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.

"You were seen pawing someone, Lyon. Some weeks ago."

"I must request that you not in any way impugn Miss Eversea's character, which is una.s.sailable, and her family is as fine as ours."

His father gave a short laugh, then sighed. "Oh, son. You should hear yourself."

"And I should think you'd admire stealth and strategy, Father. After all, I learned it from a man who repurchased a pocket watch and kept it for two weeks, all the while apparently spying on me, waiting for just the perfect moment to produce it."

He wasn't helping his cause. His father had more practice, after all, and Lyon's temper was beginning to burn through the fabric of his control.

And yet he had the satisfaction of seeing Isaiah go still.

How about that, he'd managed to surprise his father.

"Son," he said with insufferable pity. "You were hardly stealthy. You might as well have hung a sign around your neck."

And just like that, the gauze was ripped away.

And Lyon could feel the hot color pour into his cheeks.

Of course they weren't stealthy. Of course he'd walked about in a haze of happiness and torment. Distracted, happier than he ought to be, absent for mysterious hours of time, remaining in Pennyroyal Green where the diversions consisted primarily of the pub and the bookstore, outside of hunting season. Of course his valet had in all likelihood seen his stained shirttails. And of course someone had likely seen him, at least from a distance, before he had the wisdom or the lunacy to take Olivia into that clearing. They had thought they were careful.

How could anyone who was as in love as they were be discreet enough? It in all likelihood radiated from the two of them like beacons.

He loathed himself for not doing a better job of protecting her.

"Then the sign would have read, 'I am happy for the first time in my life,'" he said valiantly.

Isaiah leaned back in his chair and studied him again.

"You are not the man I thought you were, Lyon." He said this almost thoughtfully.

"No," Lyon agreed. "Thankfully, I am not."

"No," his father continued as if he hadn't spoken. "You are a fool."

The volume of that sentence escalated until "fool" was spat like a dart.

Lyon didn't flinch.

"If you pursue your . . . Why don't we call it 'a.s.sociation'? A better word than it deserves, surely . . . with Miss Olivia Eversea against my wishes under any circ.u.mstances, you will immediately be cut off from all Redmond funds. You will no longer be welcome under this roof, and you will be forbidden contact with your brothers and sister. I will ensure you will never be received in proper company again, or welcome in any clubs in all of England."

Lyon stopped breathing.

He surrept.i.tiously pressed a palm against his thigh, as if to brace himself against the hard landing of a long, long fall.

Just like that. His punishment for simply loving one woman was to be denied everything else he loved. Forever.

Oddly, it wasn't entirely unexpected. But hearing it conjured desolation that was like looking down into an abyss. No Miles, no Jonathan, no Violet. Sundered, like that.

"If you wish to maintain ties with your family and fortune, you now have two choices. Beginning tomorrow, you will either go to the continent and stay for one year, you will do the business of the Mercury Club, and when you return you will marry appropriately. In this way we can mitigate any damage to your reputation, and you may one day restore yourself to my good graces. Or you can propose to Lady Arabella this week and be married next spring."

Lyon abandoned strategy and pride.

"Father . . . I hope you know I have always valued your love and respect above all things. I have strived my entire life to make you proud."

His father remained coldly silent.

"I love Olivia." He tried to keep his voice even, but there was the slightest hint of a break on her name. "And she loves me. I know you could come to love her, too, if you knew her. It's . . . I swear to you if . . . Surely you were once in love . . ."

He knew this was tantamount to the lamb leaping for the knife, revealing this vulnerability. But he still had a heart. He would prefer to be honest than to gain the most important thing in the world to him through strategy, which was clearly what ran in his father's veins instead of blood.

Somewhere behind that cold facade was a man who had taught his sons to fish and hunt and swim and ride. Who had praised their accomplishments, commiserated with their failures. Who had carried him on his shoulders, and been strict but fair, thoughtful and even amusing, always an object of fear, but also of admiration and respect. Who, Lyon was certain, loved them.

If only Lyon had known how conditional all of this paternal love apparently was.

"Father, I swear to you, I didn't have a choice."

"For G.o.d's sake, of course you had a b.l.o.o.d.y choice!"

Isaiah was shouting now. He was all fury.

And Lyon was absolutely motionless.

Just like that.

He was beyond fear. Beyond anger.

He'd made his decision.

And he was grateful now that he possessed precisely the weapon that would bring his father to his knees.

"All of this. All of this because you made the wrong decision," Lyon said softly.

Isaiah hesitated. "What in G.o.d's name are you talking about?"

"I am aware that you watch the back of Mrs. Eversea's head in church every Sunday, rather than the vicar."

He'd just given voice to a truth so buried that no one who suspected dared speak it.

Lyon instinctively knew it was a brutal thing to say, and he welcomed it as a weapon.

He had the sublime, visceral satisfaction of watching scarlet slowly flood his father's cheeks.

So this, at last, was his father's weakness.

Isolde Eversea. Another man's wife.