Fed to the Lyon

by Lancaster, Mary

  Her more discreet matchmaking service was equally unique, but she trod a thin line there between fulfilling her contracts and making enemies. So far, she had navigated that line, but she had the feeling that if anyone were to upset it, it would be Diana Wade.

  The girl was her mother’s daughter. Only with more charm. And loyalty.

  Judging by the somewhat despairing expression behind Di’s smiles, she was wondering how big a personal mistake she had just made by rejecting the Earl of Garvie—and how terrible would be his replacement.

  Very terrible indeed, Mrs. Dove-Lyon thought with satisfaction as her rooms filled up that evening. For a moment, she even regretted that she had blackballed Harrington, but truly that man was beyond the pale, and she had a much more suitable victim in mind.

  Red-headed and loud as ever, his hand bandaged and held in a sling across his chest, he was already well on the road to inebriation as he collected his first win of the night at hazard. At least he was not a man to let a mere shattered finger get in the way of his enjoyment, which she rather admired, despite the foolishness. She had done her best to ward off infection and fever, but his behavior could have the opposite effect.

  She made sure to catch his eye quite casually as she strolled past him. He looked well enough.

  “A word, sir, when you have the time,” she murmured.

  “I have time now. What’s it about? Another wager? Or are you still grumpy about last night’s?”

  “Well, you should have known better than to play Harrington, and I should have known better than to allow it. We shall leave it there and move on, if you will, to a new proposition.”

  Intrigued, he followed her happily into her private office, and when she gestured to the visitor’s chair at the near side of the desk, he took it without waiting for her to sit first. The man really was a boor.

  “What’s this proposition?” he demanded at once.

  She sat. “I hear many things in my position. One of them is that you are looking out for a wife of good family.”

  “Is that right?”

  “It is. But to be frank, sir, even if I had heard no such thing, it is what I would advise a man in your position to do.”

  “A man in my position,” he repeated. “You mean a rough man who has no business rubbing shoulders with gentlemen? Or gentlewomen.”

  “A man of mixed birth,” she said candidly, “who might seek to avoid for his children the insults he has probably fought throughout his life.”

  “You’re right enough,” he said. “I don’t get invited to the ton parties because I work for my living. But I’m still the laird of Lochfarron, and a tidy piece of property it is, too.” He grinned. “Besides which, all that working for my living has made me a very rich man.”

  “You have much to offer a prospective bride,” she said tranquilly. “And I believe I can arrange a match for you with the daughter of a baronet of impeccable lineage.”

  “A baronet?” he asked, disappointed.

  “Not just any baronet. A gentleman of great political and social influence. And wealth. He has one of the oldest estates in the country, passed on by direct descent since the Conquest. Not many noblemen in the British Isles can say that.”

  “Mmm.” Campbell had taken the bait but was still, clearly, suspicious. “And the girl? What’s wrong with her that they’d give her to me? She is still of childbearing age?”

  “Indeed, she is but twenty years old. A beautiful girl, too, and not just in the common way.”

  “Then I ask again, what’s wrong with her?”

  “A scandal,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon admitted. “She was part of the Princess of Wales’s court, and when Her Highness left without her, she found herself in a compromising situation. I would add, the girl herself is entirely innocent and pure as the driven snow, but there are not so many gentlemen perspicacious enough to see that.”

  “Wouldn’t care if she wasn’t,” Campbell said bluntly. “So long as there’s no child likely to appear by the back door.”

  “On the night in question, I don’t believe there was any gentleman present who was sober enough to be capable.”

  Campbell scratched the faint, red stubble on his jaw. “I’ll want a three-month betrothal to be sure.”

  She blinked. “You mean to question her maid about the lady’s monthly courses?”

  “I mean you to. And it’ll be in our contract that I get everything you have if you lie about it.”

  “What a very business-like gentleman you are.”

  “Thank you,” said Campbell, pleased. He leaned back in his chair. “You know, I heard you played games to ensure your matches.”

  She smiled behind her veil. She was indeed playing a game, but he didn’t know it. He never would. “With some gentlemen,” she said smoothly, “it is best to be simple and straightforward.”

  He nodded. “Aye, it’s the only way to go to work with me. Now, who is this wench?”

  “Does Lord Garvie come here every evening?” Diana asked Lysander by way of casual conversation.

  “Garvie? Lord, no. Drops in occasionally for an hour. Usually a Tuesday or a Friday. Probably won’t see him now for the rest of the week.”

  Although it should have been a relief not to see him again, not to remind herself of what she had felt obliged to refuse, it felt more like a blow. She played morose tunes on the harp until the man she had once believed to be Lord Garvie shouted at her.

  “Hell’s teeth boy, that’s the tune the old cow died of! For God’s sake, give us something more cheerful before we all sob into our soup!”

  Hastily, she pulled herself together and began an Irish jig that played havoc with her already bleeding fingers. Oh well, only a few hours to go and then she need never play again. Unless she wanted to. Or her husband wanted her to.

  Smile, play, ignore the pain.

  “Good news,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon murmured, pausing in her perambulations. “You have a betrothal to take home to your parents.”

  Her gaze flew to the widow, although her fingers never stumbled. “Who?” she asked without much interest.

  “Mr. Eric Campbell.”

  Diana couldn’t help it. She laughed and was still laughing—surreptitiously but with more than a hint of hysteria—when Lord Garvie sauntered into the room.

  Her heart gave such a leap, that it instantly sobered her. But he never even glanced in her direction, merely strolled to the same table he had occupied last night and ordered supper. It made no difference. Everything had come alive with his presence: the music and the hum of talk and laughter surrounding her, even her own excitement, pain, and fear.

  Why did you come when it’s against your own habits? she wondered with an odd mixture of despair and elation. To see me?

  Why would you want to?

  Certainly, he made no attempt to speak to her. After a light supper, he strolled out of the room again, wine glass in hand. He didn’t acknowledge her presence.

  I’ve offended him.

  Better offended than tied to me and resenting me. I could not bear that, not when I…

  When you what, fool? she demanded of herself, squashing the turbulence inside.

  Perhaps he had already left the Den.

  As soon as she could end the piece, she stood abruptly and walked out, telling Francis at the door that she was taking another break.

  Making her way to the main gaming hall, she saw Lord Garvie at once, playing cards at one of the smaller tables. Intense relief washed over her. At least he was still here, though what difference that could possibly make to either of their lives was beyond her. She would marry Eric Campbell and go to Scotland to begin a new life. She would learn the real man behind the bluster.

  But she would never learn the secrets behind Lord Garvie’s contradictory traits, his alternating inclinations to impulse and calculation, observation and adventure. She would remember only that he had been kind to her. And that she had done him a service in return. In time, she would be glad of that.

>   “Plotting another escape?” his voice murmured behind her, making every nerve in her body tingle.

  She realized she was gazing out of the open door into the garden, while two gentlemen argued on either side of the threshold.

  She glanced around to be sure no one could hear and lowered her voice. “There’s no need. I’m going home tomorrow.”

  “Ah.” His expression was unreadable. “Then I am to congratulate you on your betrothal?”

  “Apparently so.”

  “May I know the lucky man?”

  A great bellow from behind made them both turn. Eric Campbell, with a bright, dazzling young woman on either arm, was leaving the hall via the smoking room, clearly in an excellent mood.

  “You already do,” Diana said.

  “You’re joking,”

  “I thought it funny, too, when I first heard. Isn’t life odd?”

  Anger sparked in his eyes as they snapped back to her. “Life is what you make it. I did not realize you loathed me so much.”

  Stricken, she could only stare at him. “I left you free,” she whispered.

  “No, I think you condemned us both. Good night.” Abruptly, he swung away from her and strode out of the open door, past the men still arguing over the threshold and into the garden.

  Unreasonable panic surged. Good night. He was leaving the Den. She would never see him again. She actually took an involuntary step after him before she met the gaze of the escort known as Puck, and recalled her position and the impossibility. Inspired by desperation, she sped through the hall and the smoking room to the front entrance, where the cloakroom was located.

  “Lord Garvie’s hat,” she said to the attendant and received it immediately.

  Holding it like a talisman in front of her to show the escorts by the front door, she flew outside into the street, past the jeweler’s shop, in pursuit of the tall, hatless figure striding along the lit part of the road into darkness.

  If he heard her approach, he gave no sign of it. She had to run past and swerve in front of him before he halted.

  “Your hat, my lord,” she panted. “You’re always forgetting it.”

  He blinked, automatically accepting the hat from her outstretched hand. She realized he really hadn’t noticed her coming. He’d been too deep in whatever thoughts swirled behind his turbulent eyes.

  “Thank you.” He glanced up the road in each direction before quite suddenly seizing her arm and all but pushing her into the dark service lane that led down the side of the nearest building. He released her so suddenly that she stumbled back against the wall. “I’m glad to see you take some initiative.”

  She frowned, uncomprehending, for although he still spoke softly, there was anger behind it, and she could not read his expression in the darkness. Only his eyes glittered, reflecting the now-distant street light.

  “What do you mean?” she demanded.

  “I mean you have to stop letting people push you into things you don’t want! You got into this mess because you let someone tell you it was time to drink brandy. Then your mother brought you here, making contracts with the Black Widow that you have no say in. They’re going to make you marry a man who repels you, and still, you accept it. Can you do nothing of your own will?”

  “I chose to pursue the thieves last night,” she hurled back at him, grasping onto anger to block out the hurt. “I chose to talk to you now, though God knows why. As I chose to spare you from being forced into marriage by your own stubbornness!”

  “Stubbornness?” he repeated.

  She flapped one hand. “Whatever you want to call it! In any case, I’ve no idea why I bothered with any of it!”

  His shoulders relaxed, as though his unexpected anger had died as suddenly as it was born. And yet, his eyes still seemed to glitter through the darkness in a way that deprived her of breath.

  “I do. You’ve chosen me. You just don’t know it yet.” Without any further warning, he stepped even nearer, his body touching hers at breast and hip and thigh.

  Gasping, her palms flattened against the wall behind her. She seemed to be melting and yet unfamiliar excitement surged, confusing her. “Bill—” she began shakily.

  “What?” he interrupted, bending his head toward hers. His breath caressed her cheek, her mouth, and her heart thundered.

  Why had she never experienced the sweetness of a man’s touch? He did not push himself against her, but she knew a strong urge to drag him closer, the better to feel all of that hard, enticing body. She could make out the faint curve of his lips as she failed to answer.

  “What?” he repeated.

  He gave her a moment, but she had no idea what to do with it. Something warm and wild, and gloriously novel was happening within her. And then his mouth covered hers.

  Her fingers curled against the wall. Everything seemed to curl, from her toes to her stomach and her heart. His lips parted hers, tender, exploring, then sank deeper, and she gasped into his mouth.

  She grasped his shoulders, unsure whether it was to stop him or to draw him nearer. But in truth, she couldn’t bear him to stop. One arm slid around his neck without permission, and just because she wanted to, she touched his cheek, roughened by faint stubble, and caressed it.

  His arms came around her, and now at last, his body fitted hard against her, thrilling her, filling her with tangled desires she couldn’t name.

  “Marry me,” he whispered against her lips. “Marry me,”

  Reality rushed in, stilling her lips. Her eyes that she couldn’t remember closing snapped open, staring into his. This was madness.

  Nothing had changed.

  Had it?

  Confused, she tried to think.

  And then, almost brutally, he stepped back, taking away his warmth, his wonder.

  “You know where to find me,” he said abruptly, and walked away, remembering to pick up his fallen hat on the way.

  Diana drew in a shuddering breath. Almost mechanically, she began to walk the few steps from the lane to the street and then back toward the blue house.

  She turned once and saw a still figure watching her from beyond the lane. Still chivalrous, still making sure she got safely back to the Lyon’s Den.

  Chapter Seven

  Dressed once more in the walking dress and veil she had arrived in, Diana met her mother the following morning in Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s office.

  “… not exactly what we agreed,” her mother was saying as Diana entered the room. The older ladies sat across the desk from each other in an attitude of stiff correctness. “Which was on a gentleman of birth and breeding.”

  “His birth is excellent,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said at once. “On his mother’s side. Come in, Miss Wade. How pleasant to see you as a lady once more.”

  “You mentioned a Scottish nobleman to me when we last spoke,” Lady Wade said between her teeth.

  “Your daughter exercised her veto,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said and shrugged. “I think you will find this answers much better. Mr. Campbell is known to have visited the Princess of Wales’s court on several occasions, so the world is more likely to believe in an attachment between them before the princess’s departure.”

  “But everyone knew she was engaged to Mr. Bamber!” Lady Wade objected.

  “Hence the good fortune of that young gentleman’s departure with Her Highness, thus leaving the way open for your daughter’s preferred marriage to Mr. Campbell. There will be no scandal. He has been quite vocal, you see, on his preference for a noble bride of impeccable virtue.”

  Lady Wade frowned. “Has he not heard about her…adventure?”

  “Between ourselves, he cares nothing for it, providing there were no actual…consequences. Like most men, what he claims, and what he is prepared to accept, are often two different things.”

  Diana, having still received no greeting from her distracted parent, sat in the vacant chair beside her.

  Her mother said, “I don’t want people gossiping that she was forced by circumstances to take
anyone we could foist her onto.”

  “Which is why there will be a three-month engagement. Nothing could look more innocent, and Mr. Campbell will be most attentive, beginning with his call upon you this afternoon.”

  If he can drag himself away from the women he was with last night, Diana thought cynically. It was lowering, but she didn’t care about the women, no doubt because she didn’t care about the man. For an instant, she imagined Bill strutting about with those same women on his arms, and squeezed her eyes shut to dispel the image. That was a scene she really shouldn’t care about.

  “I believe our contract is fulfilled,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, rising to her feet, “and must bid you good day. I don’t believe you will like to meet my next guest.”

  In the carriage going home, Diana and her mother did not speak for some time. Then, as if she could no longer remain silent, Lady Wade burst into speech.

  “What did that woman make you do while you were there?”

  Diana stared at her. “She painted my face, dressed me in gaudy gowns, and forced me to sit in gentlemen’s laps while they played hazard.”

  “Oh, dear God,” her mother said faintly.

  “You really did leave me there with no idea what would happen to me?”

  “The worst had already happened to you!”

  “And so, you let it happen again?” Diana asked in disbelief.

  Lady Wade stared out of the window. “I only tried to make things better for you.” Her voice was not quite steady, but Diana was not appeased.

  “You could have tried talking to me. Nothing happened to me at the princess’s house, except I drank too much brandy and had no understanding of its effect on me. No one laid a finger on me. For your additional peace of mind, of course, Mrs. Dove-Lyon did not treat me in any such way. She disguised me as a boy of the last century and got me to play the harp. Most people barely glanced at me, and those that did, certainly didn’t recognize me.”

  Her mother said nothing. Perhaps it was relief.