Part 22 (1/2)
Lyon waited. In a detached way-for detachment was the only safety in this circ.u.mstance, and his only hope of possibly outthinking his father-he was curious about what his father would say next.
”Son,” he said. ”Even the best of men occasionally thinks with his c.o.c.k.”
Lyon stopped breathing.
He surrept.i.tiously, slowly released the breath.
Christ, that was shockingly well played.
”With all due respect, sir, I a.s.sure you I am not thinking with said appendage in these circ.u.mstances.”
”Then I must a.s.sume no thinking at all took place.”
The words were utterly contemptuous. As if Lyon was not his son. Or even a man deserving of any kind of respect.
”On the contrary, I've given more thought to the matter I'd like to discuss this evening than anything else in my entire life.”
”In your entire life,” Isaiah repeated wonderingly, indulgently. ”My goodness. All twenty-some odd years of it?”
”Yes.”
”Then I have failed you completely.”
”No, Father. You have not.”
Another little silence.
”Very well, son. Why don't you apprise me of this 'matter,' as you call it?”
And all the while the watch lay there between them, a d.a.m.ning little centerpiece.
”I wish to marry Olivia Eversea.”
The silence in the aftermath of those words, the words he'd thought since the moment he'd laid eyes on her in the ballroom, went on so long it seemed to develop a texture.
”And?” his father finally said.
”And because your respect and regard mean the world to me, and I have come to you to ask for your permission and blessing.”
More well-nigh unendurable silence. The second hand traveled around the clock twice.
Lyon said nothing. It was a battle of wills.
”If you're wondering at the silence . . .” Isaiah said slowly, at last, ”it's because I'm finding it difficult to find just the right words to convey my disappointment and disgust.”
”I have faith that you will find them, Father.”
Isaiah Redmond's eyebrow twitched upward, as if this interested him.
”And you want my . . . blessing, do you?” It was a detached sort of curiosity, as if Lyon had lost his mind utterly and Isaiah needed to find a new way to communicate with him.
”Yes.”
His father was very, very good at whatever this was.
”Have you impregnated the girl?”
An ugly, goading word. It was part of what Lyon knew would now be a relentless strategy to diminish and degrade him, pummel him, break him down, until Lyon confused his own will his father's; saw his love affair as callow, sordid, silly, ephemeral; and did exactly as his father wanted.
Unfortunately for Isaiah Redmond, the apple really didn't fall far from the tree.
Lyon's will was very like his father's.
Absolutely immovable.
And when Lyon loved, it was forever.
”Of course I have not, as you say, impregnated the girl. She's very well-bred, as am I.”
Another pause.
”Does her . . . Do her parents know of your intentions?”
An interesting hesitation there.
His father had tried to make the question idle, and had failed.
That catch in his voice was revealing.
And suddenly Lyon knew the suspicions he'd had for years were confirmed.
”No,” Lyon said.
His father nodded once. He seemed almost relieved.
”If she isn't pregnant, then why in G.o.d's name do you want to marry this girl when you could marry the daughter of a duke?”
”Her name is Olivia,” he explained patiently, enunciating each word painstakingly. ”And I want to marry her because I am in love with her.”
His father's face spasmed in contempt. ”In love.” He spat the word with scorching incredulity.
The muscles banding Lyon's stomach tensed as if someone had thrust a torch into his face. And yet he was proud that he didn't even blink.
”Yes.”
”In love, as you say, with a woman you respect so thoroughly that you sneaked about with her for months, perhaps rutting with her in the woods now and again. I do wonder what this says about the young woman's character. And you would throw your brilliant future and your family's honor away for a girl like this?”
Rutting with her in the woods?
Lyon's shock must have shown.