Page 9 of A Lyon’s Promise (The Lyon’s Den)

K ing had developed a talent for chugging whatever he drank at a young age and had honed the talent over the years to include more than buttermilk.

He’d never liked the taste, but his mum had insisted it was good for him and would help him grow up big and strong.

All these years later, buttermilk had not made it to the top of his list of favorite beverages, but it was tolerable.

Resolved, he reached for the first tankard and, without hesitation, relaxed his throat and chugged the contents.

He nearly snorted the last of it when he heard Wayne gagging, but managed not to as he reached for the soured wine.

Repeating the relaxation of his throat, he would later swear he could taste the noxious brew the combination created in his uneasy gut.

He did not spare a Titan a glance—he knew the man was there to observe, not interfere, unless someone was choking to death.

The baron hadn’t gagged a second time, which had King shooting a glance at the man—they reached for the third tankard at the same time, tilted their heads back, and chugged.

King was wiping his mouth with his shirt sleeve when he heard Wayne gagging again.

Bloody hell, the man must have ironclad guts—he didn’t vomit.

The true test now faced King, and he prayed like never before: Lord, don’t let me regurgitate these blasted, slimy creatures before the baron! His prayer said, he swallowed the god-awful things in record time. Turning to gloat, he noticed the baron turning to do the same.

“How is that possible?” Wayne demanded. “Rumor has it you hate oysters.”

King felt his stomach start to slosh—all that buttermilk mixed with the soured wine was attacking the detestable shellfish. Lord, please! he prayed.

“And rumor has it you used to spend your time in the bowels of London sharing oysters with a bevy of lightskirts,” he replied.

Wayne grinned. “Ah, but I don’t mind oysters.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he grabbed hold of his stomach.

King slowly smiled, though his gut ached and he could feel the sweat break out on the back of his neck. Good thing he hadn’t put his frockcoat back on after hefting that plant. The baron probably wished he’d shed his.

Two servants rushed in carrying an armful of large containers. At the sight of it, he clamped an arm around his uneasy gut. He would not puke first!

A low moan, and the unmistakable sound of bile being spewed, had him ready to declare himself the winner, but the overpowering smell had his gut reacting instantly.

King was reaching for the container as it was being handed to him.

He did not stop vomiting until he had emptied every last drop of buttermilk and soured wine.

Damned if he wasn’t tempted to count the bloody oysters to ensure not one was left in his gut to torment him later.

A damp cloth appeared in front of his eyes, and before he finished wiping his face, another was shoved beneath his nose, along with a smaller container.

“For the used cloth, Mr. King.”

His throat hurt, but he managed to croak out, “Thank you.” And was not surprised when the servant did not reply that it was his pleasure.

Weak from what he’d just gone through, he leaned back against the wall.

When he heard Wayne puking again, he grinned.

He snorted as the baron sat back on his heels and used the cloth a servant handed to him.

“Nothing funny about Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s disgusting combination. Did she think we would lose the contents of our guts after the second tankard?”

King thought about it for a moment and replied, “I think she was banking on the fact that neither of us would be willing to give in.” He watched the baron get to his feet. They stared at one another, for the first time openly weighing and measuring each other. “We both intend to win.”

“The widow’s purse is worth whatever I have to do to win it.”

King held back the need to plow his fist into the man’s smirking face. How dare he think so little of Lucretia that he would only value the coin he thought she would bring to the marriage! He was saved from replying when someone knocked on the door.

Wayne looked toward the door while King ignored it.

He’d heard Bessie’s final challenges were usually physical in nature.

King wondered, would he be expected to cross swords with the baron?

Another possibility occurred—he glanced up, but did not see any ropes attached to hooks on the ceiling.

Climbing would not be on the table, unless Titan escorted them to the alley along the side of the building.

That left another possibility, a bare-knuckle challenge. He would need to plan out the sequence of moves he would use, the blows he would pound the blackguard with. If Bessie had something else in mind, King resolved to be ready, willing, and able to meet whatever the widow demanded of them.

The baron did not deserve Lady Montfort—though neither did King.

He accepted that fact, adding that he did not place value on the lady because of the coin she would bring to their marriage.

He remembered her bravery that fateful night, bringing the sealed note to him.

Her courage when she agreed to wait for King to bring her news of her intended.

Her sobs when he’d had to deliver what he discovered.

His admiration trebled as his initial reaction to her gentle beauty grabbed hold of his heart… and his soul.

He finally admitted—at least to himself—that he had fallen for Lucretia that night she handed him the note from Hughes.

Her composure held, even when a few tears had gotten past her guard.

Unaware that she’d shed them, she had stared at him when he handed her his handkerchief.

Blotting her tears, she’d held his handkerchief to her breast, and in that moment, he wished she had flung herself into his arms. King would have sheltered her there.

Instead, he had had to advise her that Hughes had insisted she not know the contents of the missive.

His vow to protect her had been sealed in that moment.

In the months since that night, his admiration had turned to something warmer, deeper.

Was it love? He planned to discover the depth of his feelings—and hers—later.

First, King had to defeat the baron and arise the victor.

How in the bloody hell he’d be able to convince the woman of his feelings had yet to be decided.

He had one last challenge to complete, and a woman’s hand—and heart—to win.