"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 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.

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."

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 d.u.c.h.ess. 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.

"THANK 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 sc.r.a.ped raw.

The tick of the clock was deafening.

"A p.a.w.nbroker recognized the initials," his father volunteered finally. "He knew only one such family in Suss.e.x 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 hoa.r.s.e.

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.