Part 15 (1/2)
How could she have missed it? She was besotted, that's why. The word ”bind” was synonymous with ”chained.” Which, coincidentally, suddenly seemed to be wrapped around her heart and squeezing the breath from her.
Did ”fate” indeed bind Lyon to a duke's daughter and a life the duplicate of his father's?
His future had been stamped upon him since birth, for all the world as if he was a minted coin.
There was no rule that said love would supersede his sense of duty.
Then again, there was no rule that said it wouldn't.
”It's just a stupid broadsheet,” she said so vehemently that both Genevieve and Ian gave a start.
She pushed herself blindly away from the table without saying another word.
LYON LEANED BACK against the elm tree; his heart was pounding so absurdly hard it was a wonder it didn't rustle the tissue-wrapped gloves he'd tucked into his coat. He had never before really given a gift to a woman who wasn't his mother, and this gift seemed perfect and yet woefully inadequate all at once. Because he wanted to give her the world.
He did not, however, want to give her the news he needed to deliver.
As usual, when she appeared, the world seemed to flare into double its usual brightness, and he stepped out to greet her, to bask in the light he usually saw in her face.
She kept walking right on past him as if he was the elm tree. Or invisible.
Well, then. Something was clearly amiss.
He fell into step beside her, and reached for her basket. She pulled her arm away abruptly. And still didn't look at him.
His second rather profound clue that something was definitely wrong.
”Olivia,” he tried.
She sped up just a little, as if the sound of his voice were instead the whine of a mosquito she was attempting to outrace.
He kept pace with her. ”Olivia, I can't stay today. I need to go to London for about a month. I leave tomorrow.”
And that's when she finally stopped. She looked at him. Her face blanked in shock and disbelief, for all the world as if he'd shot her.
Scarlet flooded into her cheeks.
And then her mouth set in a thin line, and she whipped around so quickly her skirts nearly knocked her down.
But she kept walking.
Much, much faster now.
”Olivia, please talk to me.” He felt ridiculous scurrying alongside her.
She ignored him. Her jaw was as hard as an axe blade, and her nose, while not necessarily pointed skyward, was definitely elevated. For the first time in his life he understood the term ”high dudgeon.”
”Olivia. For G.o.d's sake. Stop.”
She halted abruptly and whirled on him. ”I thought I told you that I don't like being told what to do.”
He was utterly unfamiliar with whatever mood this might be, and he was very unaccustomed to flailing. At least she was speaking to him. He thought he'd best take advantage of the moment.
”I'm sorry,” he said carefully. ”It's just that I . . .”
He paused.
”Yes?” she prompted tersely.
”I shall miss you whilst I'm there. In London.”
It wasn't remotely close to how he truly felt, which was all manner of desolation. And he'd said it stiffly. It was rather impressively difficult to speak into the face of whatever formidable mood she was in.
She didn't soften in the least.
”Then why are you going to London?” She sounded like a magistrate.
”To give the presentation to the Mercury Club. The one I told you about. About steam engines.”
Her eyes bored into him. ”And the Duke of Hexford will be present.”
He fell silent a moment, wary now. ”Yes,” he said finally.
”And Lady Arabella will likely be there, too. In London.”
He sighed.
d.a.m.n.
How . . . ? Ah. The b.l.o.o.d.y broadsheets had likely said something about it. Either that, or London gossip had wormed its grimy little way into the Eversea household.
”Not at the Mercury Club meetings, no.”
He understood an instant later that this was a very wrong thing to say. Olivia's pride or feelings appeared to be ferociously wounded, and teasing was not the way to balm it. He hurriedly amended, ”It's just that I cannot keep making excuses for why I remain in Suss.e.x, and I particularly can't forestall this meeting. It was planned long ago. I simply haven't a choice, Liv.”
She stared at him, head tipped as if he were a specimen of some sort pinned to a board.
”No choice but to ride with Lady Arabella in public. And dance with Lady Arabella in public. And walk with her. And talk with her. In public.”
”Lady Arabella doesn't talk much. Mostly blushes and agrees with things.”
”She sounds delightful.”
He paused to think again, frowning faintly. This angry version of Olivia was very impressive indeed-her eyes snapped sparks, her cheeks were scarlet against cream, her every word was hung with icicles. She was utterly beautiful, and he was tempted to tell her that, too, but he suspected it wouldn't be at all well received at the moment.
He knew deep hurt when he saw it.