Page 15 of A Lyon’s Promise (The Lyon’s Den)

L ucretia stared at the man she would marry.

She’d trusted Mrs. Dove-Lyon to find her a husband in her hour of need.

There had been no other choice if she was to avoid further scandal and ensure that her late husband’s memory was not tainted by the salacious slander circulating through all levels of Society—not one word of which was true.

Her hand ached, and so did her heart. How had her life come to this?

She’d married the man her father found socially and financially acceptable a dozen years ago.

Though he had been much older, she had dutifully entered the marriage bed with the hope that she would be able to provide Montfort with the heir and spare he so desperately wanted.

Her mother had advised her to do as her husband bade her.

Her initiation to procreating had not been pleasant.

Lucretia had heard rumors, from the closest of her friends at the time, whose experiences had been far different from hers—theirs had been pleasurable.

After she was widowed so young, invitations from those same friends had trickled to a stop.

According to the gossips at the time, Lucretia had been too much of a temptation to her married friends’ husbands, though the reason they had given for not including her when pressed was far different.

She would be the odd number at their dinner tables and soirees.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon placed their contracts on her desk and turned to address them, bringing Lucretia back to the present.

“Thank you for your attention to the pesky little detail of initialing and signing your contracts. I find it exceedingly tedious when others balk when presented with an addendum. I specifically tell everyone at the outset to expect the document, as it lists the outcome of the wagers or challenges. It should not be a surprise, as the document of course requires a signature agreeing that our business has been successfully concluded.”

“I understand that that has that happened more than once,” Gavin murmured.

Lucretia felt the rumbling of his deep baritone seep into her bones.

As odd as it may seem, it felt as if she had received a warm hug.

Though many were in awe of Gavin King, others—mainly those who broke the law—feared him.

He had been respectful and kind in her dealings with him.

Recalling how she had wept when he delivered the news that Randall’s body had been found, she shuddered.

Her grief had consumed her, her composure cracked and broken.

“Lady Montfort, would you mind pouring our tea?”

Knowing her voice had a tendency to echo her emotions, Lucretia inclined her head.

She did not want Gavin, nor Mrs. Dove-Lyon, to know she was hesitant and unsure of how to navigate this new territory.

The uncertainty of the life where she had quietly existed as Montfort’s widow was about to change.

What did she know about Mr. King—aside from his skill in bringing criminals to justice and navigating all levels of society with aplomb?

Willing her hands to cease their trembling, she reached for the teapot.

With her composure in place, she served Mrs. Dove-Lyon first, then Gavin.

A long-ago rebuff from her first husband had her wondering how her husband-to-be would prefer to be addressed.

Formally, as a few of her contemporaries addressed their spouses, or familiarly, as she had begun to think the tall, imposing man sitting across from her might prefer?

No doubt he would either school her on the spot, or wait until they were alone, where he could ring a peal over her head without witnesses.

For a moment Lucretia let her mind drift back to those interminable lectures from Montfort, and she bobbled the teapot.

A large, warm hand steadied hers before she could spill the tea into his lap.

Holding her hand captive, Gavin studied it for a few moments.

“You should not use that hand to lift more than a feather until a physician has examined it. Why don’t I send word to my personal physician?

Lieutenant Sampson has years of experience both on and off the battlefield. ”

She’d had her fill of physicians during her short marriage. Every time she failed to conceive, Montfort sent for his private doctor. “I am quite certain it is simply a bothersome bruise and will be good as new in the morning.”

Lucretia hoped he would not become angry with her for refusing.

Montfort had browbeaten her when she refused to obey.

A distasteful thought wormed its way into her brain—she did not want Gavin to think ill of her, nor did she want him to think she was weak and not capable of holding her own in unusual social situations.

Being tossed over a man’s shoulder definitely qualified as unusual.

She was not weak! She was cautious .

“Lady Montfort?”

Gavin’s voice sounded closer than it had a moment before.

Her mind had gone off on a tangent without her consent—again.

That only happened when she was under duress, in stressful situations.

Had the urgency of her situation, forcing her to appeal to London’s most notorious matchmaker, caused her mind to stray?

Mayhap it began when she’d willingly agreed to let the Black Widow of Whitehall find her a husband.

She had not managed to do so on her own.

In the decade she’d been a widow, she had not received a single offer for her hand.

A few months ago she had met Lord Hughes, and it seemed as if things were about to change.

Still, it had come as a complete shock that her late husband had the final say in whom she married due to the codicil in his will.

Thankfully, the solicitors had approved of Lord Hughes.

Bancroft and Sons had been quite clear on that point the last time she sought an increase in her monthly allowance.

She had been reminded her late husband’s codicil clearly stated that she would not receive an increase in her allowance unless there were suitable offers for her hand.

Lucretia had learned to economize in order to afford a new gown when necessary.

After all, she would not shame her husband’s memory by appearing in public looking for all intents and purposes as if she were a woman without breeding.

Her mind again in turmoil from her nearly being abducted from the Lyon’s Den, she was distracted until a strong arm wrapped around her waist. She blinked and found herself riveted by the intensity in the stormy-gray eyes that were entirely too close to her own.

Before she could question what he was about, King frowned at her.

“If I had not witnessed that well-placed punch of yours, I would say you were in shock.”

Lucretia swallowed the lump of emotion in her throat.

She had been shocked earlier when Johnstone manhandled her, right before he made that horrible claim as to his intentions.

She had not been prepared for the pain that striking the blackguard in the face would cause her.

Weston would be proud of her for defending herself with the pugilistic moves he’d taught her.

The silence had her adding, “Do forgive me for troubling you.” She tried to ease out of Gavin’s hold, but his strength was far greater than her husband’s had been, and she found herself unable break free.

She pursed her lips and frowned at him. “If you’ll release me, I believe a few sips of tea will help me get my bearings. ”

“A glass of whiskey would have done that and more,” Gavin remarked. “I’ll let go just as soon as I am convinced that you won’t faint.”

The very idea of losing consciousness in front of others cleared her mind and balanced her equilibrium. Lucretia snapped at him, “I have not fainted in a decade!”

His lips lifted on one side in a lopsided smile that melted her ire. “I beg your pardon, your ladyship. Care to share what caused you to do so?”

Miffed all over again, she turned away from him. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon, are there any other documents that require my signature? I’d like to take care of that before I return to my town house.”

“I believe you and Mr. King should spend a little more time getting to know one another before you leave. No one will disturb you in the privacy of my office. I’ll leave you two to chat.

” Mrs. Dove-Lyon paused with her hand on the doorknob, turned, and said, “My sources inform me that Mr. King is fully prepared to marry you by special license this evening.”

Her hand flew to her throat. Tonight? “I am not prepared to marry tonight, nor am I willing to do so.”

Gavin crowded her until she could feel the heat pouring off the man where his muscled thigh rested against hers. For Heaven’s sake, their hips were touching! She gulped, and prayed that he had not heard the unladylike sound.

“Thirsty?”

Gad! He had heard. “Er… No.”

“Please let Titan know when you wish to have your carriage brought around.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon opened the door and departed.

Tingles raced up and down Lucretia’s side where the determined man had plastered himself against her. She rasped, “Good Lord, what have I done?”

“You’ve taken control of your destiny and gambled that fate would intervene and solve the problem you are currently facing.” His satisfied smile had her wondering what he was thinking. “I stand ready and able to fulfill your every desire.”

His last words, and the depth of his voice as he delivered them, only added to her flustered emotions.

Did Gavin have any idea what his nearness, the heat pouring off his body, his crooked smile, did to her?

Lucretia would be trembling like a poorly cooked Christmas pudding in another moment.

She needed to distance herself until she could calm down!

“Lucretia…”

She turned to fully meet his gaze and was inexorably drawn to him.

Unable to stop herself, she lightly placed a hand to the middle of his broad chest. The muscles beneath her hand tensed.

Had he been bracing himself for her touch?

Lifting her hand to brush a strand of hair from her cheek, she touched him again, this time without hesitation.

He felt so very different from the lean, rather frail man she had been married to.

She had been desperate to please Montfort, but in the end, she had failed miserably.

He only wanted two things from her: his heir and a spare.

She needed to order her scattered thoughts and discard any having to do with her first marriage. She wondered if King intended to kiss her. What would it feel like if someone loved her for herself, without restrictions or expectations? Could King grow to love her?

A callused fingertip beneath her chin broke through her tangled thoughts.

Lucretia closed her eyes as Gavin’s mouth molded to hers.

She tasted Heaven, and was lost in myriad sensations she’d never believed existed.

Allowing herself to experience the wonder of Gavin’s kiss—just this once—she slipped one hand, and then the other, behind his neck.

Lips locked, hearts pounding, she let herself indulge in utter bliss.

His firm lips coaxed and the tip of his tongue teased, inciting a volatile reaction inside of her.

The faint scent of sandalwood—with a hint of healthy male sweat—teased her senses.

She relaxed and allowed him liberties no other man had asked for.

The feel of his tongue tracing the rim of her mouth, parting her lips, teasing, tasting, sampling, had her head in a spin and her heart beating double time.

Unsure of how long the feeling would last, or if she truly had fainted and was dreaming, Lucretia prayed that Gavin would return even one quarter of what she felt flaring inside for him.

Would he willingly accept her, foibles and all?

Should she have mentioned her inability to conceive?

If she had, would he truly wish to spend the rest of his life tied to her if she could not bear him a child?

A tear trickled past her guard as her wishes, hopes, and dreams tangled in her desperate prayer: Lord, please let Gavin love me.