footman at his side holding the umbrella for him, but as soon as they passed through the open door and entered the grand hall, the servant was gone, and Devon's mother, the duchess, was striding toward him with a smile.
He stopped. She was as beautiful as ever with her golden hair swept into an elegant twist, her form-fitting gown the color of a ripe peach, the long, trained overskirt caught up at the sides and draped with pleats in the front. She was almost fifty, but possessed the slender, attractive figure of a woman half her age, and an ivory complexion few women could rival.
She crossed the hall to him. "Oh, my dear, you are home at last." She rushed to him and took his hands in hers. Her eyes sparkled. She seemed too excited to breathe.
Devon bent forward and kissed her on the cheek. "How wonderful to see you, Mother," he said. "You look exquisite. More lovely than ever, if that is possible."
She raised a mischievous eyebrow at him. "I see my son has not lost his charm. I'll wager those American girls were very sorry to see you board that ship back to England." He shook his head, and she slapped him playfully on the arm. "Don't be modest, Devon. You know I'm right. Oh, I thought this day would never come."
Another set of heels came clicking across the marble floor. It was his half sister, Charlotte. "Devon!" His mother had to step back to clear the way as she dashed straight into his arms. "At last! You're here!"
"Yes, Charlotte," he replied. He was pleased the past year with all its painful emotional heartbreak over her fiance had not broken her spirit as well. She was still as boisterous as ever. He held her away from him. "Let me get a look at you." Charlotte was golden-haired like their mother, and equally as lovely with deep blue eyes, long lashes, and a flawless complexion. "What a beauty you have become."
She smiled. "And you are still the same handsome heartbreaker you were before you left. I must admit, however, I am surprised you did not come home with a rich American wife."
A wife? Him?
"It's been in all the papers lately," she explained, "about Lord Randolph Churchill marrying the Jerome girl from New York just last week. Did you hear about it?"
"Of course. The New York papers printed every detail of the engagement."
"They say she's very beautiful."
"I am sure she is, and I hope some day to meet her." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet bag. "My only wish at the moment, however, is to see you, my dear sister, wearing the gift I brought you."
"Oh, Devon." She reached for the bag. "What is it?"
"Open it and find out."
She slid her fingers into the drawstring opening, withdrew a pearl bracelet, and held it up to the light. "It's stunning. Help me put it on?" She handed it to him, and he wrapped it around her slender wrist, then fastened the silver clasp. "It's perfect."
"I have something for you, too, Mother," he said, "but it's wrapped up in one of my trunks."
"You didn't have to, Devon. Your presence here in the house again was the only gift I wanted."
He noted a slight melancholy in her voice, a weariness in her eyes, and recalled a similar look on her face the day he had left, when the family had seemed to split apart at the seams with heartbreak and hostility.
"Is Vincent here?" he carefully asked.
She lowered her eyes and shook her head. "No. He is still in London. I'm very sorry."
He watched her for a moment. "No need to apologize, Mother. I didn't expect him to be here."
Blake's voice sounded from the saloon. "Devon, you're back!"
He felt a swell of pleasure at the sound, then strode forward to shake his brother's hand, noting that the young man he had left behind three years ago had matured. At twenty-six, his looks had not changed much--he was still tall and dark and broad-shouldered--but something in the way he carried himself was different. He had always been a calming influence in the family, but now, he seemed to know it. He appeared relaxed and
He stopped. She was as beautiful as ever with her golden hair swept into an elegant twist, her form-fitting gown the color of a ripe peach, the long, trained overskirt caught up at the sides and draped with pleats in the front. She was almost fifty, but possessed the slender, attractive figure of a woman half her age, and an ivory complexion few women could rival.
She crossed the hall to him. "Oh, my dear, you are home at last." She rushed to him and took his hands in hers. Her eyes sparkled. She seemed too excited to breathe.
Devon bent forward and kissed her on the cheek. "How wonderful to see you, Mother," he said. "You look exquisite. More lovely than ever, if that is possible."
She raised a mischievous eyebrow at him. "I see my son has not lost his charm. I'll wager those American girls were very sorry to see you board that ship back to England." He shook his head, and she slapped him playfully on the arm. "Don't be modest, Devon. You know I'm right. Oh, I thought this day would never come."
Another set of heels came clicking across the marble floor. It was his half sister, Charlotte. "Devon!" His mother had to step back to clear the way as she dashed straight into his arms. "At last! You're here!"
"Yes, Charlotte," he replied. He was pleased the past year with all its painful emotional heartbreak over her fiance had not broken her spirit as well. She was still as boisterous as ever. He held her away from him. "Let me get a look at you." Charlotte was golden-haired like their mother, and equally as lovely with deep blue eyes, long lashes, and a flawless complexion. "What a beauty you have become."
She smiled. "And you are still the same handsome heartbreaker you were before you left. I must admit, however, I am surprised you did not come home with a rich American wife."
A wife? Him?
"It's been in all the papers lately," she explained, "about Lord Randolph Churchill marrying the Jerome girl from New York just last week. Did you hear about it?"
"Of course. The New York papers printed every detail of the engagement."
"They say she's very beautiful."
"I am sure she is, and I hope some day to meet her." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet bag. "My only wish at the moment, however, is to see you, my dear sister, wearing the gift I brought you."
"Oh, Devon." She reached for the bag. "What is it?"
"Open it and find out."
She slid her fingers into the drawstring opening, withdrew a pearl bracelet, and held it up to the light. "It's stunning. Help me put it on?" She handed it to him, and he wrapped it around her slender wrist, then fastened the silver clasp. "It's perfect."
"I have something for you, too, Mother," he said, "but it's wrapped up in one of my trunks."
"You didn't have to, Devon. Your presence here in the house again was the only gift I wanted."
He noted a slight melancholy in her voice, a weariness in her eyes, and recalled a similar look on her face the day he had left, when the family had seemed to split apart at the seams with heartbreak and hostility.
"Is Vincent here?" he carefully asked.
She lowered her eyes and shook her head. "No. He is still in London. I'm very sorry."
He watched her for a moment. "No need to apologize, Mother. I didn't expect him to be here."
Blake's voice sounded from the saloon. "Devon, you're back!"
He felt a swell of pleasure at the sound, then strode forward to shake his brother's hand, noting that the young man he had left behind three years ago had matured. At twenty-six, his looks had not changed much--he was still tall and dark and broad-shouldered--but something in the way he carried himself was different. He had always been a calming influence in the family, but now, he seemed to know it. He appeared relaxed and
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