Loved by the Lyon

by Cameron, Collette

  Then why did this woman hide?

  Likely she was a lady with a curious nature. Or perchance, she was one of those women who enjoyed trysts with her lovers in places someone might come upon them. Some found the thrill of discovery quite erotic.

  Kingston wasn’t among them.

  “I said out, Miss.” Impatience tinted Egeus’s command. “Or I’ll call for the female escorts.”

  Egads. There were female Goliaths here, too?

  No, not Goliaths. Amazons.

  “Mi…ss,” Egeus fairly growled, his breath hissing between his clenched teeth.

  And still, the trespassing spitfire remained out of sight.

  The sheer size of the escort half-blocking the alcove probably terrified her out of her mind.

  Sympathy and admiration for the unknown woman seeped into Kingston. As well as his selfish need to arrive on time to his meeting with Mrs. Dove-Lyon, which he highly suspected at this juncture was a futile wish.

  Extracting his watch from his pocket, he kept his attention trained on the nook.

  “I say, Egeus, should we keep Mrs. Dove-Lyon waiting?” He pointedly glanced at his timepiece.

  Bloody maggoty hell.

  He was already five minutes late.

  Not good, damn it.

  If this woman ruined his chances of making a match…

  Bloody, bloody hell.

  On the verge of gnashing his teeth, Kingston strode forward, trying to rein in his temper and pulsating frustration.

  “Come now, love,” he coaxed, using all of his heretofore dormant charms. Every woman adored being addressed as love, from the lowliest washerwoman to the haughtiest noblewoman. “No need for shyness. I promise. Egeus’s bark is much worse than his bite.”

  Actually, Kingston wasn’t confident of that assertion at all.

  Shooting a mocking glance at the intimidating man, Kingston grinned at the baleful glower Egeus leveled him. If looks could kill…

  “I’m late for an appointment, my lady,” Kingston cajoled. “And I would very much appreciate you deserting your hiding place since we all know you’re cloistered there.”

  A muffled dammit filtered from the satin folds of the heavy draperies festooning the alcove.

  Mayhap not a lady after all.

  A hefty—quite unladylike—sigh of irritation followed, and a moment later, the other curtain twitched. A petite woman adorned entirely in black, from her gown to the simple satin domino covering the upper half of her face, to the lace cap atop her silvery-white hair…

  Wait.

  What?

  Kingston’s casual perusal shot back to her stunning hair.

  It couldn’t be.

  Not here. Not now.

  He only knew two women with hair that unusual, startling shade.

  Gabriel’s mother and his minx of a sister—Vanessa Becket.

  Her attention traveled up Kingston, climbing up his chest, past his chin until her gaze rested on his face. She gasped again, this time slapping a gloved hand across her slack mouth.

  She’d recognized him too.

  Even behind her mask, her eyes grew round as twin moons.

  Those captivating eyes.

  Amber. Not quite brown, but not quite gold either.

  The color of warm, sweet honey.

  Whisky. Brandy. Caramel.

  Yes, golden-brown caramel, fringed with unexpectedly dark, sooty lashes.

  Kingston closed his eyes—hoping, praying he was wrong but knowing in his gut he wasn’t.

  His appointment with Mrs. Dove-Lyon would have to wait. He couldn’t abandon Vanessa in this cesspit of immorality. Not after what happened to Gabriel. He’d never forgive himself if something happened to her, too.

  Why in Christ’s holy name was she in the Lyon’s Den?

  An appalling thought cleaved him, cramping his lungs and squeezing his ribs in a crushing grip. For a horrifying instant, he thought the whisky might make a reappearance—all over Egeus’s feet.

  Had, God forbid, Vanessa become a demimonde?

  A courtesan?

  Some paunchy middling-aged depraved lord’s mistress?

  Kingston’s stomach lurched again, and he swallowed hard. Twice.

  Had she been driven to sell herself after Gabriel’s death? Her stepfather had died some time ago, but what of her mother? Her stepbrother?

  Was there no one to care for her?

  A litany of thoughts shot around his mind, one right after the other, a cacophony of whats and whys he had no bloody answers to.

  Egeus grunted, his suspicious gaze swinging between them. “You two know each other, Barclay?”

  Vanessa’s tawny gaze flicked to the brute and then whisked back to Kingston.

  They positively glowed with…?

  What?

  “Kingston,” she breathed, disbelief and perhaps a tinge of relief weighing her husky contralto. “Is it really you?”

  How long had it been since he’d seen her?

  Eight years? Ten?

  Since that Christmas Gabriel had invited him to call upon his family in London before Kingston joined his in Canterbury for the holiday.

  She’d been a spirited, young girl, just starting to show the signs of the beauty she’d become. He’d only ever looked at her as Gabriel’s younger, oftentimes annoying, younger sister. Never as a very alluring woman.

  Even with the mask covering half of her face, there was no denying she was exquisite. Accented by the black satin, her pearly skin, so soft Kingston wanted to run a finger over her cheek, glowed in the corridor’s candlelight.

  With hair as fair as hers, one would expect her rosebud lips to be peach or pink, but they were a deep berry red and slightly moist as if she’d just licked them. Never had a mouth held such appeal, and at this moment, those slightly parted lips caused a sharp surge of desire in Kingston’s inexplicably too-tight trousers.

  What kind of a bastard lusted after the sister of the friend whose death he was responsible for?

  She must never, ever know that ugly truth.

  The mahogany longcase clock standing regally farther down the corridor chimed the quarter-hour.

  “Yes, Vanessa. It’s me.” He flicked the edge of her hideous black lace cap. “Find this in the bottom of your Grandmama’s trunk?” he jested, quite adoring the way her face flushed.

  “Stars above,” she breathed, a radiant smile arcing her pretty mouth and ignoring his teasing. She’d always ignored his teasing, even as a young girl.

  A tendril of her perfume, verbena and jasmine, drifted to him. So sweet and innocent. Just like her.

  “I cannot countenance it,” she declared, placing a hand on his forearm and giving it a sound squeeze. Not a dainty press, but a hearty I-am-truly-happy-to-see-you squeeze. “It’s so wonderful to see you.”

  Offering a nascent smile, still confounded at coming upon her here, Kingston took one of her gloved hands in his. At once, he was awestruck at the delicacy of her small bones.

  “This is no place for you, Vanessa. Why are you here?”

  “That’s what I’d also like to know,” came the slightly amused voice of a female.

  Chapter Five

  Vanessa bit back a sharp cry of astonishment and slapped a hand to her breast at the woman’s sudden appearance. Beneath her palm, her heart raced at three times its normal rate. Twice in the last few minutes, she’d been given such a start, she was at risk of apoplexy.

  She should’ve known she’d become lost, even with a diagram to help her. The Lyon’s Den serving girl had conveniently forgotten several doors, stairs, and corridors. Perhaps she wasn’t so disloyal, after all.

  After sneaking from the ladies’ observation gallery and making several wrong turns, Vanessa had become hopelessly discombobulated. Thank goodness, the Lyon’s Den contained a significant number of nooks and alcoves. Quite convenient at avoiding detection.

  A sense of direction had never been her strong suit. Just when she’d finally found what she hoped was t
he corridor to the main gambling area—where that rotter Owen did indeed lounge, her brooch proudly displayed upon the table—she’d come upon Kingston and the large, daunting man now impaling her with an impatient glare.

  Only she hadn’t known he was Kingston.

  Not at first, in any event.

  She had recognized him as the man who’d walked away from the Lyon’s Den earlier, and unreasonable disappointment had whirled through her that he’d returned.

  And now here she stood.

  Kingston Barclay, Gabriel’s dearest friend in the world, held her hand. Across from what must be, given her black attire and air of authority, The Black Widow of Whitehall stared at them. Her face was shrouded by a filmy black veil, but Vanessa hadn’t a doubt she saw everything.

  Mrs. Dove-Lyon moved her head as if glancing about and flicked an elegant hand. “Back to your entertainment. There’s nothing for you here.”

  It was only at that moment that Vanessa finally realized they’d drawn a small, enrapt audience, and unease whispered up her spine. Despite not having seen Kingston in many years, she took an involuntary step toward him.

  His warmth and clean, manly scent beckoned her. He smelled of soap and shaving lather and a hint of spirits. Nonetheless, he made her feel safe in a way she hadn’t felt in a very long while.

  Head angled, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, put a finger to her chin and studied Vanessa for a lengthy disconcerting moment. At least Vanessa presumed that was what the daunting woman was about. It was hard to tell exactly what went on beyond the veil.

  Why did she wear it anyway?

  Because she was scarred?

  Pockmarked?

  Or simply to create an air of mystery and intrigue?

  Vanessa would be bound it was the latter.

  “Who are you?” she asked Vanessa without preamble.

  “Vanessa Becket.” Vanessa’s response was just as succinct.

  “The heiress?” Interest inflected Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s tone. “Well, well. This is wholly unexpected. Unexpected, indeed,” she murmured, conjecture and calculation coloring the last two words.

  Unease poked Vanessa again.

  How, in heaven’s name, did The Black Widow of Whitehall know Vanessa was an heiress? It wasn’t a secret, but as she’d never met the woman before, her knowledge of Vanessa’s finances unnerved her.

  What she wouldn’t give to see the woman’s face, her expressions.

  One could learn a lot about a person from their expression. Perhaps that was why Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon concealed her face.

  “Very intriguing.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon turned toward Egeus and another equally gargantuan servant hovering nearby. “I’ll show Mr. Barclay and Miss Becket to my private salon, Theseus. You discover how she managed to sneak this far from the ladies’ compartments without being caught and assure it never happens again.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” the giant named Theseus responded before slipping away to do as bid.

  “Because the minx is clever as hell,” Kingston murmured.

  Something burgeoned behind Vanessa’s breastbone.

  No one had ever called her clever.

  “What’s that, Mr. Barclay?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon inquired, that hint of humor in her voice once more.

  “Nothing of import, Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” he responded, giving Vanessa a private wink.

  Her tummy promptly toppled over itself, and she was once again the adoring little girl trailing after her older brother and his handsome friend.

  Kingston had always possessed striking good looks, but the virile man before her was breathtaking. In the years since she’d seen him, he’d become a man, fully grown. A splendid specimen of manhood, indeed.

  Broad-shouldered, slim-waisted, and long-legged, he possessed sculpted features. His nose bore a slight hump she didn’t recall.

  Had it been broken?

  When?

  During the war?

  Had he other war injuries?

  That thought roused ruminations of Gabriel, and stabbing pain winged through her.

  Had Kingston been there when Gabriel died?

  Did he know what had happened?

  She and Mama had been provided so few details.

  Explosion. Perished in the line of duty. Sincerest regrets.

  She had so many questions and shockingly few answers. But this wasn’t the place to ask them.

  “Come along.” Kingston slipped Vanessa’s elbow into the crook of his arm as they followed Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “Let me do the talking, Vanessa,” he whispered into her ear.

  “Why?”

  Before he could answer, Owen stumbled from the main gambling area accompanied by a diminutive, hunched over gentleman possessing inordinately large ears, a shock of graying reddish hair, and a lecherous glint igniting in his gaze when it lit upon Vanessa.

  “Vanessa?”

  Oh, hell.

  Owen’s jaw dropped open, and he made a few inarticulate noises. His bloodshot bleary-eyed gaze veered first to Kingston before gravitating to Mrs. Dove-Lyon, then back to Vanessa. Sweat beaded his forehead where a shock of lank hair the shade of dirty wool clung to it.

  “Whatever are you doing in the Lyon’s Den?” he asked, barely able to keep his reed-thin body upright. He swiped the hank of hair back onto his receding hairline, tottering sideways a couple of steps in the process.

  She raised an eyebrow in silent reproach.

  He attempted to stand taller. And failed miserably.

  “Looking for you,” she stated matter-of-factly.

  “This is most inappropriate,” he slurred, swaying on his feet in the manner a young tree does when buffeted by a sturdy breeze. “You shouldn’t be here at all, let alone in an area designated exclusively for gentlemen. Have you no consideration for your reputation?”

  “Some things are more important than one’s reputation,” she retorted.

  Like catching a thieving liar.

  He turned toward the fellow beside him. “I promise you, this is not typical behavior for my sister, my lord, and she assuredly regrets her imprudence.”

  “Step sister.” How dare the pished sot speak for her? Vanessa drew her shoulders back. “You needn’t apologize on my account, Owen, because I most assuredly do not regret my imprudence.”

  She shot a hasty glance toward Mrs. Dove-Lyon. Well, mayhap she did a jot, but she’d never concede that truth to Owen.

  “Well. Well.” The oily man beside him crept his lascivious regard over Vanessa, lingering overly long on her bosom. “This is the sister you spoke of, Elligon? You said she was a beauty, but I thought you exaggerated.”

  He licked his lips, then smiled, revealing uneven, dark yellow buckteeth.

  A hare.

  He looked precisely like an oversized hare. She half expected him to twitch his ears and rub his palms over his pointed face.

  And he ogled her like she was a sweetmeat or a pastry he’d like to devour.

  Vanessa edged even closer to Kingston.

  “Well, she is a tasty little thing, isn’t she?” The hare’s perusal slid to Mrs. Dove-Lyon, and a cunning glint entered his watery dung-brown eyes. “I do hope she hasn’t retained your matchmaking services, Madam. Her brother has already promised her hand to me.”

  Usually a charming rogue, Kingston remained peculiarly silent, though his stiff form and the flexing of his forearm beneath Vanessa’s palm revealed his agitation and suppressed fury.

  At the hare’s declaration, however, Vanessa went rigid. All the air left her lungs in a whoosh in the same instant. For the span of several heartbeats, she thought she might swoon. Spots danced before her eyes, and sounds came muffled and from far away.

  After a moment, the dizziness passed, and fury sizzled along her veins.

  How dare Owen make such a pledge?

  Pigs would quote Greek philosophy before she’d marry that fetid little man. Even from a few feet away, the revolting aroma of garlic, sweat, and old cheese wafted to her. At least she hoped the pungent stench was old
cheese.

  “Is that so, Lord Pimbleton?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, her tenor as cutting and glacial as an iceberg as she took in Vanessa again. “I’d say from Miss Becket’s put-upon expression, she’s not amenable to that arrangement.”

  “He has unequivocally no right. I’m of age.” Heart pounding a thousand beats per minute, her stomach churning as if Vanessa were in a dingy on the high seas during a hurricane, she focused on controlling her voice and temper. “I shall decide whom I marry. Not you, Owen. You are my stepbrother. Not my guardian, as I have informed you too many times to count.”

  She stabbed a finger in his direction for good measure.

  “That is true,” Kingston put in, a lazy grin tipping up the edges of his much too attractive mouth.

  Now he decides to speak?

  “I’ve known Miss Becket for nearly twenty years, as you are aware, Elligon.” That rakish grin hardened into something quite deadly. “You are no more her guardian than I am.”

  Face contorted in undisguised rage, Owen stomped forward to stand before Vanessa. He lifted his hands as if to grab her arms, but stalled when Kingston growled, “I wouldn’t, Elligon. Not if you value the use of your fingers. It’s difficult to eat or wipe one’s ass as a cripple.”

  Vanessa should be shocked, appalled, or horrified at his vulgar language.

  She wasn’t. Instead, she silently cheered.

  Owen hesitated for two tick-tocks of the clock before dropping his hands to his sides and curling them into fists. He pushed his face near Vanessa. The aroma of spirits, onion-scented sweat, and tobacco assailed her. “You’ll do as I say, Vanessa, or else…”

  He wasn’t allowed to finish his tirade.

  With a snap of her fingers, Mrs. Dove-Lyon summoned another pair of escorts from the shadows. At once, they joined Egeus. It was a wonder indeed that Vanessa had made it as far into the gentlemen’s lair as she had with all of the brawny men lurking about.

  “Please see these gentlemen from the premises.” Even veiled, Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s contempt was palatable. “They are no longer welcome at the Lyon’s Den.”

  “I say,” objected Lord Pimbleton, full of imperious self-import as he puffed out his scrawny chest. “I’m a peer of the realm and a member of White’s. You cannot ban me.”