Keeping her social façade firmly in place and her mind focused on the task, Therese set herself to behave and react as expected of the Countess of Alverton.
Devlin cast a sidelong glance at Therese and tried to tell himself all was well, but he knew that wasn’t the case. Aside from all else, beneath his polished, impenetrable veneer, his heart continued to beat too rapidly—whether in trepidation, in misplaced hope, or in expectation, he couldn’t tell.
Once again, he’d muddied the waters between them. He knew perfectly well that the grandes dames, keenly perspicacious as they were, would be speculating that his attentions to Therese signaled that he was falling in love with her. Given that the Cassington ballroom was in no way an appropriate venue for any such personal revelation, he should have shut up after his “Good.” If he had, all would, indeed, have been well.
Instead, in oblique and ambiguous fashion, he’d suggested the grandes dames might be correct without actually confirming anything at all.
Why he hadn’t had the sense to bite his tongue, he didn’t know. It was the second time he’d spoken impulsively, without due thought; he knew the fault lay with him. Within him, truth be told; from the first moment he’d met Therese, he’d recognized that the best way of managing her was to hint at facts and allow her to “discover” them for herself. That had been his habitual way of dealing with her, and no matter that after his first unhelpful attempt, he’d accepted that, in this situation, such an approach wouldn’t work, his escalating impatience to seize what he wanted had tripped him into reverting to his previous ways.
He was just a touch confounded that, after all his careful planning, his impulsive self could still take charge and have him tossing out sentences like that. He’d never encountered such a problem in business or in politics; even when he’d acted impulsively in those spheres, when he spoke, he was always considered, clear, and concise.
Only with Therese had he ever lost his head and had his tongue run away with him.
He glanced at her again, but could glean nothing of what she might actually be thinking from her expression; she was as polished a social performer as he. No one observing her would imagine she had any concern beyond enjoying the ball.
Cedric Marshall arrived and joined their group, as did two other couples who were acquainted with the Hemmingses as well as with Devlin and Therese. From beside Therese, Devlin conversed and exchanged anecdotes with his customary unrufflable ease, but he continued to watch her closely and, eventually, concluded that, behind the reflective mirror of her eyes, she’d grown pensive.
She was still mulling over his words; any hope that she would shrug them aside died.
Everything had been going well; they’d both been in good spirits when they’d arrived. Now…no matter how she appeared to others, he knew she was focused inward and was no longer deriving any enjoyment from the ball.
Anger at himself for having once again destroyed her peace of mind welled.
Enough. He’d allowed the words to leave his tongue—he would view that as him having taken his first, irrevocable step toward telling her, clearly and unambiguously, that he loved her. He would master his impulse to dance around the truth and simply tell her. Tonight.
He was not going to allow a situation that was causing her any kind of distress to continue.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t speak with her there, and it was still too early for them to leave.
Two minutes later, the musicians arrived and started to set up in a nearby corner. Cedric whispered something to Therese, then she turned and put a hand on Devlin’s arm. “I’m going to have a word with Lady Poulson.”
Meaning that Cedric wanted Therese to facilitate a meeting with her ladyship’s protégée, Miss Nagley.
Devlin nodded, caught Therese’s hand, and smoothly wound her arm with his. With his usual flair, he excused them to the other couples, leaving Cedric to follow suit. Devlin cast an inquiring glance at Therese. “Which way?”
She regarded him with faint suspicion, but tipped her head toward the ballroom door. “Farther along the wall.”
Smiling urbanely, he steered her in that direction, with Cedric keeping pace.
Devlin breathed deeply and felt assurance and certainty well and anchor him. Tonight, he would bare his soul to his wife, and after that, all truly would be well.
Half an hour later, with the ball in full swing, Grayson Child stood by one side of the room and watched Devlin circle the dance floor with his wife in his arms.
In returning to London and, inevitably, to the haut ton, Gray had foreseen that one of the major dangers he would face was that of matrimonial snares. Until arriving in town, he hadn’t spent much time thinking of marriage, but from experience, he’d learned to evaluate any significant threat that might arise, and stumbling unawares into an unintended marriage ranked high on his scale of potential disasters.
Given that, beneath their competitive banter, he and Devlin were alike in many, many ways, from the instant Gray had learned that his childhood friend was securely married and had been for five years, he’d taken to watching Devlin—and Therese, but mostly Devlin; who better from whom to learn of the benefits and drawbacks of the married state?
At first, it had seemed that Devlin’s marriage was the epitome of the tried-and-true marriages most popular among the ton, one based on mutual respect and, if the couple was lucky, affection similar to what existed between close friends.
But the more Gray had watched, the less he’d believed, until eventually, he’d come to the startling conclusion that Devlin’s marriage wasn’t a conventional one at all.
Even with his deep knowledge of Devlin, it had taken Gray quite some time to convince himself of the reality of what he was seeing and what that must therefore mean.
He knew women—in his estimation, rather well—and had satisfied himself of Therese’s state first. That she loved Devlin wasn’t any longer a question in Gray’s mind, even though, when in society, she rarely if ever allowed any sign of the depth of her devotion to show.
That, of course, hadn’t told him anything about Devlin’s emotions but—at least to Gray, who knew Devlin so well—had given rise to an eye-opening possibility.
Then Gray had been present and, with his own eyes, had seen Devlin’s face, his expression, when he’d stalked into the manager’s office at Gentleman Jim’s. In that instant, no matter how shocking Gray found it, the truth had been revealed.
