Everything and the Moon (The Lyndon Sisters #1)(6)

And then he kissed her.





Chapter 2



T wo months passed. Robert and Victoria met on every occasion, exploring the countryside, and whenever possible, exploring each other.

Robert told her of his fascination with science, his passion for racehorses, and his fears that he would never be the man his father wanted him to be. Victoria told him of her weakness for romantic novels, her ability to stitch a seam straighter than a yardstick, and her fears that she would never live up to her father's strict moral standards.

She loved pastries.

He hated peas.

He had the appalling habit of putting his feet up when he sat down—on a table, a bed, whatever.

She always planted her hands on her hips when she was flustered, and never quite managed to look as stern as she hoped.

He loved the way her lips pursed when she was annoyed, the way she always considered the needs of others, and the mischievous way she teased him when he acted too self-important.

She loved the way he ran his hand through his hair when he was exasperated, the way he liked to stop and examine the shape of a wildflower, and the way he sometimes acted domineering just to see if he could rile her.

They had everything—and absolutely nothing—in common.

In each other they found their own souls, and they shared secrets and thoughts that had heretofore been impossible to express.

“I still look for my mother,” Victoria once said.

Robert looked at her oddly. “I beg your pardon?”

“I was fourteen when she died. How old were you?”

“I was seven. My mother died in childbirth.” Victoria's already gentle face softened even more. “I'm so sorry. You barely had a chance to know her, and you lost a sibling as well. Was the baby a brother or a sister?”

“A sister. My mother lived just long enough to name her Anne.”

“I'm sorry.”

He smiled wistfully. “I remember what it felt like to be held by her. My father used to tell her that she was coddling me, but she didn't listen.”

“The doctor said my mother had a cancer.” Victoria swallowed painfully. “Her death wasn't peaceful. I like to think that she's somewhere up there”—she waved her head toward the sky—“where she isn't in any pain.”

Robert touched her hand, deeply moved.

“But sometimes I still need her. I wonder if we ever stop needing our parents. And I talk to her. And I look for her.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“You'll think I'm silly.”

“You know I would never think that.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Victoria said, “Oh, I say things like, ‘If my mother is listening, then let the wind rustle the leaves of that branch.’ Or, ‘Mama, if you're watching, make the sun go behind that cloud. Just so I know you're with me.’”

“She's with you,” Robert whispered. “I can feel it.”

Victoria settled into the cradle of his arms. “I've never told anyone about that. Not even Ellie, and I know she misses Mama just as much as I do.”

“You'll always be able to tell me everything.”

“Yes,” she said happily, “I know.”





It was impossible to keep their courtship a secret from Victoria's father. Robert called at the vicar's cottage nearly every day. He told the vicar that he was teaching Victoria to ride, which was technically the truth, as anyone who watched her limp about the house after a lesson could attest. Still, it was obvious that the young couple shared deeper feelings. The Reverend Mr. Lyndon vehemently disapproved of the match, and told Victoria as much on every possible occasion.

“He will never marry you!” the vicar boomed, using his best sermon voice. Such a tone never failed to intimidate his daughters.

“Papa, he loves me,” Victoria protested.

“It doesn't matter if he does or doesn't. He won't marry you. He's an earl and will someday be a marquess. He won't marry a vicar's daughter.”

Victoria took a deep breath, trying not to lose her temper. “He is not like that, Father.”

“He is like any man. He will use you and discard you.”

Victoria blushed at her father's frank language. “Papa, I—”

The vicar jumped on top of her words, saying, “You are not living in one of your silly novels. Open your eyes, girl.”

“I am not as naive as you think.”

“You are seventeen years old!” he yelled. “You couldn't be anything but naive.”

Victoria snorted and rolled her eyes, aware that her father hated such unladylike mannerisms. “I don't know why I bother to discuss this with you.”

“It is because I am your father! And by God, you will obey me.” The vicar leaned forward. “I have seen the world, Victoria. I know what's what. The earl's intentions cannot be honorable, and if you allow him to court you further, you will find yourself a fallen woman. Do you understand me?”

“Mama would have understood,” Victoria muttered.

Her father's face turned red. “What did you say?”

Victoria swallowed before repeating her words. “I said that Mama would have understood.”