Part 15 (2/2)

And it was killing him to be the cause of it.

”Some might concur,” he said gently. ”I, on the other hand, infinitely prefer speaking to you. No matter what. No matter when. I even prefer having this deucedly awkward conversation with you, with your eyes blazing and your fists clenched and just moments away from stamping your foot.”

There was a surprised little silence, during which he could tell she was tempted to laugh.

Ah, but she was stubborn.

”But you want to go to London.” She said this flatly. Sounding, however, a trifle mollified.

”I've wanted to speak to the Mercury Club investors, yes. But no. I don't want to leave now.”

He'd just said a good deal, and they both knew it.

And a little silence, a detente of sorts, fell.

But for the first time the things they'd left unspoken and undiscussed, because they would have robbed them of the sweet fleeting pleasure of each other's company, rendered them unable to speak.

Perhaps he ought to let something else do the speaking for him. He took a deep, steadying breath.

”Olivia . . . I . . . I wanted to give you something.”

His hands seemed ridiculously unwieldy and twice their usual size with nerves when he reached into his coat. He fumbled about in there, but finally got hold of the gloves.

He handed the tissue-wrapped bundle to her silently.

His heart took up that absurd pounding again.

She looked up at him quizzically, silently. Her lovely eyes were still blazing with temper and hurt, but he thought he detected a bit of softening.

He held his breath as she carefully parted the tissue and removed, slowly, as if in amazement, those beautiful, long-coveted kid gloves.

She went still.

And then she looked up at him, her face utterly stricken.

Which was all wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.

”But . . . these are . . . these are the gloves from Postlethwaite's,” she said faintly.

”Yes,” he agreed cautiously.

He could hear her breath shuddering in and out.

”Are these . . .” Her voice cracked, and she drew in a long breath. ”Lyon, are these a parting gift?”

He was shocked. ”No! Good G.o.d, no! They're just-I wanted-”

”An apology for going away to see Lady Arabella?”

”No! Olivia-”

But she couldn't hear him.

”But I can't keep these, Lyon. What am I to do with these? I can't wear them in public. I can't do anything at all with you in public. How will I explain how I came to have them? What were you thinking?”

She was trembling now with hurt and fury and thwarted longing, and tears were beginning to glitter in her eyes. If he'd ever been tempted to become a rake, now would a good time to start: he could sweep her into his arms, kiss her senseless, and make her forget the reasons she was hurt. It would certainly absolve him of trying to explain himself.

But he quite simply couldn't do that either to her or to himself.

Because he would still have to leave her and go to London.

He drew in a breath. Counted to three silently. ”Olivia.”

He said it so calmly, so portentously, that she at last went still and looked up at him, breath held. Willing him to say something to make it better.

He took a moment to marshal his courage.

”I want to give you the moon. But I was forced to make do with gloves.”

She made a little sound of pain. As though he'd shoved a needle into her.

Her face suffused with misery.

Too late he realized how that must have sounded to someone whose heart and pride were abraded: as though the moon was no longer on offer, and this was a consolation prize.

”Olivia-”

”Give them to Lady Arabella.” She shoved them back at him.

He took them, stunned.

She turned on her heel and ran as if she couldn't get far enough away from him fast enough.

Chapter 9.

Five weeks before the wedding . . .

ONCE OLIVIA'S TROUSSEAU WAS complete, peace of a sort descended upon the Eversea town house. All the Everseas apart from her mother and Colin had dispersed to Pennyroyal Green or to other parts of England, Genevieve into the waiting arms of her husband.

The next day Olivia was painting her toast in marmalade-it was her tradition to spread it neatly out to the corners before she took one bite-when a footman brought in a tray of correspondence.

”For you, Miss Olivia.”

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