Page 2 of Lie Down With a Lyon (The Lyon’s Den)

Cleveland Row

London

April 17, 1805

B lanche Rivers sat in the hall waiting for Mrs. Dove-Lyon to appear. She’d not made an appointment, but come on a whim.

She set her jaw. Well, not a whim, really. I’ve considered this for weeks.

Ever since she’d met a man who invaded her daydreams—and, by the very fantasy they produced, had forced her here to do this extraordinary thing. Her riding companion, Mr. Dillon, was no ordinary man. An Irishman, one could tell by his soft brogue, so tall, so broad, that his very aura blocked the sun above him, and blotted all but his presence from her mind. His daring looks—all ink-black hair and ethereal sky-blue eyes, the breadth of his shoulders, his searing smile—had birthed a desire in her that swamped her mind with nothing but the need to have him.

Ridiculous as that was.

She had never wanted a man before. Oh, yes, as an impulsive young girl at school in Kent, she’d giggled with her friends about the dashing groom who worked in the stables, or the not-so-handsome gardener whose bulging biceps inspired sighs. But no, she had not met any man she wanted for her own. To love her. To sweep her away from…everything. To make her life normal.

But now she had to have one. A husband. Someone stalwart, like Mr. Dillon. Someone no-nonsense, like Mr. Dillon. Someone—dare she hope—delicious. Like him.

Her body stirred. Her breasts budded, her thighs pressed together. She shifted in the chair. Mr. Dillon was a man she could savor, if she could only entice him. Which she would not. Should not. For if and when Mr. Dillion learned her identity, he would take his leave. Forevermore.

And I would not blame him.

A severe-looking skeleton of a man, the butler, no less, reappeared and strode toward her. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon will see you now, Miss Delacourt.”

She frowned at the sound of her stepmother’s name, which she used out in the world. The name her father had arranged, and the stepmother he had arranged to keep her safe—and untouched by his illicit activities.

As if that were ever truly possible.

Yet now I will try in the boldest way.

“Miss Delacourt?” Mrs. Dove-Lyons’s butler urged her to action when she’d been gathering dust motes.

“Yes, yes, of course. Pardon me.” She rose and followed him.

The house was well appointed. Aubusson rugs, Chinoiserie pottery in shades of eye-popping yellow and smoother jade, and silver doorknobs declared that Mrs. Dove-Lyon was far from poor. Blanche’s business partner, Grace Mansfield, had told her so. Of course, then afterward she’d asked why Blanche wished to know, but Blanche had demurred. She would tell no one of this venture of hers, not even her dear friend with whom she owned the registry. She wished no one to dissuade her.

“Good afternoon, Miss Delacourt, I welcome you.” The lady was courteous and kind despite Blanche’s lack of appointment—and the off-putting black veil the widow wore to build an instant barrier. “Please, do come and sit so we can chat.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Blanche shook hands with the lady and chose one of the two chairs before the desk.

She took a huge breath. She was here, and she would do this and change her life.

“We will have tea,” the widow told her butler. “And despite the early hour, please have Cook add a few of her scones and crumpets.” The woman sounded as if she bore no distaste for Blanche’s appearance at such an unfashionable time of day. “Have you an appetite, Miss Delacourt?”

“I do. I definitely do.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon nodded to her man, and he disappeared, closing the door with a near-soundless snick of the latch.

“Well then, Miss Delacourt, do tell me why you are here.”

“I want a husband.” Blurting out her need made Blanche shake her head. “My apologies, ma’am. I was trained to be more polite.” She took her time and pulled at the fingers of her kid gloves. Once they were off, she raised her face to the lady once more.

“I know you were, Miss Delacourt.”

Blanche fell back. Astonishment rang through her like alarm bells. Few knew her in Society. She was no one to have appeared in any register, nor even in the tittle-tattle newspaper notices of this one or that going here or there. “You know ?”

“I make it my business to know nearly everyone in Town. I recognized your name immediately when my butler told me you were here. I know where you live, that you abide there most days with your stepmother, and that you own a servants’ registry with Miss Grace Mansfield in Richmond.”

Blanche opened her mouth but found no words for the accuracy of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s recitation.

She went on. “I know that you were a good student of Mrs. Crawford’s School for Young Ladies in Tonbridge in Kent. In fact, you excelled at watercolors of landscapes—and the history of the Roman Empire. That last, my dear, is odd for a woman. What attracted you?”

Blanche lost her shock that Mrs. Dove-Lyon knew so much about her—and smiled at the memory of her schooldays. “Caesar. ‘All Gaul is divided into three parts.’ And Cicero. One should always know how to speak well in public.”

The woman chuckled. “How true. I wonder, have you aspirations to do that?”

“Speak in public? I have thought of it.” But my background prohibits it. Someone, anyone, could discover who I really am and use it against me. “I think writing my opinions would be better received and do more good. Speaking is so…open, don’t you think? Women rarely do, though I believe that wrong and wish I could be one to change it. But no. I prefer to write.”

“Yet I see before me, my dear, a young woman of beauty and charm, one who is well spoken, and beneath the polish acquired at Crawford’s, I find a woman of determination. What would you do with your life if you had been—shall we say?—born into different circumstances?”

Blanche tried not to take offense. After all, Mrs. Dove-Lyon could mean she might stand a better chance of changing others’ minds if she had money or status to back her. She found the answers to the lady’s inquiry. “I would write against the restrictions on women. I would want them to manage their own money, own land, marry whom they wished, have rights to their children, and if the marriage went poorly, divorce when and why they wished.”

“A tall ambition.”

“It is.” She sighed. “I would begin, however, with articles, exposing some of the hardships suffered by domestic servants. Those I know far too well. But at the moment, I can do none of that.” Not if my father carries out his threats to make me marry, and soon. “I have come to ask you to find me a husband.”

“Given your views on a woman’s equality in marriage, I think you are in a conundrum.”

“Precisely, ma’am.”

“Tell me, then, why are you here to ask me to find you a spouse?”

“The reason is simple. I cannot do it on my own.”

“Whyever not?”

Blanche frowned at the woman. “Many ladies cannot. Their tastes are particular. Or their social circle is too limited. I am one of those fussy women.” She struggled to smile at the older lady.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon nodded. “That’s the spirit I looked for in you. Brava. Let us continue with even more truth between us.”

Blanche accepted the challenge, offering as much truth as she could. “I have money. I can pay you. I want a husband. He must be…” Tall, with a jaw that shows resolve and power. With lips firm and kissable, and a smile that lights up a woman’s heart. “He must be good looking and smart. He need not have a title. I doubt any man with such prestige could wed me with a full heart.”

“I see. You want a strong, dashing fellow with some brains.”

“Indeed. He cannot be a man of ill repute. Not a womanizer or a drinker. Not an inveterate gambler, either. I cannot live with a man who has such vices.”

A scratch came at the door. At once, the butler appeared with a tray filled with the tea and an array of pastries.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon waited behind her desk until the butler arranged the service on the small table beside Blanche. Then she rose and came round to sit in the chair opposite.

As the lady poured, she began her inquiry again. “I find your case intriguing, Miss Delacourt. You are twenty-four years old.”

“I am.” Blanche accepted the cup and saucer, took a sip, then placed the china to the table.

“By many accounts, you are too old to wed.”

“I doubt it. I am still capable, ma’am, of bearing children, if that is a qualification for any man who might fit any of mine.”

“What I mean to ask, my dear, is what compels you to seek a husband now?”

She winced, and found the obvious truths. Not the dastardly one her father had presented her with on the street in Piccadilly weeks ago. My father will present me with a man of his choosing. That alone makes my mind blank and my heart stop. “In the early years of my youth, I told myself I would find a man I could like or love. As time wore on and I found none, I realized my social circle, as you call it, was very small. Mostly women.”

“Have you never fallen in love?”

“No.” Not until now. Not until I met my Mr. Dillon, who saved me from tears one day and has brightened my life twice a week since then.

“One who appeals to you?”

“Yes, one gentleman does lately. He is my riding companion. A hale fellow.” His Black Irish hair is a mass of tousled curls I long to touch. His eyes are the blue of sky at dawn. He wears the same sorts of clothing every time we meet—a black frock coat finely tailored to the daring breadth of his shoulders, a frothy cravat round his corded throat, and fawn breeches that fall over his muscular frame like a second skin.

“Is he not interested in marriage?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked. “Clearly you find him more than acceptable.”

“I do like him very much, but it is clear to me he is not inclined to be wed.”

“How is it clear?”

“We have met twice a week on Mondays and Tuesdays for many weeks, ridden the bridal path along the Thames in Richmond, become friends, enjoying each other’s company…but…”

“But?”

“I see no spark. And I need to see one. I need to feel one to hope that the future would be pleasant and bright.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon softly smiled. “So then, do you expect to love your husband?”

“Expect? No. Hope? Yes.”

“Love makes life an enjoyable adventure.”

“I think it must be so.”

“Can you not say you know love at home, Miss Delacourt?”

“When I was a child I did. My mother was still alive. But after she died, and I grew to adulthood, I saw the real world.”

“Your mother loved you, I am sure.”

“She did.”

“And your father?”

Blanche rolled a shoulder. “My father is proud of my accomplishments at Mrs. Crawford’s.” He knows nothing of my profitable business in Richmond helping servants find good employment in decent houses.

“Does he know you are here?”

Inside, her stomach churned. Did Mrs. Dove-Lyon know her real name and background? Was the woman playing cat and mouse with her?

“No.”

The echoes of those words hung in the air.

Silence like acid ate Blanche’s courage. She was certain she would be shown the door.

“Which means you have come here in secret,” the widow said.

“Exactly.”

“You want this match concealed?”

“From Society, yes. No reporting to newspapers. No pre-wedding celebrations among the groom’s family.”

“I see. Am I permitted to reveal to your intended these stipulations of yours?”

“Yes, of course.” Blanche wound her fingers together and held on to her resolve. “I want them framed as my desire for modesty. No fanfare. No folderol.”

She sorrowed over the need for her restrictions. Heaven knew, she would delight in being married to a man who rejoiced in what she was and did not care for what her father was…or that his blood ran in her veins. “You must help me, please. I want you to, but I realize the man may not want me because of my restrictions. If he refuses, we can go on. Choose another. Try again.”

“I will be honest with you, my dear, what you want is extraordinary and may cost you quite a penny.”

“I have sufficient money, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”

“The price I referred to was not in pounds, my dear. But in effort and heartache. Sometimes what we want brings us catastrophe as well as triumph. Are you sure you wish to reveal all you are to a husband who can only love you if he knows who in fact you truly are?”

“I am prepared,” Blanche said with conviction. “I want this. I want a loving man with all my heart.”

“Well then.” The lady rose, went to her sideboard, and poured two healthy whiskies. “A toast to your new status. A lady who soon weds a good man.”