dr. Isherwood in the line of men. He continued to look at her across the space between them with that same expression. Almost, she thought, as if he wanted to devour her. It was a look that sent shivers of pleasure through her body. She smiled back with all the sparkle that was inside her, and his eyes crinkled at the corners.
Soon
there were four long parallel lines of dancers, two of women, two of men. A few
adults, mostly elderly people, and a crowd of children stood or sat off to the
sides, watching. Gwyneth remembered those days of childhood and the longing to
be grown up and able to participate.
The
orchestra struck a chord and the dancing began.
The
pounding of several dozen feet on the wooden floor set a rhythm with the music
of violins and cello and flute and pianoforte while partners joined hands and
promenaded to their left and then to their right, both pairs of lines moving in
unison with one another. They formed arches of hands with their immediate
neighbors like mini maypoles as they paced in a full circle, changed hands, and
paced back again. At the end of each pattern of steps the couple at the head of
the line joined hands crosswise, and twirled down between the lines to take
their places at the foot before the whole thing began again.
Devlin
smiled fully at Gwyneth as they twirled, the first couple in their line to do
so, and she laughed while everyone else in the lines clapped in time to the
music. The earl was laughing in his own set as he twirled the countess. And ah,
she had never, ever been happier, Gwyneth thought. Not
even this afternoon in the rose arbor. As happy, maybe,
but not more so. How absolutely . . . exhilarating it was to be
eighteen years old and in love and full of hope that perhaps she was loved in
return.
But
inevitably the music came to an end, and there was only a leftover ball to
enjoy for the rest of the evening. She tried not to feel sad about it. How
ungrateful that would be.
“Thank
you, Gwyneth,” Devlin said as he offered his arm and led her in the direction
of her parents, who had danced the set together. “Have you promised every other
dance?”
“Only
the next and the one after it,” she told him.
“Are
you willing to keep the set after supper for me?” he asked.
She
looked at him in surprise. The Wares never danced more than one set with the
same partner, either at this annual ball or at the Christmas ball or at any of
the assemblies. It was a point of strict etiquette with them.
“Yes,”
she said.
“It
will be dark by then and the air ought to be cooler,” he said. “Perhaps we can
step outside.”
Step outside? To dance on the terrace? To take a stroll beyond it? He did not
elaborate.
“I
would enjoy that,” she said. She had not noticed until this moment how
breathless the dancing had made her.
“As
would I,” he said.
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.
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