Free For the First Time by Kathryn Smith

woman’s narrow shoulders and led her to a bench further into the courtyard’s more secluded area.
    Teresa didn’t say much about her marriage, and Blythecouldn’t blame her for not trusting her with that immediately. They talked about themselves mostly, about their lives and families. And by the time Teresa’s tears had dried and her eyes didn’t seem quite so swollen, Blythe had found a friend.
    Funny how one found things in the least likely of places.
     
    The sun wasn’t far from rising by the time Devlin finally retired to his room. He hadn’t spent so much time on his feet since his soldier days. Of course, the ball had been a much more pleasant way to spend his time, not to mention much easier on his wardrobe.
    He’d spent much of the evening talking to Miles and Carny and their charming wives, both of whom he had danced with. Dancing with Varya had been a little easier because she was taller, but dancing with Teresa had been sheer hell. She spent most of it laughing at him because he was so worried about doing something that might hurt her. She hadn’t been worried at all. Never mind that he was a foot and a half taller than she was, at least seven to eight stone heavier.
    No, the only woman he had felt comfortable dancing with had been Lady Blythe, and not just because she was the perfect height—the perfect everything, so it seemed. She hadn’t made him feel awkward or nervous, even though it had been a long time since he had waltzed with a woman. And when she tossed back her head and laughed during that first dance…well, he’d lost a bit of what little heart he had to her right then and there.
    Devlin didn’t know much about love. He loved his brothers, and he had felt a certain degree of emotion for the friends he’d lost during the war. He still got a little teary when he thought of Patrick Flynn. And he supposed, in a way, he had loved his parents as well, even though their deaths hadn’t wrenched even half a tear from him. One thing was certain; his parents hadn’t been overwhelmed with parental love fortheir youngest son. How could they when he was a reminder of a night both viscount and viscountess would have preferred to forget?
    Regardless of his own experiences, he knew of people who had been in love and professed to be in love still. Carny and Teresa, for example. He had watched them fall in love. Miles and Varya still seemed very taken with each other, so maybe there was such a thing as lasting love.
    How did a person even know if he was in love anyway? Taking his rifle from its case, Devlin toed off his shoes and sat down in the chair by the window. He took a slightly oily, stained rag from a tin and started polishing the Baker’s barrel. Cleaning it every night before going to sleep had become a habit so long ago that it would feel stranger not to do it than to continue.
    Perhaps a man knew he was in love when he started spouting poetry or buying the lady flowers. Perhaps it was more of an intuition, or perhaps it was simply sex. A man found a woman he could imagine bedding for the rest of his life, she agreed, and that was it. Maybe love was just really good sex with a nice woman.
    It sounded like a good deal to him. His brother Wynthrope would certainly concur. So why did it sound so empty? A life spent with a decent woman—one you could safely call a friend—having a splendid physical relationship sounded like the perfect combination.
    The problem wasn’t in the woman. The problem was in him. He had no trouble imagining being reasonably happy with such a woman, but what about her? He didn’t want to be just some nice man a lady thought she could spend her entire life mating with. He wanted to be the sun and the moon to his wife. He wanted adoration, trust, and complete devotion. He wanted to be loved the way the poets wrote about. He wanted to be the most important thing in some-one’s life.
    And God help him, he wanted the same for himself.
    He couldn’t imagine it ever