Part 12 (2/2)
She took this in thoughtfully, and a little silence pa.s.sed. ”I imagine the consequences would likely be dire, should you diverge from your proscribed path.”
She was startlingly astute.
Simply walking with her along this road to the Duffys const.i.tuted a divergence from his proscribed path.
He paused, and chose his next words carefully. For regardless, he had loyalties of his own.
”My father has ways of making his displeasure known. And yes, he has plans for me.”
She turned to watch him, her face somber and yet so vivid, so intelligent and sympathetic. He sensed all at once that she wanted to touch him, too, for the same reasons he'd wanted to touch her. To soothe.
And the idea of touching her made him restless, indeed.
It occurred to him that perhaps it hadn't been entirely sensible to meet her alone in the woods. Because within a hundred feet of where they now walked, off the road, there was a small clearing, carpeted in moss and enclosed by hedgerows and trees, and he knew from now on when he lay in his bed at night he would imagine lying her gently down on her back there, and leaning over her to- He hurriedly cast about in his mind for an erection discourager, and settled upon the image of Mrs. Sneath.
Olivia was an innocent, but hardly nave. And the air between them was as full of sparks as the hours before a lightning storm, and it seemed almost dishonest not to discuss it directly. A bit like not saying the word ”rain!” even as the sky opened up and poured.
Someone, one of her tall brothers, ought to have walked with her, he thought perversely. Lyon wanted to protect her from himself even as he contemplated ravis.h.i.+ng her in a clearing. A paradox.
Into the silence birds sang competing arias, and the trees shook their new leaves like tambourines.
”He'd like me to address the Mercury Club in London soon. To present my thoughts about steam engines and introduce some investment strategies.”
”I'm certain you'll acquit yourself as well as your father does.”
”I shall do it better.”
He said this so simply, and with such easy conviction, that she gave a delighted laugh.
”Is it what you want to do? Investing, and the like? Just like your father.”
He hesitated. ”I've been groomed for it. I'm good at it. But I've lately learned a good deal about what I want.”
He let that statement ring a moment. What I want. Like something being wrought on an anvil. What he wanted was her.
She flushed with pleasure.
”Have you been to London, recently, Miss Eversea?”
”Oh, not recently, but I suspect shall have a season next year. I should have had one last year, but I managed to catch an ague instead.”
And he already knew what her season in London would be like: men swarming her like bees swarmed flowers. A rogue surge of jealousy swept in, which was absurd, given that it was jealousy for something that hadn't happened yet.
”To your earlier question, Miss Eversea . . . I was indeed meant to go on to the continent straight away. But I have decided to stay in Pennyroyal Green.”
They both knew that statement for what it was: a confession.
He did not mention the daughter of a duke. She didn't ask again.
At the quiet heart of the storm of sparks around them was a strange, peaceful certainty. This person was meant for me.
They walked on, or rather floated on, silently, as if the moment was a small wild creature neither one of them wanted to frighten away.
”Well, I should like to tour the continent,” she said finally and gave a little skip, reaching up a hand to touch a leaf on an elm tree as if it were an old friend, which it likely was.
He did like to watch how she moved. He'd once watched a dandelion spiral in a breeze, and she seemed that natural and graceful.
”Would you?” he said, somewhat mistily.
”I've always wanted to go on an ocean voyage. To see the water all around! How magnificent! And pluck an orange straight from a tree that isn't growing in a hothouse. And dig my bare toes into warm golden sand. The closest I've come is Brighton. And reading Robinson Crusoe.”
He laughed. ”I've long wanted to see Spain. I want to build a house of my own there, with a view of the sea, in a sunny country.”
”Not England, in other words.”
”We're hardly the tropics, are we?”
”Though today is paradise, isn't it? Imagine a land where the weather is comprised of day after day just like this one.” She tipped her head back and took a deep, spring-filled breath.
”You're describing Spain.”
”I'll read your book, then!” she said enthusiastically. ”I haven't yet, you know. I only read the message that fell from it. Tell me, what sort of house will you build there?”
”Graceful lines. Perhaps a bit Moorish. White. Simple. Large rooms with vast windows, and from every angle you'll be able to see the sea. Filled with light and fine things, but not a lot of things.”
He was describing the opposite of his family home, Redmond House. Which was ancient and handsome and lush, all dark woods and hushed hallways and frighteningly dear things they'd never been allowed to touch as children.
”That sounds heavenly. I hope I see it one day.”
There was a funny little silence. Because that sounded rather like a declaration, too.
He could sense her deciding whether to ask her next question.
”Does your father know you would like to have a house in Spain?” She said it almost gently. Carefully.
This girl understood so much so quickly.
”No,” he said.
It seemed odd, suddenly, to realize that Olivia Eversea already knew his heart better than his father did. Better, in fact, than anyone else in the world.
He had been waiting for this opportunity to exhale, it seemed, his entire life. And with her, he felt more himself than he'd ever been.
She'd already begun showing him that there was much more to himself than he'd ever dreamed. Not entirely comfortable, but wholly seductive.
The Duffy house was now in view and Lyon consciously slowed his steps. But no matter how slow they went, they would eventually arrive.
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