Part 12 (1/2)
She froze and clapped a mortified hand to her mouth, blushed scarlet when she realized what she'd said.
He gave a shout of laughter.
But even he almost blushed.
”A pity they're not Church of England,” he said. ”They're a trifle less enthusiastic about that sort of thing.”
”Are they?” She sounded genuinely curious and faintly disappointed.
”Well, not all of them.”
As, of course, the two of them were Church of England.
They stopped, both dizzied and nonplussed by the sudden veering of the conversation into the Duffys' bedroom.
”We really oughtn't be talking about this sort of thing,” she said dubiously. Abashed. She'd said it more because she thought she ought to than because she believed it.
She set out down the road. It was lined with elms and ashes and ancient hawthorn hedges, which rustled with birds and other tiny living things. It had seemed so desolate when he waited for her. And now it was paradise.
He wanted to rescue her from embarra.s.sment. ”If we avoid all the things we ought not do, Miss Eversea, neither of us would be walking along this road, enjoying a spectacularly beautiful day in the presence of someone charming. And if something worries you, I should like to know about it. We're friends, are we not?”
”Most definitely.”
She said this so fervently he was literally charmed down to the soles of his feet.
Their initial giddy burst of conversation spent, and for a moment no one spoke. They simply walked. The things they felt free to say aloud had not yet caught up to the things they felt about each other, and the silence was filled with happiness and impatience.
”I truly didn't mean to say that,” she said suddenly. ”I shouldn't like you to think I'm so careless. It's just that I do worry, you see. The Duffy children are darling in their way but so often ill because there isn't enough to eat and they are not very strong, and Mr. Duffy works when he can but he also drinks when he can.”
”I think most men drink when they can. Have a look inside the Pig & Thistle on any given night.” Though he suspected Mr. Duffy did more than his fair share.
She laughed. ”Most of the men we know, surely, but within reason, at least in polite company. Outside of polite company, G.o.d only knows what happens. My brother Colin once threw his boot at his door when I knocked on it too early in the morning. He'd been at the darts and the ale at the pub very late.”
”My father would murder me if I drank to excess in any sort of public fas.h.i.+on. Or threw shoes.”
She darted a quizzical, sympathetic look. ”Murdered? For throwing shoes?”
He laughed. ”Perhaps not literally. It's just . . . I've always been held to a rather strict standard of behavior. I don't suppose I objected. There are benefits a.s.sociated with it, after all,” he said ruefully. ”Such as, my father doesn't withdraw my allowance.”
In the little silence that followed the two of them freshly realized how very constrained Lyon's position was.
”Aren't you ever tempted?”
He considered what to say. ”I have spent much of my life learning how to resist temptation.”
Which caused a funny, awkward little ripple in the conversation, given that they privately considered each other temptation on legs.
He hurriedly added, ”Which I suppose is a fancy way of saying, yes, indeed, I've been tempted, but I've learned the easiest way to manage my father is not to throw shoes. Or dice. Or tantrums. Cricket b.a.l.l.s are allowed.”
She was watching him rather avidly, a tiny crease of sympathy between her eyes.
”A very good deal is expected of me, Miss Eversea.” He was only half teasing. He wasn't certain if he knew how to explain the magnitude of his role as Redmond heir.
”Ah, yes. People often speak of you in hushed and awestruck tones. Lyon Redmond. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, and so forth. Will be a legend one day.”
He laughed, and it tapered into a happy sigh. She was so very surprising. So forthright and confident and happy. Very unlike poor Lady Arabella.
”I fully expect I shall be a legend one day,” he said gravely, only half jesting.
”It's rather a tradition of the Everseas for the young men to find their own ways to fortune. My father went out to sea more than once and came home wealthy. I can't imagine my father threatening murder. He does have rather a look he uses when he wants to make a point.”
Lyon knew the Eversea brothers had allegedly found their ways into the bedrooms of married countesses and the like.
”My father has a look, too,” he said, rather grimly.
She cast him a sidelong glance. ”I thought you were meant to go on a tour of the continent on behalf of your father's business straight away. Or marry the daughter of a duke.”
His head whipped toward her in surprise. ”Where on earth did you hear that?”
”One of my brothers heard it at the pub.”
”I was a topic of discussion in your household?” And now he was astonished.
”Not for long,” she said revealingly. ”It was shot down like the season's first grouse.”
He gave a short laugh. ”Your house sounds like anarchy compared to mine. I don't think I've ever heard the word 'Eversea' spoken aloud voluntarily.”
”It's not anarchy!” She whirled on him in a pa.s.sionate defense. ”We all have beautiful manners.”
And while he was certain this was true-whatever debauchery Ian and Colin Eversea got up to, he was certain they said ”please” and ”thank you” before, during, and after-he felt a surge of almost painful tenderness. She of course would always pa.s.sionately defend the people she loved.
It was a quality he shared with her.
It was also the thing that could divide them, if they lingered on it. The history between their families was complex and sensitive, much of it still not fully known to either of them.
He wanted no complexity to intrude on this idyll.
He reached out and nearly laid a hand on her arm, a reflex to soothe and rea.s.sure.
He withdrew it swiftly. It was definitely one of the ”ought nots.”
Oh, but the day she was in his arms . . .
It was not an ”if” but a ”when.”
And he suspected they both knew it.
”I didn't mean to imply any insult, Miss Eversea, so do forgive me . . . I suppose it was my clumsy way of saying that our families are likely very different. My mother is a placid sort, loving and tolerant, and Father . . .” How on earth to summarize Isaiah? ”. . . I admire him a great deal,” he decided, though it strangely felt less sincere to say this than it would have mere days ago. The admiration was shot through with a rather dark awareness now. ”I am acutely aware of the grandeur, if you will, of the family name, and that great things are expected of me, and that every move I make reflects upon every member of my family, him most especially. Or rather, it's very much how he sees it. My good fortune is immeasurable. I both know this inherently and am essentially told this rather frequently.”
He said this dryly.