Page 20 of A Lyon’s Promise (The Lyon’s Den)
T he awful bile had settled, though in truth she still felt a touch of nausea.
The very last thing Lucretia wanted was to be carried inside of her own home.
Weston was certain to make a fuss, though that was not her greatest concern.
He genuinely cared about her. Unlike the housekeeper and cook—they remained true to Montfort’s memory, and would mumble comments that would earn a dismissal from any other member of the ton , without references.
But they were of advanced years, older than her butler, and no doubt should have been pensioned off half a dozen years ago.
Yet the codicil had prevented her from doing so.
It was past time for her to confront Montfort’s solicitors.
The carriage rolled to a stop outside of her town house, and the door swung open, revealing a tall man she recognized as Thompson, one of Gavin’s men. “All is quiet.”
Gavin nodded, turned back to her, and slid one arm around her back.
Before he could slide the other beneath her knees, she shook her head.
“I’m quite recovered, Gavin, and do not relish the idea of being carried inside.
If you are determined to do so, suffice it to say that I have two very good reasons for walking through that door under my own power.
” She hoped he would understand that the reasons were in fact people, and not question her further.
His eyes narrowed, and for a heartbeat his expression hardened. “You retained all of your husband’s staff.”
She sighed, thankful he understood. When he looked as if he wanted to ask more, she shook her head. “A conversation best had in private.” She had no wish to go into the details at the moment.
He stood back and held out his hand, helping her to disembark from the coach.
It was not so very late, and had he carried her, her neighbors would have had a full view of the what they might reason confirmed the latest on dits about her, adding a man in a bright red frockcoat, obviously a Bow Street Runner, standing at attention outside of the carriage, Gavin emerging from the carriage with her in his arms. Botheration!
A multitude of possible tales could be created from such a sight!
What a bumblebroth this could have been, could still be come morning!
Gavin did not release her hand once she was standing beside him—he placed it on his arm and tucked her against his side.
When she resisted, he bent to murmur in her ear, “You either allow me to keep you close against my side as I assist you to your door, or I sweep you off your feet in front of your neighbors. I wonder what tale the ones peering around their curtains next door are already concocting.”
Lucretia swallowed her retort at his suggestion.
He was not far off the mark. Lady Framingham was no doubt patting herself on the back, believing that she would be the first to see evidence confirming the rumors about Lucretia’s immoral liaisons with a string of men who repaid her with gems and frivolous gowns for an hour or two of her undivided attention.
Lord, why were the ton so ready to believe the worst of one another—and, when it turned out to be false, create their own narrative of what they believed to be true?
Seeing the wisdom of acquiescing, she tilted her chin up and, with as much poise as possible given the circumstances, allowed her soon-to-be-husband to escort her to her front door. “Thank you, Gavin.”
It opened with a flourish. “Your ladyship—” Weston’s eyes rounded in surprise. “Mr. King!” He glanced about him before pitching his voice low. “Is there a situation I need to be informed of?”
“Not as yet, though Thompson will unobtrusively stand guard, joined by Jackson shortly,” Gavin replied.
Weston frowned. “I see.”
“I shall update you shortly, Weston. Know that I have full faith in your ability to protect her ladyship from inside.”
“Thank you for escorting her ladyship home.”
Lord love the man, Lucretia thought—he did not question why Gavin was here. He thanked him. Had her butler guessed where she had gone this evening?
Before she could ask, Weston was ushering them inside. “Shall I have cook prepare a tray? Something sweet? I can bring it to you in the library.”
Lucretia wondered if Weston knew more than she had given him credit for. Her suspicions were confirmed when he added, “I refilled the whiskey and brandy decanters a short while ago. Shall I collect the sherry decanter from the sitting room and bring it to you?”
Her lips wanted to refuse, but the best she could manage at the moment was a sputter, and that would never do in front of Gavin.
She instead inclined her head, agreeing with Weston’s suggestion.
Lucretia was stronger than she had been when Montfort took control of her life after they wed.
It was time to have a heart-to-heart discussion with the man she would marry on the morrow.
She had survived marriage to the hard-hearted Montfort, and his shocking disregard for her feelings or delicate sensibilities month after month when she failed to produce evidence of carrying his heir.
She had recovered from the double blow of Randall’s offer of a marriage of convenience and his shocking murder.
They had shared the same love of reading, the outdoors, and were both lonely.
Randall had not held anything back from her—he’d explained how he had unwittingly become involved in Lord Stillman’s smuggling, and the steps he had taken to make amends for his involvement.
However, it was his last reason for needing a marriage of convenience that had her wholeheartedly accepting his offer—Lord Hughes had a weak heart.
His personal physician had warned that the physical stress from any activities to beget an heir—or for his pleasure—would be the death of him.
Lucretia needed to remind herself of all that she had endured until her head accepted what her heart wanted her to recall…
her long-ago dream of a marriage to a man she could learn to love, and children.
She had faced adversity time and time again, and survived.
It was time to do more than survive—Lucretia wanted to thrive !
Weston took a moment to instruct one of the footmen, then inclined his head to her.
“It won’t be but a few moments. Cook has ordered the scullery maids to keep the kettle hot on the rare evenings you are attending musicales and the like.
You know she keeps her frosted teacakes at the ready for you. ”
Lucretia wished for a moment that Montfort’s cook would bend, just once, and offer cream tarts or berry tarts.
She had a particular fondness for cream tarts, but the cook refused to bake them.
It had been a battle of wills, and Lucretia’s seventeen-year-old will had not been a match for the older servant, who catered to Lord Montfort’s palate—not hers.
Weston must have recalled the one time she had instructed the cook to forego the teacakes in favor of tarts.
What a scene that had been—Montfort remonstrated her for deviating from his instructions to Cook.
The butler murmured, “It has been some time since you requested cream tarts, your ladyship. Have you lost the taste for them?”
She sighed. “There are far more important things in life than expecting all of my wishes to be granted, Weston. Though I do thank you for remembering. It has been quite some time since I have had the opportunity to enjoy tarts with afternoon tea.”
King knew immediately that if Weston had brought the subject up in front of him, the intrepid butler wanted him to understand that it was of some importance to Lucretia.
King made the instant decision that, from this moment forward, what was important to his wife would become important to him.
He would see to it that she had a cook who would bake cream tarts every bloody day!
As they followed Weston to the library, King wondered what else Lucretia had had to endure during her brief marriage to Montfort.
As the butler opened the door with a flourish, King was beginning to realize the man only performed this service for her, leaving him to wonder why in the bloody hell she had not sacked the cook after her husband’s passing.
What other foodstuffs did the cook continue to prepare that Lucretia did not like?
He added that to the list of questions he had for her.
“Thank you, Weston. I know you would intercede on my behalf come morning, but please do not ask Cook to prepare anything special. I do not wish to be reminded that the kitchen is her domain.”
Her butler hesitated, slanted a glance at King, then bowed. “As you wish, your ladyship. I shall return directly.”
The starch seemed to go out of her spine the moment the butler closed the library door.
King placed his arm around her waist and led her over to one of the matching wing-backed chairs by the fireplace.
When she all but melted onto the leather seat, he got down on one knee and took her injured hand carefully in his.
“Lucretia, correct me if I am wrong, but I have the distinct feeling that you have spent the last decade as a prisoner in Montfort House.”
She looked away, as if she were unable to meet his direct gaze or answer the question.
After a few moments, she turned back. “I do not expect you to understand, Gavin. You are so brave, strong, and, from what I have witnessed, a protector of innocents. Please do have a seat. You must be fatigued after this evening.”