The Legend of Lyon Redmond (14 page)

People rarely ventured into this part of the woods, but Lyon, as a boy, had explored nearly every inch of them.

“Voilà, Liv!”

And they ducked through a hedgerow.

She gasped. “Lyon, it's like a fairy ring!”

They were now all but entirely enclosed by serendipitous shrubbery, and elm and oak tree–filtered sunlight poured down on them. Beneath them was a lovely, seductive cushion of moss and fallen oak and hawthorn leaves, perfect for sprawling.

“I discovered it when I was a boy. I always knew the knowledge would one day prove useful.”

He whipped off his hat and shook off his coat. He sank down onto the soft carpet of moss. He folded his coat neatly and gave it a pat, and she delicately knelt upon it.

They were both a bit too shy to set upon each other at once.

“Here. Put your head in my lap,” she ordered him.

“Very well. If you insist.”

He did and it was bliss to be cushioned by her thighs.

“This is perfect, Liv.”

She stroked his hair away from his forehead again and again and softly again, and he sighed with pleasure.

“Let's stay here forever,” she said.

“All right,” he murmured.

“I'll decorate. We'll make it look like your house in Spain.”

“Very well,” he agreed, drowsily happy.

“Mrs. Sneath tells me the Duffys' baby is well again, Lyon. She's going to be just fine. They were
able to get a doctor in to see her and pay for better food, it was your watch was responsible, I'm certain of it, though the landlord has been all that is discreet and of course neither Mrs. Sneath or Mrs. Duffy have a clue who their anonymous benefactor might be. And Mr. Duffy vows he's going to find permanent work, Mrs. Sneath says.”

“Thank God.” He meant it. About the baby. Though he had no faith at all in Mr. Duffy.

He opened his eyes.

The angle of the sun was such that he could see the shadow of Olivia's nipples against her sheer bodice, pushed up by her stays. Just inches away from his eyes.

The blood roared into his head and into his groin and he closed his eyes again and thought of Mrs. Sneath and he didn't hear a word Olivia said after that.

“Lyon?”

She must have asked him a question. She could have said a dozen things he hadn't heard.

He opened his eyes again.

She was gazing down at him with some concern.

“Olivia. Lie down beside me.”

His voice sounded abstracted in his own ears. As if it was coming from under water.

He rolled from her lap and stretched out on his side, and she stretched out on her side next to him, and smiled softly.

For a moment that seemed suspended in time, they simply gazed into each other's eyes, untenably happy.

And then he tentatively reached out and softly trailed a finger along the tender inside of her arm, following the faint blue road of her vein. Her skin was a satiny miracle, glutting his nerve endings
with pleasure. All the weeks of restraint had taught him to savor minutely. To be a connoisseur, and not a glutton. To see every part of her as infinitely desirable.

The day they made love, the earth would shake so hard new continents would form.

He skated his nails all the way along her arm and watched the gooseflesh rise. Her eyes went dark and huge and fascinated.

And then he leaned over and placed a hot kiss in the bend of her elbow.

She sighed and closed her eyes.

And then he moved his mouth to kiss the thumping pulse in that tender, satiny secret place beneath her ear.

And he watched her nipples go erect, and her hips shifted and she drew her knees up restlessly, hunger building.

He leaned over and covered her glorious pillow of a mouth with his, taking a slow, slow, deep, searching kiss, and she threaded her fingers through his hair, skating her nails softly over the back of his neck, which made him mad with lust and sent little rivers of flame through him. He moved his lips to her throat, and he dragged them lower, and lower, until he touched his tongue to that alluring shadow just above where her breasts swelled softly.

She drew in a sharp breath and arched, and he knew what she wanted, but he couldn't. He would have literally killed a man for the privilege of pulling down her bodice and closing his mouth over her nipple.

He didn't dare. He didn't trust himself. He knew the logic of lust, and once he saw her naked breast he would have convinced himself that mounting her was the next most reasonable step, and he
knew Olivia was passionate enough to get lost in the moment.

And she trusted him. This was the thing he cherished the most.

And while it was faintly absurd, as if they needed to treat all the most delicious parts of their bodies as if they were injured, or covered in thorns and therefore to be avoided at all costs, it was also more erotic than anything he'd ever before experienced.

He was already shaking.

“Oh God, Liv,” he whispered.

He slid his lips back up to hers, then moved them to her throat again, then traced her ear with his tongue until she whimpered softly, her body rippling. She sighed his name, beseeching. He pulled her body against his, and slid a hand down to her hip, and cupped it, pressing her hard against him, letting her feel his stiffening cock at the join of his legs. He thrust subtly against her, and her head went back on a gasp.

The lust was electric in the back of his throat.

She wrapped her arms around his head, and their lips met and parted, feasted and caressed, as they folded their bodies tightly together and side by side found a rhythm, a graceless, deliberate, grinding friction comprised of thrusting and circling hips that became faster, and harder, more painful, more exquisite.

Her breath was in tatters. “Lyon . . . Lyon, I . . . Lyon,
please
. . . Oh God . . .”

Oh, to feel her hands on his cock.

Or her mouth on his cock.

Her sweet, soft mouth on his cock.

It was this that made him thrust against her harder, more swiftly. And that was when she screamed softly, hoarsely, her release whipping her
upward with its force, her fingers digging into his arms.

He went rigid then as his own release broke over him, wave after glorious wave of it. He heard her name in his voice, a tattered groan of raw pleasure.

And then they were floating in that ether of bliss that was the aftermath.

He closed his eyes, spent. She curled into his arms and their chests rose and fell in tandem.

And when he breathed, in came the lavender and sweetness and sweat that was Olivia, and it was inconceivable that he wouldn't wake like this every morning for the rest of his life.

He opened his eyes at last. To find her eyes still dark and dazed and dreamy, a soft smile curving her mouth. She was watching him.

He gave a short pained laugh. “Liv, my love. You may be the death of me.”

She said nothing.

She knew this wasn't actually funny.

For either of them.

The lightness between them been usurped by this fraught hunger. It would only build and build upon itself the more they were together, and would only make them eventually hate each other if they couldn't fully satisfy it, or do something reckless—even more reckless than this—and regrettable.

But oh God, the pleasure while they were doing that regrettable thing would be unforgettable.

Possibly even worth it.

And that, as Lyon had said earlier, was a very dangerous way to think.

“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?

L
YON 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 Duchess 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 fashion 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.

Bloody hell. 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 duchess 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.

T
HE 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.”

His father didn't look at him. He was occupied with lighting a cigar. “Certainly, Lyon. I shall be up late reviewing some correspondence. About eleven o'clock?”

“Thank you.”

Hi father turned his back on Lyon to say something to the duke, but Lyon scarcely heard the conversation after that. Eleven o'clock. The hour the rest of his life would begin.

A
LITTLE LATER,
everyone reconvened for a time and then dispersed, his brothers to shoot billiards, his father to chat with the duke, Violet to chat with his mother and the duchess. He was, by unsubtle collective design, left alone in a room with Arabella.

He spoke to her very gently. He couldn't seem to find the stamina to torture her with further questions. If there was a subject that could arouse her to animation, she was guarding the secret of it jealously.

But he was feeling tenderly toward her, because he was so in love with Olivia he felt charitable toward the entire world. He hoped Lady Arabella would find someone to love one day.

But she did seem eager to agree with everything he said, so he found himself conducting a monologue about gaslight for an hour, before he suggested she might be tired, another thing with which she gratefully agreed.

And by half past ten, a hush had settled over the house.

Lyon sat briefly in his favorite chair and peered
out for a glimpse of the Starry Plough. But a ceiling of gray clouds obscured all stars.

He wasn't much of a believer in omens.

And once he made a decision he never veered from it.

He sat suspended in a little hammock of time spanning his old life and the life he knew would be his by midnight tonight.

And so when the clock chimed eleven, he took himself upstairs to the Throne Room.

“T
HANK YOU FOR
your time, Father.”

“Of course, Lyon.”

His father gestured to the chair and Lyon took it. His father, of course, sat at the great polished boat of a desk, so shining Lyon could see two Isaiah Redmonds in it, which was definitely one too many.

Lyon inhaled and then exhaled at length. He'd decided how to begin, and what to say, and had just opened his mouth to speak.

Isaiah casually reached into a drawer to retrieve something and laid something gently, very deliberately in the middle of his desk.

Lyon leaned forward to peer.

And froze.

All the sensation left his limbs.

It was his pocket watch.

His father then slowly leaned back in his chair. And watched him, waiting for this realization to fully sink in.

Lyon slowly raised his head and met his father's eyes.

His father was regarding him with the mild interest he might focus upon a chess opponent. It was, of course, all bluff.

He even gave his fingers an idle drum on the desk. As if everything was oh so inconsequential. As if the most profound and beautiful significant thing to ever happen to Lyon was merely another problem to dispense with in the hours after dinner and before bed.

The silence rang in Lyon's ears.

All of his senses felt scraped raw.

The tick of the clock was deafening.

“A pawnbroker recognized the initials,” his father volunteered finally. “He knew only one such family in Sussex who would possess both such a fine timepiece and these particular initials. He told me it came to him through the landlord of the Duffys, and it was given to the landlord by Miss Olivia Eversea. He thought I should like it returned. And so, Lyon, I have purchased this watch twice over. Brandy?”

It was a moment before he could speak. “No thank you.”

He hated the fact that his voice was hoarse.

His father splashed a little brandy into the bottom of a snifter, then cupped it in his hand.

“When did you purchase it?”

Lyon heard his own voice as if he were speaking underwater. He wanted badly to clear his throat, but didn't dare. Isaiah Redmond was a wolf. He could scent weakness, and he would capitalize on weakness, and methodically, slowly, tear his son limb from limb.

A cascade of new realizations about his father were arriving too late.

“Two weeks ago, Lyon.”

Two weeks.

His father had held on to that watch for two weeks, waiting for just the right moment to spring it upon Lyon.

It was both fascinating and horrifying. In a peculiar way, he admired it immensely. It was an eminently effective way to knock Lyon off balance.

His father pushed the watch over to Lyon. “Here. Why don't you put it back in your pocket where it belongs, and we'll put the episode that prompted it behind you. We can begin to make marriage plans for you and Lady Arabella. It will be a magnificent match.”

Lyon ignored it. “I don't want it, thank you. It was given to me as a gift, and I in turn gave it as a gift.”

“To Olivia Eversea,” his father mused.

“To Olivia Eversea.”

He let the watch lay where it was.

His father furrowed his brow as if this was faintly interesting.

He took a sip of brandy and rolled it thoughtfully in his mouth.

Lyon waited. In a detached way—for detachment was the only safety in this circumstance, 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 cock.”

Lyon stopped breathing.

He surreptitiously, slowly released the breath.

Christ, that was shockingly well played.

“With all due respect, sir, I assure you I am not thinking with said appendage in these circumstances.”

“Then I must assume 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 damning 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 God'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 hono
r away for a girl like this?”

Rutting with her in the woods?

Lyon's shock must have shown.