She froze and clapped a mortified hand to her mouth, blushed scarlet when she realized what she'd said.

He gave a shout of laughter.

But even he almost blushed.

"A pity they're not Church of England," he said. "They're a trifle less enthusiastic about that sort of thing."

"Are they?" She sounded genuinely curious and faintly disappointed.

"Well, not all of them."

As, of course, the two of them were Church of England.

They stopped, both dizzied and nonplussed by the sudden veering of the conversation into the Duffys' bedroom.

"We really oughtn't be talking about this sort of thing," she said dubiously. Abashed. She'd said it more because she thought she ought to than because she believed it.

She set out down the road. It was lined with elms and ashes and ancient hawthorn hedges, which rustled with birds and other tiny living things. It had seemed so desolate when he waited for her. And now it was paradise.

He wanted to rescue her from embarra.s.sment. "If we avoid all the things we ought not do, Miss Eversea, neither of us would be walking along this road, enjoying a spectacularly beautiful day in the presence of someone charming. And if something worries you, I should like to know about it. We're friends, are we not?"

"Most definitely."

She said this so fervently he was literally charmed down to the soles of his feet.

Their initial giddy burst of conversation spent, and for a moment no one spoke. They simply walked. The things they felt free to say aloud had not yet caught up to the things they felt about each other, and the silence was filled with happiness and impatience.

"I truly didn't mean to say that," she said suddenly. "I shouldn't like you to think I'm so careless. It's just that I do worry, you see. The Duffy children are darling in their way but so often ill because there isn't enough to eat and they are not very strong, and Mr. Duffy works when he can but he also drinks when he can."

"I think most men drink when they can. Have a look inside the Pig & Thistle on any given night." Though he suspected Mr. Duffy did more than his fair share.

She laughed. "Most of the men we know, surely, but within reason, at least in polite company. Outside of polite company, G.o.d only knows what happens. My brother Colin once threw his boot at his door when I knocked on it too early in the morning. He'd been at the darts and the ale at the pub very late."

"My father would murder me if I drank to excess in any sort of public fashion. Or threw shoes."

She darted a quizzical, sympathetic look. "Murdered? For throwing shoes?"

He laughed. "Perhaps not literally. It's just . . . I've always been held to a rather strict standard of behavior. I don't suppose I objected. There are benefits a.s.sociated with it, after all," he said ruefully. "Such as, my father doesn't withdraw my allowance."

In the little silence that followed the two of them freshly realized how very constrained Lyon's position was.

"Aren't you ever tempted?"

He considered what to say. "I have spent much of my life learning how to resist temptation."

Which caused a funny, awkward little ripple in the conversation, given that they privately considered each other temptation on legs.

He hurriedly added, "Which I suppose is a fancy way of saying, yes, indeed, I've been tempted, but I've learned the easiest way to manage my father is not to throw shoes. Or dice. Or tantrums. Cricket b.a.l.l.s are allowed."

She was watching him rather avidly, a tiny crease of sympathy between her eyes.

"A very good deal is expected of me, Miss Eversea." He was only half teasing. He wasn't certain if he knew how to explain the magnitude of his role as Redmond heir.

"Ah, yes. People often speak of you in hushed and awestruck tones. Lyon Redmond. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, and so forth. Will be a legend one day."

He laughed, and it tapered into a happy sigh. She was so very surprising. So forthright and confident and happy. Very unlike poor Lady Arabella.

"I fully expect I shall be a legend one day," he said gravely, only half jesting.

"It's rather a tradition of the Everseas for the young men to find their own ways to fortune. My father went out to sea more than once and came home wealthy. I can't imagine my father threatening murder. He does have rather a look he uses when he wants to make a point."

Lyon knew the Eversea brothers had allegedly found their ways into the bedrooms of married countesses and the like.

"My father has a look, too," he said, rather grimly.

She cast him a sidelong glance. "I thought you were meant to go on a tour of the continent on behalf of your father's business straight away. Or marry the daughter of a duke."

His head whipped toward her in surprise. "Where on earth did you hear that?"

"One of my brothers heard it at the pub."

"I was a topic of discussion in your household?" And now he was astonished.

"Not for long," she said revealingly. "It was shot down like the season's first grouse."

He gave a short laugh. "Your house sounds like anarchy compared to mine. I don't think I've ever heard the word 'Eversea' spoken aloud voluntarily."

"It's not anarchy!" She whirled on him in a pa.s.sionate defense. "We all have beautiful manners."

And while he was certain this was true-whatever debauchery Ian and Colin Eversea got up to, he was certain they said "please" and "thank you" before, during, and after-he felt a surge of almost painful tenderness. She of course would always pa.s.sionately defend the people she loved.

It was a quality he shared with her.

It was also the thing that could divide them, if they lingered on it. The history between their families was complex and sensitive, much of it still not fully known to either of them.

He wanted no complexity to intrude on this idyll.

He reached out and nearly laid a hand on her arm, a reflex to soothe and rea.s.sure.

He withdrew it swiftly. It was definitely one of the "ought nots."

Oh, but the day she was in his arms . . .

It was not an "if" but a "when."

And he suspected they both knew it.

"I didn't mean to imply any insult, Miss Eversea, so do forgive me . . . I suppose it was my clumsy way of saying that our families are likely very different. My mother is a placid sort, loving and tolerant, and Father . . ." How on earth to summarize Isaiah? ". . . I admire him a great deal," he decided, though it strangely felt less sincere to say this than it would have mere days ago. The admiration was shot through with a rather dark awareness now. "I am acutely aware of the grandeur, if you will, of the family name, and that great things are expected of me, and that every move I make reflects upon every member of my family, him most especially. Or rather, it's very much how he sees it. My good fortune is immeasurable. I both know this inherently and am essentially told this rather frequently."

He said this dryly.

She took this in thoughtfully, and a little silence pa.s.sed. "I imagine the consequences would likely be dire, should you diverge from your proscribed path."

She was startlingly astute.

Simply walking with her along this road to the Duffys const.i.tuted a divergence from his proscribed path.

He paused, and chose his next words carefully. For regardless, he had loyalties of his own.

"My father has ways of making his displeasure known. And yes, he has plans for me."

She turned to watch him, her face somber and yet so vivid, so intelligent and sympathetic. He sensed all at once that she wanted to touch him, too, for the same reasons he'd wanted to touch her. To soothe.

And the idea of touching her made him restless, indeed.

It occurred to him that perhaps it hadn't been entirely sensible to meet her alone in the woods. Because within a hundred feet of where they now walked, off the road, there was a small clearing, carpeted in moss and enclosed by hedgerows and trees, and he knew from now on when he lay in his bed at night he would imagine lying her gently down on her back there, and leaning over her to- He hurriedly cast about in his mind for an erection discourager, and settled upon the image of Mrs. Sneath.

Olivia was an innocent, but hardly nave. And the air between them was as full of sparks as the hours before a lightning storm, and it seemed almost dishonest not to discuss it directly. A bit like not saying the word "rain!" even as the sky opened up and poured.

Someone, one of her tall brothers, ought to have walked with her, he thought perversely. Lyon wanted to protect her from himself even as he contemplated ravishing her in a clearing. A paradox.

Into the silence birds sang competing arias, and the trees shook their new leaves like tambourines.

"He'd like me to address the Mercury Club in London soon. To present my thoughts about steam engines and introduce some investment strategies."

"I'm certain you'll acquit yourself as well as your father does."

"I shall do it better."

He said this so simply, and with such easy conviction, that she gave a delighted laugh.

"Is it what you want to do? Investing, and the like? Just like your father."

He hesitated. "I've been groomed for it. I'm good at it. But I've lately learned a good deal about what I want."

He let that statement ring a moment. What I want. Like something being wrought on an anvil. What he wanted was her.

She flushed with pleasure.

"Have you been to London, recently, Miss Eversea?"

"Oh, not recently, but I suspect shall have a season next year. I should have had one last year, but I managed to catch an ague instead."

And he already knew what her season in London would be like: men swarming her like bees swarmed flowers. A rogue surge of jealousy swept in, which was absurd, given that it was jealousy for something that hadn't happened yet.

"To your earlier question, Miss Eversea . . . I was indeed meant to go on to the continent straight away. But I have decided to stay in Pennyroyal Green."

They both knew that statement for what it was: a confession.

He did not mention the daughter of a duke. She didn't ask again.

At the quiet heart of the storm of sparks around them was a strange, peaceful certainty. This person was meant for me.

They walked on, or rather floated on, silently, as if the moment was a small wild creature neither one of them wanted to frighten away.

"Well, I should like to tour the continent," she said finally and gave a little skip, reaching up a hand to touch a leaf on an elm tree as if it were an old friend, which it likely was.

He did like to watch how she moved. He'd once watched a dandelion spiral in a breeze, and she seemed that natural and graceful.

"Would you?" he said, somewhat mistily.

"I've always wanted to go on an ocean voyage. To see the water all around! How magnificent! And pluck an orange straight from a tree that isn't growing in a hothouse. And dig my bare toes into warm golden sand. The closest I've come is Brighton. And reading Robinson Crusoe."

He laughed. "I've long wanted to see Spain. I want to build a house of my own there, with a view of the sea, in a sunny country."

"Not England, in other words."

"We're hardly the tropics, are we?"

"Though today is paradise, isn't it? Imagine a land where the weather is comprised of day after day just like this one." She tipped her head back and took a deep, spring-filled breath.

"You're describing Spain."

"I'll read your book, then!" she said enthusiastically. "I haven't yet, you know. I only read the message that fell from it. Tell me, what sort of house will you build there?"

"Graceful lines. Perhaps a bit Moorish. White. Simple. Large rooms with vast windows, and from every angle you'll be able to see the sea. Filled with light and fine things, but not a lot of things."

He was describing the opposite of his family home, Redmond House. Which was ancient and handsome and lush, all dark woods and hushed hallways and frighteningly dear things they'd never been allowed to touch as children.

"That sounds heavenly. I hope I see it one day."

There was a funny little silence. Because that sounded rather like a declaration, too.

He could sense her deciding whether to ask her next question.

"Does your father know you would like to have a house in Spain?" She said it almost gently. Carefully.

This girl understood so much so quickly.

"No," he said.

It seemed odd, suddenly, to realize that Olivia Eversea already knew his heart better than his father did. Better, in fact, than anyone else in the world.

He had been waiting for this opportunity to exhale, it seemed, his entire life. And with her, he felt more himself than he'd ever been.

She'd already begun showing him that there was much more to himself than he'd ever dreamed. Not entirely comfortable, but wholly seductive.

The Duffy house was now in view and Lyon consciously slowed his steps. But no matter how slow they went, they would eventually arrive.