“I knew she was from San Francisco. But Gabriel Graham was her true love,” Isabel said firmly. “I had such a crush on him when I was younger. I was riveted by his movies. I couldn’t believe anyone that charismatic had ever existed.”
Malcolm was so suddenly irrationally jealous of the long-dead, effortlessly cool Gabriel Graham that his finger jerked like a record scratch up to another part of her family tree.
“Now Genevieve Eversea, Olivia’s sister, married the Duke of Falconbridge. Their direct descendants still abound in England, all of Europe, really. You may even see them in town while you’re here. Unless you blink, because the future duke is usually a blur in that Maserati.”
“Do you know him well, then?”
He pressed his lips together. “He thinks I’m a Plebian. His brothers and sister are more tolerable.”
He could imagine Jemima’s reaction to being called “tolerable.”
Isabel was studying him, a faint furrow between her brows.
It was perilously close to sunset. He should have left ten minutes ago.
A bird sang a glorious snatch of song, and Isabel tipped her head back to see if she could find the singer in the tree.
“Do you see something carved there? It looks like an ‘I’ and maybe an ‘S.’”
The lowering sun had indeed struck new angles and illuminated hidden nooks. And there it was.
He tipped his own head back. “I think you’re right. I-S. I’ve never noticed it before. As though someone was trying to carve ‘Isabel.’
She drew in a long, audible breath.
And exhaled a shuddery one.
And suddenly, abruptly, she slipped her iPad back into her bag and folded her hands in front of her.
“I’m sorry,” he said instantly. “Is all this history a bit much?”
“No . . . I’m sorry . . . I’m happy, actually.” She glanced up at him quickly, then smiled swiftly, but the smile was wobbly. “That was my happy face, honestly. It’s just. That I . . . I didn’t really know my parents, so . . .”
This sentence trailed into nothingness as she pretended to be distracted by rummage through her handbag.
“Ah,” he said instantly, neutrally, a universe of understanding in that syllable.
Isabel looked up at him again. He had doctor’s eyes. A way of looking into you that implied you may as well tell him your secrets, because he knew them anyway.
She was certain plenty of women and patients had volunteered their secrets to him.
He wasn’t going to find her quite as forthcoming.
She looked forward to his efforts, however.
The silence stretched a bit. She’d created an awkward moment and she regretted it.
He didn’t really need to know a thing about her in order for her to enjoy him, and she’d been so caught up in the momentum of the conversation she’d tripped on her own conversational thread.
“The reason I practice medicine in Pennyroyal Green . . .” he ventured. “. . . . where I was born . . . Sometimes I think it has a bit to do with Jack Fountain, who never knew his own father. Maybe a need to belong, to feel connected to something, is in my DNA.”
She knew why he’d said it: so that she would recognize that her own untold story, however dark or difficult, was simply part of centuries of human experience.
She was very unaccustomed to insightful men.
She wasn’t certain how much she liked it
“I wonder if someone might even stand beneath these trees a hundred years from now and tell the story of Isabel Redmond to someone else,” she mused.
He gave a short laugh. “Given your bloodline, it almost seems inevitable. And a hundred years is like yesterday here in England. For example, Isaiah Redmond, Lyon’s father, died later in life under mysterious circumstances. There’s a faction here in England that maintains to this day that Jacob Eversea—Olivia’s father—killed him.”
“No!” she was perversely thrilled.
“Nothing was ever proven, of course. Nothing ever seems to be proved when it comes to the Everseas. They traditionally get away with everything, or so legend has it.”
She smiled at him slowly. She loved knowing roguish blood flowed in her veins. And that her history contained mysteries.
“To this day, there’s still a bit of tension between the Everseas and Redmonds,” he added idly. “I thought I should warn you. In case you encountered a bit of tension during your visit.”
She smiled slightly. She knew precisely why he’d said that.
They allowed the word “tension” to simmer there in silence.
“Thank you,” she said finally.
When he smiled slightly a dimple winked briefly at the corner of his mouth. That dimple was more perfect than anything Postlethwaite’s had ever stocked.
“My old school chum, Geoff Hawthorne, owns the Pig & Thistle, just a bit up the road,” he said. “They have a splendid antique Rowlandson print of Lyon Redmond simmering in a pot presided over by two cannibals. If you’re hungry.”
She laughed, and then he laughed at himself when he realized how that had sounded.
“Sounds wonderful,” she told him.
“Don’t worry. I’m fairly certain there aren’t any cannibals in your bloodline. Though Miles Redmond was nearly eaten by one.”
He nudged up the kickstand of his motorcycle with the toe of a well-worn boot. He walked the bike gently, as though it were a beloved pet. She approved.
She fell into silent stride next to him.
“Speaking of rogues,” he said suddenly, “did you know your Great-Great-Great-Uncle Colin Eversea escaped from the gallows?”
“No!”
“Oh, yes. There’s even a song about him,” Malcolm said. “And you wouldn’t believe the number of verses it has now.”
THE END
About the Authour
USA Today bestselling author JULIE ANNE LONG originally set out to be a rock star when she grew up (and she has the guitars and fringed clothing stuffed in the back of her closet to prove it), but writing was always her first love. Since hanging up her guitar for the computer keyboard, Julie has penned books that frequently top reader and critic polls and have been nominated for numerous awards, including the RITA®, Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice, and the Quill, and reviewers have been known to use words like “dazzling,” “brilliant,” and “impossible to put down” when describing them. Julie lives in Northern California.
Visit Julie at www.julieannelong.com,www.facebook.com/AuthorJulieAnneLong
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By Julie Anne Long
THE LEGEND OF LYON REDMOND
IT STARTED WITH A SCANDAL
BETWEEN THE DEVIL AND IAN EVERSEA
IT HAPPENED ONE MIDNIGHT
A NOTORIOUS COUNTESS CONFESSES
HOW THE MARQUESS WAS WON
WHAT I DID FOR A DUKE
I KISSED AN EARL
SINCE THE SURRENDER
LIKE NO OTHER LOVER
THE PERILS OF PLEASURE
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE LEGEND OF LYON REDMOND. Copyright © 2015 by Julie Anne Long. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition OCTOBER 2015 ISBN: 9780062334879
Printed Edition ISBN: 978-0-06
-233485-5
FIRST EDITION
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The Legend of Lyon Redmond Page 31