Part 21 (1/2)

”I lie awake at night, Olivia, and all I think of is you,” he murmured, his voice lulled, amazed. ”And how I'd like to touch you, and where I'd like to touch you. Imagine what this is like with no clothes on.”

”I do. Every night.”

He closed his eyes and made a sound, half laugh, half groan. ”You are killing me.”

They held each other, and as that feverish desire ebbed for now, they were left to contemplate the fact that they were on the precipice of a change they simply could not avoid. And like any precipice, it was dangerous and alluring.

”I'll speak to my father tonight,” he said finally.

It almost sounded like he was handing down a sentence.

She stopped breathing.

She gently pulled out of his arms and sat up, and folded her arms around her knees, tightly, and stared at him, biting her lip. Emotion sliced through her, some hybrid of joy and terror. Hope and foreboding were awfully similar.

”Truly, Lyon?”

He sat up abruptly, too.

”Yes.”

”But . . . your father . . . what if-”

”Tonight,” he insisted.

He made the word ”tonight” sound synonymous with ”forever.”

And his code, after all, was to get what he wanted.

And then he kissed her, and any doubts and fears about ramifications bowed down to pleasure.

Tonight. There was nothing but infinite possibility in the word. It was the word that divided them from this moment and the rest of their lives.

While she was kissing him, it was easy to believe they would have everything they wanted, for how could destiny array itself against their happiness, despite what their families might think? What possible sense could there be in that?

Chapter 12.

LYON MADE HIS WAY home in a peculiar state of mind, or rather state of heart, split like the elm tree into equal portions of bliss and unease. A seam of hope ran hot and bright through him. He could not imagine a life in which he didn't lie in bed night after night for the rest of his life next to Olivia Eversea. An objection to their match would be like arguing in favor of a world without a sun.

And surely he could persuade his father of this. After all, he'd experienced more than one miracle in a span of months: he'd met and kissed and loved and was loved by Olivia Eversea. In light of this, even winning over Isaiah Redmond seemed possible. And yet Lyon was a Redmond, and his father's son. He'd been born with a sense of duty and destiny, and facing his father's certain censure was hardly something he relished.

So be it. He would happily endure whatever he needed to endure to make Olivia his.

As he walked, a gray front of clouds moved in and crowded out the last of the blue sky. There ought to be a rousing storm this evening.

Once home, he did a cursory knock of his boots in the entrance to shake off any dirt, and was five feet into the foyer when his father's voice floated out from the sitting room.

”Ah, here he is. Lyon. Where have you been?”

Lyon closed his eyes, cursed silently, then followed the voice.

He froze on the threshold of the room.

His entire family was arranged over the furniture on one side of the room, all wearing their best clothes and sporting their most impressive posture.

And Lady Arabella sat on the largest settee, a dark brown velvet.

She smiled when she saw him. And then blushed the shade of her dress, which was pale pink and trimmed in cream satin at the bodice. She was wedged between her parents, the Duke and d.u.c.h.ess of Hexford, who looked rather like sentries guarding a fragile artifact.

”Your Grace. Lady Hexford. Lady Arabella. What a pleasant surprise, indeed.”

He took off his hat and bowed elegantly.

And when he did, an oak leaf clinging to his hair floated in an almost leisurely fas.h.i.+on down to the carpet.

Every eye in the room watched its progress to the carpet.

Then every eye went up to his face.

A funny little silence ensued.

”Forgive me,” he said at last, evenly. ”I was out riding.”

”It certainly looks that way,” his father said.

Which sounded very much like an innuendo.

b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l. He hadn't had time to pause in a mirror, though he'd done a cursory review of his trouser front before he'd bid good evening to Olivia and was satisfied it was free of stains. He could blame a flush, sated expression on a vigorous hour or two on horseback, but the other men in the room had likely seen similar flushed, sated expressions in their own mirrors at one point or another. They would draw their own conclusions.

He doubted anyone would interrogate the groom about whether he had actually taken out his horse.

”The duke and d.u.c.h.ess and their lovely daughter will be staying with us for a few days. Isn't that wonderful news?” his father pressed.

”Wonderful,” Lyon parroted. And smiled the smile he'd perfected in London.

Another funny little silence ensued.

”Do forgive me,” he said finally, ”but I'm feeling a trifle at a disadvantage. I should like to take a moment to make myself more civilized and then rejoin you. Before I shed additional flora on the carpet.”

This won him a collective merry laugh, and allowed him to retreat.

He could have sworn his brothers were watching him sympathetically.

THE EVENING WAS interminable, but his breeding was such that he endured it convincingly. He charmed over dinner. Arabella was seated at his right side, naturally, and he was attentive, armed with a stock of benign questions that could be safely asked and answered, such as did she enjoy the country? Did she think it might rain this evening? Yes, and yes, as it so happened. She seemed frightened of having opinions and never expounded, and pursuing exposition made him feel like an inquisitor, so he finally stopped.

After dinner, over brandy and cigars, he leaned back against the mantel next to his father, and asked, ”Do you have about thirty minutes or an hour to spare this evening? There's a matter of some importance I'd like to discuss with you.”