But his brother only grinned slowly at him and clapped him on the shoulder again.
“Well, the devil!” he said again.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The new portrait of the Dowager Countess of Stratton was hung after church late the following morning in the place that had been prepared for it next to the portrait of her eldest son and his wife and three children, which had been painted a year after Awen’s birth.
Devlin had arranged for the placement while all his houseguests were still at Ravenswood. A number of them would be leaving on Monday. It was a magnificent piece, Nicholas thought, and its present setting showed it off to greater advantage than the dining room had during the family dinner on Friday evening. The family and the houseguests each drank a glass of champagne and toasted both his mother and Joel Cunningham, who looked faintly embarrassed. They all talked with enthusiasm about yesterday’s fete, which all had enjoyed.
General Haviland explained that he and his wife and daughter felt greatly honored to have been invited, not just to the fete but toa couple of weeks of relaxation here, where they had been treated with warm hospitality.
“There are distinct advantages to being the commanding officer of a Ware of Ravenswood,” he said to general laughter.
It was unlikely anyone was unaware of the betrothal that had been expected when the Havilands came here, but no one made reference to it. They had been wrong, and that was that.
“Nicholas has spoken highly of you and your family, General Haviland,” Gwyneth said. “We wished to meet you, and what better opportunity could we have asked for than the summer of a village fete? He will have told you that we love to entertain houseguests.”
There were murmurs of agreement while two footmen relieved them of their empty glasses, and they began to make their way downstairs for luncheon.
Nicholas held back.
“A word with you if I may, sir?” he said to Joel Cunningham, and the two of them waited until everyone else had left the gallery.
Nicholas wondered if any other man in history had had this particular talk twice in three days with two different fathers about two different daughters.
“I am afraid I acted rather precipitately last evening,” he said. “I spoke to your daughter before first speaking to you. She assured me I did not need your permission since she is of age. However, I would like to have it if you feel you can give it. I wish to marry Winifred, sir. Entirely because I love her. I will spend the rest of my days putting her happiness before all else in my life.”
Cunningham sighed.
“She is quite right,” he said. “She is twenty-one and her own person. Neither Camille nor I will ever interfere in a choice shemakes freely. We mayadviseher if she asks, but we will not interfere.”
“Haveyou advised her?” Nicholas asked. “Since last evening, that is? I understand her mother visited her in her room after the ball.”
“She has not asked,” Cunningham said, looking him full in the face—rather reminiscent of Winifred herself. “Her mother is willing to accept her judgment. So am I. However, I do not have to feel untroubled about it. Your way of life is as different from hers as it could possibly be. I can understand the attraction of the match to her. You are, after all, a bit of a dazzler, Colonel Ware, and she has perhaps had her head turned, though she is usually rather levelheaded. I find it harder to understand the attraction of the match to you. I love Winifred dearly, and to me she is beautiful. But she is not beautiful in the way of the world, in the way of theton. She is a woman without birth pedigree and without fortune apart from the dowry we have set aside for her. She is also years younger than you. You are in your thirties, I am guessing.”
“Thirty-four,” Nicholas said.
“You have just suffered a disappointment,” Cunningham said. “You had your sights on an extremely lovely, charming lady, but she rejected you. At least, that is what I am assuming. How am I supposed to believe that my daughter is not just a temporary toy to you to fill in a gap, novel in the sense that she is the opposite of Miss Haviland in every imaginable way?”
Nicholas felt as though he had just taken a powerful punch to the chin.
“You are not being asked to believe, sir,” he said, not quite truthfully. “Winifred believes me, and I am firmly convinced her feelings for me are not just dazzlement over my good looks—whichI do not deny. I have been plagued all my life with these looks and the apparent charm that go with them. The real me meanwhile is inside, desperately wishing to get out so other people will see something more substantial and more honorable. Winifred sees it, as I see the incredible beauty of the person she is. As for the age difference, it is unfortunate, but as she observed last evening, there is nothing we can do about it. Are we to give each other up because of thirteen years? Am I to lose the love of my life? Is she to lose the love of hers? Just on that account?”
He was aware that he was sounding rather foolish. And a bit argumentative. Winifred’s father had every right to voice perfectly understandable doubts. He did, after all, love his daughter.
“I intend to purchase a cottage somewhere in the country close to London,” Nicholas said. “Perhaps in a village, where Winifred may find friends and activities that are meaningful to her. A house with a fenced garden so children and pets may play safely.”
“You intend to have children, then?” Cunningham asked.
“Oh, indeed, sir,” Nicholas said. “I dearly want a family of my own. A family ofourown. The declaration I made Winifred last evening was not as impulsive a thing as it must seem. Miss Haviland and I both realized after we came here that our friendship was really no more than that. We both agreed that we did not, after all, wish to marry. If she had not admitted that to me, I would have honored the commitment I had more or less made when I had my brother and sister-in-law invite her here with her parents.”
“I must confess the lady was looking happy enough yesterday,” Cunningham said.
“For almost two weeks I was obliged to fight a growing attachment to your daughter,” Nicholas said. “I knew I loved her before I could admit as much to anyone else or even to myself. Yesterday Iwas free to tell her how I feel. She is a shrewd, intelligent woman, sir. She would spot insincerity from a mile distant—and say so.”
Cunningham let out a short bark of laughter. “You are right about that,” he said. “I am not going to forbid you to become affianced to Winifred, Ware. It would be pointless anyway. She is of age to make her own decisions. It has occurred to me that I am reacting as fathers of daughters have reacted all through the ages. With a form of jealousy toward the men they choose, I mean. With a refusal to believe that any other man could ever make them sufficiently happy. I wonder if I will be the same with Sarah and the others. It is not easy being a father. Not to girls and not to boys. Be warned.”
“I will not let you down,” Nicholas said.
