Ah, she had recognized the name. Good. “I am. Though I fear at this point I am all that is left of us.”
“I am sorry to hear that. I recall your father being a very amiable gentleman, and you and your brother to be…rather lively boys.”
He laughed at that. No doubt she had been none too thrilled to have them tramping through her house covered in the mud they had collected on their adventures. “We were. I hope we didn’t cause you too many headaches.”
Her smile made soft lines fan out from her mouth and eyes. “It is always a joy to watch happy families.”
Happy families. Perhaps they had been, then, when all was so much simpler. Before the war forced them to lie to their father. Before disease stole him from them. Before Lucien took all that should have been Devereaux’s. “May I ask, is your husband…?” He sent a pointed look to her black dress.
Mrs. Jackson sighed. “It has been only four months, though he has been away since the war began.” She smoothed a hand over the black bombazine of her skirt. “Your family is Unionist, is it not?”
He was accustomed to everyone knowing his assumed position, what with the railroad declaring it for him. He canted his head to one side. “That is our official stance. Though you needn’t apologize for Confederate sympathies in my company—with a mother from Louisiana, our house has long been divided.”
Her smile reemerged, this time with a note of amusement. “I was not going to apologize.” The good humor faded. “Though I hate how this war has divided us. So many nights I have spent on my knees, begging the Lord to knit our nation together. Sometimes I cannot fathom how it will ever be so.”
Sometimes he wondered how anyone could ever expect it to be. The time for unity had long since passed.
“Aunt Abigail?”
His hostess turned, but Devereaux needed only to lift his gaze to see the young woman standing in the doorway. And Mrs. Jackson’s niece caught the eye. She looked decidedly out of place in her simple brown skirt, with the faded backdrop of the inn behind her. With lustrous hair dark as midnight and snapping cobalt eyes, the girl was stunning. And, given the way she shifted her stance upon spotting him, well aware of it.
Devereaux fought back a smile. She could be no more than eighteen or nineteen, and the look in her eye reminded him acutely of Marietta. More specifically, of Marietta when he first met her. Flirtatious and confident, and just reckless enough to spell danger to anyone who didn’t know how to handle her.
“There you are, Ruby.” Censure laced Mrs. Jackson’s tone, which the girl no doubt heard as clearly as he did.
Ruby produced a sultry smile. “Our guest’s room is ready, Aunt.”
The elder woman turned back to him, her smile strained. “Mr. Hughes, allow me to introduce my niece, Miss Ruby Kent. Her brother, Judah, ought to be in momentarily. And you will no doubt see the youngest of them, little Rose, about the house as well.”
Devereaux fixed on a polite smile and nodded at the girl. Well he knew how he must look to her eye—a stranger, obviously well-to-do, from a city just far enough from her rural home to be enticing. Given what was sure to be a shortage of suitable, desirable men for her, he probably looked like a romantic escape in waiting.
She would have to get over that idea, and better sooner than later. The last thing he needed was a would-be debutante dogging his heels. “Good to meet you, Miss Kent.”
The light in her gaze didn’t so much as dim, and it remained fastened on him as she curtsied. “Likewise, Mr. Hughes. Shall I show our guest to his room, Aunt Abigail?”
Mrs. Jackson pressed a hand to her forehead, lifting away one of her silver curls. “Of course, yes. Mr. Hughes, supper will be at six o’clock. If you need anything beforehand, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Though I intend to spend much of my time exploring the area, so I hope not to be a bother to you.” Just as he hoped that, given her recollection of him romping through the woods as a boy, she wouldn’t think it odd for him to do so now. Plenty of men escaped the city now and then to adventure through the mountains, after all—though no doubt not many these days.
Mrs. Jackson merely said, “Oh, you could not possibly be a bother,” as she shooed her niece out the door.
Devereaux fell in behind the girl, careful to keep his gaze up and raking over the walls so long as he was within sight of the proprietress. Perhaps once he was up the stairs he let his eyes dip to enjoy the exaggerated sway of Ruby’s hips, but the stir of desire was more an echo, a strain. A realization that he wanted only Marietta, and he hadn’t much longer to wait. Two more months and she would be his. His wife, his to hold every day. No more longing glances, no more sneaking about under cover of mourning.