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before you left.”
    It was unkind of her to remind him of how he had almost died at Waterloo. Perhaps on some level she even understood how he could have betrayed her after coming so close to death. Devlin Ryland might have saved his life, but it had been Carny’s wife—Teresa—who had nursed him, kept the fevers and infections at bay. She must have been like an angel from heaven to him, while Blythe herself became little more than a distant memory.
    A distant memory who had commissioned a seamstress to construct her wedding gown while her soon-to-be-betrothed romanced another woman. How she despised him for that. She had been so happy, so young and certain in his devotion—in her own. Never once had she suspected his love wasn’t true. Not once. And that was what she hated most. He had fooled her, and that one mistake had cost her so much, hurt her so deeply that she swore never to allow it to happen again.
    The next time she fell prey to a man she would have his admission of love long before she ever gave hers. His heart would be in her hand before he held hers. She would not open herself up to hurt again.
    That was if she ever met another man who made her want to take a chance on love. Here in Devonshire, the chances of that happening were wonderfully small.
    Standing just a few feet away, Carny gripped the back of a dainty French chair. He seemed more interested in watching his fingers curl around the gilded wood than he was in looking at her. Blythe kept her own gaze focused squarely on his face, forcing herself to see him as a man, flawed and imperfect rather than the hero she had always believed him to be.
    There were far too many heroes at Brixleigh right now.
    “I never meant to injure you,” he murmured, his gaze resting somewhere in the vicinity of her nose. “Surely you know that.”
    “Actually,” she replied, “I sincerely doubt I crossed your mind at all. I believe the person whose feelings you were most concerned with was yourself, and while I find that dishonorable, I am afraid I cannot hold it against you.”
    Now his gaze snapped to hers. The surprise there was almost laughable. “You cannot?”
    “No.” It was true. She had no idea what he had gone through at Waterloo, had never experienced what war could do to a person’s heart and mind. For all she knew, she might have done the same if the roles had been reversed. Although she perhaps would have handled things a bit differently.
    A portrait of a distant ancestor hung on the far wall. It was tempting to stare at it rather than Carny, but he deserved to have her unwavering attention as she finally told him the truth of what was in her heart.
    “What I cannot forgive you for, Carny, is for letting me believe you loved me in the first place. You obviously did not; otherwise your brush with death would have made you realize it, rather than turning your attentions to someone else. You have apologized for almost everything else, but you have never once said you were sorry for deceiving me where your feelings were concerned.”
    He said nothing. In fact, he appeared to be incapable of speech of any kind. Blythe, on the other hand, was filled witha strange, bustling elation. She had done it. She had confronted Carny. She hadn’t made a fool out of herself, nor did she feel any regret for having spoken as plainly as she had. She felt curiously relieved and free. His hold was slipping, but the scars were still fresh and far too tender.
    His brow puckering, Carny opened his mouth, but whatever he was about to say was lost as Devlin Ryland entered the room, looking very dark and dangerous in head-to-toe black, save for the snowy white of his shirt and cravat. He begged no pardons for his interruption, nor did he try to pretend he had stumbled upon them by accident.
    In fact, he didn’t look surprised to see them together at all. It was as though he had expected it. Why? And why should that fill Blythe with such a feeling of guilty unease?
    His gaze