The Legend of Lyon Redmond (13 page)

He hadn't come in his trousers since he was thirteen years old.

And yet he'd never felt so frightened, and somehow infinite and powerful.

What in God's name was he going to do?

They breathed for a time.

“You're shaking,” she whispered.

He rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. He couldn't yet speak. Their breath mingled, hot and swift, then spiraled whitely in the cold air.

He finally opened his eyes. Hers were blue, still kiss-hazy, worried.

“I'm sorry, Liv. I didn't mean for this to become so . . . so . . .”

“Shhh,” she said. “I'm not sorry.”

He gazed down at her. Her lashes were still a little damp.

He drew a finger softly, softly, slowly around the contour of her lips. The sweet peaks up top, the luscious, eloquent curve below.

He knew from now on every time for the rest of his life he saw mist on a windowpane he'd trace that shape there.

“You probably know . . . you should know there's more, Liv . . . for you. It's . . . rather extraordinary.”

“More?”

“If I were to touch you in . . . certain places . . . in certain ways . . .”

He had never had a more torturously awkward conversation in his life.

And now she was scarlet.

He suspected he was, too.

“I hate to leave you unsatisfied. It's just . . . we mustn't ever . . . we must be so careful . . . you do understand that it's dangerous?”

She nodded.

Perhaps she understood. Perhaps she didn't.

She would definitely understand the next time.

“Dangerous,” she repeated softly. Her pupils dark, her gaze dreamy.

“Yes. So . . .” He kissed her lips, softly, lingeringly. “So . . .”

“. . . dangerous,” she whispered, her mouth opening to his again. Slow, slow, this time.

As if they had all the time in the world.

O
LIVIA HADN'T KNOWN A
universe could be created from a kiss. She wanted to
be
Lyon, to crawl inside him. But one did have to breathe between long kisses, and when she did she opened her eyes and tipped her head up . . .

Long enough to notice there was, in fact, a purple streak across the sky.

The sun was lowering. It was shockingly late.

“Eeep!”

Without another word she seized her basket and bolted like a rabbit freed from a trap, running as though her very life was at stake, likely losing a few hairpins along the way.

She consciously slowed to a walk as the Eversea house at last came into view.

As did her Father, who was out as if for a leisurely stroll, a hound at his heels. When normally he would be inside preparing for dinner.

She stopped abruptly.

“Good . . . evening, Papa.”

Damn. It was, indeed, evening.

“Walk with me for a bit, daughter?”

Her heart lurched in dread. Her palms began to sweat and she longed to swipe them on her skirt, which was likely rumpled. She didn't dare.

“I was at the Duffys, Papa. I brought food to them.” She gestured with the basket.

“Ah, yes. It's what you usually do of a Tuesday. You stayed for a good long time today,” he said mildly.

“I did.”

“'Tis safe enough here in Pennyroyal Green, but a father worries, you know. Perhaps you ought to take a dog with you. This hound, for instance.”

The hound smiled and panted up at them hopefully, trotting along and sniffing things.

“A dog would only fight with the Duffys' dog. Or mate with it, and goodness knows how many breeds went into the making of the Duffys' dog as it is.”

Her father laughed and she blushed.

“Sorry, Papa. I won't be late again. You don't need to worry. I'm sorry to worry you, if I did.”

He
didn't
need to worry about her being late again.

But did it show? Her flushed cheeks, and goodness knew whether her hair was in disarray, and her lips felt permanently branded by hot kisses. She wanted desperately to be alone to touch them now, to savor the feeling of Lyon's mouth there. To relive it again and again. She didn't dare do that now.

If her father noticed, he didn't say a thing. Perhaps he attributed it all to her running.

“You look a good deal happier now than you did just a day ago, Olivia.”

“It must be the simple mother forced, er, encouraged me to drink last night.”

“Ah,” her father said.

They walked in silence, and Olivia was grateful for his company now that it was nearly nightfall.

“You know, I walked with your mother on this very road when I was a boy. You look so much like her when she was a girl. And she was a
stubborn
, thing, my goodness. So witty. So clever.”

He said this with relish. He was proud of all of those things in his wife and in Olivia.

Olivia laughed. He took the basket from her and looped it over his own arm and took her arm in his.

“I was her brother's best friend, did you know?”

“Uncle George? Oh yes, I think I knew.”

“Indeed, your Uncle George. We were boys together at school.”

She smiled, picturing her father as a young man. Dashing and handsome and full of himself. Her mother's brother was a Syvlaine and father to a half-dozen cousins she didn't see as often as she'd like to.

They walked as dark mauve cloud bunting draped over the sky, and she wondered if Lyon was home now. She slipped her hand into her apron pocket and closed it over the watch. The Duffys' landlord was honest and beleaguered and lived very near them. She would need to cajole a footman into taking it to him.

And what did he do when he got there? And was he thinking about her?

She smiled faintly. How could he not?

“Did you . . . did you fall in love with Mama straightaway, Papa?”

He turned to her and smiled faintly. “I did indeed. I understood all that Cupid's arrow nonsense at once.” He clapped a hand to his chest. “In it went, and never left.”

“Did Mama . . . ?”

“Did your Mama . . . well, it seemed to me that every young man in Sussex was in love with her, but then I was looking through the eyes of love. Do you know Mr. Tingle was captivated with her?”

“Mr. Tingle from the
bookshop
?”

“Oh, he's married happily now to the woman who was right for him. There was a viscount, even
an earl, who sent flowers to your mama. Sylvaines are a very good family, but not as wealthy then as they are now. A learned family, a good one. But not exactly in line to the throne.”

Olivia laughed. “One day, Papa. There are certainly enough of us and we may marry royalty yet.”

“Oh, you and Genevieve will most certainly marry brilliantly,” he said, almost complacently.

Guilt seized her ability to speak again.

“There was even Isaiah Redmond, if you can imagine that. He courted your mama.”

Ah.

Unease settled in her stomach. She resented the sensation greatly, when she wanted to fly home on winged heels and relive, over and over, how it felt to be in Lyon's arms. Perhaps she'd employ her pillow in helping her remember tonight.

Her father was a subtle, subtle, clever man. And she began to suspect this was an agenda disguised as a stroll. And as surely as they were traveling this road to Eversea House, her father was leading her on a road to some kind of realization.

She and Lyon had been so very careful, until today. Surely no one had seen them when they met?

“I was at sea for a time, traveling, you see, making my fortune in my own way, as all Eversea men are wont to do. The fortune you enjoy today, darling daughter.” He gave her a playful little nudge. “When I returned, there was a bit of competition for her hand. Including Mr. Redmond.”

“It sounds like Mama was spoiled for choice. I am ever so glad she chose you. You're clearly the best of the lot.”

“Ah, flatterer. That makes two of us.”

“Though Mrs. Redmond is certainly very pretty, too.”

“You ought to have seen her when she was young.”

It was odd for Olivia to imagine all of these people as young men and women. They were so content now, Mama and Papa. Had they ever suffered torments of longing? Had there been a subtle war between all of them? It was nearly impossible to imagine Lyon's cold, elegant father suffering throes of anything, apart from greed. Let alone her own mother not instantly falling in love with her father, who was a delight. Though perhaps she had.

“You know . . . Money makes many things possible, Olivia. I love it desperately, if you must know. To me, money is possibility. Infinite possibility. Acquiring it, managing it, growing it . . . it's a skill, it's an art, it's not for the faint of heart. Above all, it's safety. It keeps my loved ones safe, and for that I am eternally grateful. And you know, my dear, there is indeed a difficult history between our family and the Redmonds, and one day you may hear more of it. We are not faultless. There are more than a few rogues in Eversea history, but we are survivors, above all, and we shall always, mind you,
always
thrive.”

He glanced at her, as it to ascertain she was truly listening.

“But as much as Everseas love money, the Redmond family care more about wealth than
anything
. It will always win. And they do not care who is hurt.”

The unease had tightened into a cold, hard, knot. She resented the intrusion of doubt into her paradise, and yet, there it was. Joining that minute kernel of doubt that had, perhaps, been there from the start. Her father had always seemed to know best. It was a constant in her life.

And what did it mean for everything that came before if he was wrong now?

She didn't speak.

Her father was quiet awhile.

“We should like to give you a season in London this year, Olivia, since you were unable to last year. Would you like that?”

“Yes, Papa, that would be lovely, thank you,” she said abstractedly.

The season seemed so very far away. And she'd just kissed and been kissed (and kissed and kissed) for the first time, and it was all the wanted to think about. That, and the next time she would kiss Lyon.

T
HE FOLLOWING
M
ONDAY,
when Olivia finally wandered downstairs after a feverish, near-sleepless night, she found, to her surprise, her entire family sitting around the breakfast table, chewing, chatting, yawning. The light was pushing into the kitchen in the way she loved, through the sheer curtains, and as she slid into her accustomed spot and the coffeepot was pushed over to her, and she smiled sleepily and gratefully.

She was about to reach for the pot of marmalade when she found a little folded sheet of foolscap next to her plate.

“What could this be?” she said brightly.

“It arrived for you this morning along with the rest of our correspondence,” her father said. “Mrs. Sneath sent it over.”

She unfolded it quickly.

Dear Miss Eversea,

I've decided another family would benefit from your commitment and charming presence. Miss Putney will now see to the
Duffys. I should like to meet with you to discuss the O'Flaherty family on Tuesday at two o'clock at the vicarage.

Yours in charity,
                 

Mrs. Sneath
                        

Little cold prickles of foreboding rained over her.

She didn't dare look up from the message. Not yet. Not yet.

The O'Flahertys lived quite a distance away from the Duffys. Nowhere
near
that elm tree.

She didn't know how to let him know. And she imagined Lyon waiting and waiting for her . . . and when she didn't come . . .

The notion was unbearable.

The timing of the message could, of course, be entirely coincidental.

Or her father, in his own subtle way, had set out to make a point, and had put in motion a plan to protect her.

But they couldn't
possibly
know anything for certain about her and Lyon.

Then again, she wasn't precisely looking anywhere but at Lyon when she was walking. Or kissing him. For all she knew the entire town had been watching them through field glasses.

Surely not.

She thought she detected a hush in the kitchen while she was looking down. As if everyone had frozen to watch her reaction.

But when she finally, slowly looked up again, everyone was chewing, or reaching for jam, or holding a sore head (Colin).

Regardless, they didn't know Lyon.

Lyon was determined.

And Lyon was a planner.

And if they thought it would be this easy to keep them apart, if indeed this was the intent . . . they didn't truly know her.

“What does Mrs. Sneath want, Olivia?” her mother asked.

“She'd like me to visit a new family!” she said brightly. “I'm very much looking forward to it.”

T
HE CHURCH SERVICE
that Sunday was interminable, made slightly less interminable by the presence of a particular pair of shoulders and a beautiful fine head for Olivia to stare at throughout the service.

She might have imagined it, but she thought they vibrated from the strain of not turning about to look at her.

And when at last they had been set free from their weekly duty, and everyone had stood and shuffled out of the church, she paused a moment, as if peering fondly in at all her buried ancestors, and dumped her prayer book from her hands.

She dropped to her knees.

Lyon Redmond, who just happened to be strolling by at that precise moment, dropped to his to pick it up for her.

“Mrs. Sneath moved me to the O'Flahertys,” she whispered. “Two o'clock on Tuesdays.”

He said nothing. He merely picked up her prayer book and placed it back in her hands, then touched his hat once when she muttered thanks.

It took superhuman discipline not to open her book during the walk home. It took superhuman discipline not to
run
all the way home, for that matter.

But once there, she scrambled up to her bedroom and gave her prayer book a good hard shake.

A little strip of foolscap fluttered out.

Meet me at three o'clock tomorrow by the stand of oaks near the O'Flaherty's. I know a clearing.

She clutched it to her with a delighted laugh. Somehow he had found out. He had, as always, been prepared.

“I
WAS SO
worried you thought I abandoned you,” she said breathlessly, as she ran to greet him. He took her hands in his, because they could now.

They could and oh, how they would, touch each other.

“I knew you wouldn't, Liv. I knew something must have happened. So I paid Mrs. Sneath a visit, and we had a little chat about the virtues of charity. I made a small donation, and then I told her that my sister Violet was interested in volunteering to deliver food baskets. She was so shocked and dazed by this possibility that it was easy enough to winkle from her which families needed help and which young ladies were doing the helping.”

She laughed, imagining poor Mrs. Sneath, who would consider Violet Redmond a challenge and a project. “Did you think I was frightened off by all the kissing?” she teased.

“Good God, no. I knew you wouldn't be able to resist coming back for more.”

She pulled her hands away and gave him a playful little shove, and he dodged her, grinning.

And then he took her hand gently in his, lacing his fingers through her fingers, so casually intimate, so precious an act, they fell silent.

And he led her to the clearing. The point of a clearing was to be alone, and it seemed such an obvious statement of what they intended to do once
they got there that this kept them silent, too, tense and eager and abashed.