How could she have missed it? She was besotted, that's why. The word "bind" was synonymous with "chained." Which, coincidentally, suddenly seemed to be wrapped around her heart and squeezing the breath from her.

Did "fate" indeed bind Lyon to a duke's daughter and a life the duplicate of his father's?

His future had been stamped upon him since birth, for all the world as if he was a minted coin.

There was no rule that said love would supersede his sense of duty.

Then again, there was no rule that said it wouldn't.

"It's just a stupid broadsheet," she said so vehemently that both Genevieve and Ian gave a start.

She pushed herself blindly away from the table without saying another word.

LYON LEANED BACK against the elm tree; his heart was pounding so absurdly hard it was a wonder it didn't rustle the tissue-wrapped gloves he'd tucked into his coat. He had never before really given a gift to a woman who wasn't his mother, and this gift seemed perfect and yet woefully inadequate all at once. Because he wanted to give her the world.

He did not, however, want to give her the news he needed to deliver.

As usual, when she appeared, the world seemed to flare into double its usual brightness, and he stepped out to greet her, to bask in the light he usually saw in her face.

She kept walking right on past him as if he was the elm tree. Or invisible.

Well, then. Something was clearly amiss.

He fell into step beside her, and reached for her basket. She pulled her arm away abruptly. And still didn't look at him.

His second rather profound clue that something was definitely wrong.

"Olivia," he tried.

She sped up just a little, as if the sound of his voice were instead the whine of a mosquito she was attempting to outrace.

He kept pace with her. "Olivia, I can't stay today. I need to go to London for about a month. I leave tomorrow."

And that's when she finally stopped. She looked at him. Her face blanked in shock and disbelief, for all the world as if he'd shot her.

Scarlet flooded into her cheeks.

And then her mouth set in a thin line, and she whipped around so quickly her skirts nearly knocked her down.

But she kept walking.

Much, much faster now.

"Olivia, please talk to me." He felt ridiculous scurrying alongside her.

She ignored him. Her jaw was as hard as an axe blade, and her nose, while not necessarily pointed skyward, was definitely elevated. For the first time in his life he understood the term "high dudgeon."

"Olivia. For G.o.d's sake. Stop."

She halted abruptly and whirled on him. "I thought I told you that I don't like being told what to do."

He was utterly unfamiliar with whatever mood this might be, and he was very unaccustomed to flailing. At least she was speaking to him. He thought he'd best take advantage of the moment.

"I'm sorry," he said carefully. "It's just that I . . ."

He paused.

"Yes?" she prompted tersely.

"I shall miss you whilst I'm there. In London."

It wasn't remotely close to how he truly felt, which was all manner of desolation. And he'd said it stiffly. It was rather impressively difficult to speak into the face of whatever formidable mood she was in.

She didn't soften in the least.

"Then why are you going to London?" She sounded like a magistrate.

"To give the presentation to the Mercury Club. The one I told you about. About steam engines."

Her eyes bored into him. "And the Duke of Hexford will be present."

He fell silent a moment, wary now. "Yes," he said finally.

"And Lady Arabella will likely be there, too. In London."

He sighed.

d.a.m.n.

How . . . ? Ah. The b.l.o.o.d.y broadsheets had likely said something about it. Either that, or London gossip had wormed its grimy little way into the Eversea household.

"Not at the Mercury Club meetings, no."

He understood an instant later that this was a very wrong thing to say. Olivia's pride or feelings appeared to be ferociously wounded, and teasing was not the way to balm it. He hurriedly amended, "It's just that I cannot keep making excuses for why I remain in Suss.e.x, and I particularly can't forestall this meeting. It was planned long ago. I simply haven't a choice, Liv."

She stared at him, head tipped as if he were a specimen of some sort pinned to a board.

"No choice but to ride with Lady Arabella in public. And dance with Lady Arabella in public. And walk with her. And talk with her. In public."

"Lady Arabella doesn't talk much. Mostly blushes and agrees with things."

"She sounds delightful."

He paused to think again, frowning faintly. This angry version of Olivia was very impressive indeed-her eyes snapped sparks, her cheeks were scarlet against cream, her every word was hung with icicles. She was utterly beautiful, and he was tempted to tell her that, too, but he suspected it wouldn't be at all well received at the moment.

He knew deep hurt when he saw it.

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."