The Duke Is Mine - Eloisa James [61]
“You have to tie the spool on,” Quin said, handing it over.
Olivia snatched the cherry kite. “I love this one!”
“It matches your hat,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’ll tie on the spool for you.” And then he bent his head to the task, avoiding her eyes. For whatever reason, he could read Olivia’s eyes, and it seemed she might have the same power over him. He could have sworn that she saw his desolation, caught a glimpse of the black monstrous silence that lived within his chest.
“Now,” he said briskly, after tying both their spools, “we’ll walk to the top of the ridge.”
It took time, and a great deal of laughter—not on Quin’s part, but that was only because he rarely laughed—until all three kites were loose and free, bobbing in a current sweeping overhead.
“I love it!” Olivia shouted. She was running back and forth, her slippers twinkling under her hem.
As if it had been only five minutes, rather than five years, the cherry kite slid below the current, plunged down, jerked its way back up. Whereas Quin’s kite reached its zenith and then stayed there, a solid scrap of white, bobbing far above his head.
Justin had flung himself on his back and was maneuvering his kite from there, indifferent to the possibility of soiling his magnificent mossy green riding costume.
But Olivia ran along the ridge, following her kite’s erratic flight.
Justin looked drowsily comfortable, his eyes fixed on the distant speck of his kite. “You’d better go after Olivia,” he said, throwing a lazy glance at Quin. “I can’t see her anymore.” With a sigh, Quin reeled in his kite.
Olivia had chased her kite somewhere . . . down or up or into the stand of trees at the end of the ridge. He glanced back and saw that Aunt Cecily was fast asleep, her jaw sagging comfortably.
He put down his kite and strode along the ridge. England was laid out before him, neat fields marked by hedgerows, a tiny carriage trundling along in the distance, the serpentine curl of the river over to the right. The wind smelled as if scythers were cutting grass, with a faint smoky undertone that suggested a bonfire.
For a moment joy bubbled up in his chest, and then the familiar old feeling presented itself, as if for review. Guilt. Yet when he pushed it away this time, he felt different. Cleaner. More peaceful.
Perhaps it was time.
Suddenly he caught a flash of crimson that had to be Olivia’s skirts. She had followed the ridge down the lee side, and was now standing under a tree, gazing up.
The cherry kite invariably found a tree to plunge into. He slowed and savored the walk toward her. His entire body was tight, fierce, as if he were barely in control. Which was absurd because he was always in control, and always had been.
Even five years ago, when he had turned away from the pier, knowing he was too late . . . he hadn’t lost control. No. That wasn’t entirely true; he shouldn’t rewrite history. He had tried to throw himself in the water, bellowed for a boat, had to be restrained by the harbormaster.
But after . . . after, he walked away without a word. One foot before the other foot.
This was a different sort of emotion, like wildfire in his blood. Olivia had her hands on her hips, and as he watched she unpinned that silly little hat and put it to the side. He quickened his pace. She couldn’t be thinking . . .
She was.
She unbuttoned her coat and placed it neatly on the ground.
As he watched, she reached up for the lowest branch and then scrambled up the trunk, placing her slippers against the bark with the agility and confidence of someone who has climbed a tree before. Indeed, many trees.
She was on the first set of branches, then the second, by the time he arrived at the trunk.
“Olivia Lytton!” he bellowed, standing below her. “What in the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”
She peered down at him through bouquets of green leaves. “Oh, hello,” she called. “I’m rescuing my kite, of course.” She was standing on a sturdy branch, looking as tidy as when she set out, like some sort of incongruous bird.
“Don’t go any higher!”