Page 12 of Love, Lies, and the Lyon (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

She sighed with relief, her heart beating fast. And yet she was conscious that his hands remained firmly around her. He lay as stiff as a board and hadn’t moved.

She looked to her rescuer. “Sir, I—”

His face clouded. “Are you injured?”

“Yes, I think so.” She looked down at her dress. Her hair was bedraggled, her side hurt painfully, and she winced.

“Here.” He took her hands and helped her to her feet before leading her to a chair. A moment later, he put a drink in her hands. “The men had no good reason to be fighting here. Mrs. Dove-Lyon will be furious.”

“Do fights often occur at the Lyon’s Den?” she asked, sipping her wine.

“No. But when Colonel Wilkes is around, it’s almost a surety. The man loves to fight. He spent years in the army for His Majesty but was too old to continue, so now he spends his time drinking and fighting where he can. It wouldn’t surprise me if he were removed.” He stood by her chair, watching.

Anastasia sipped another mouthful of the heady red wine and put a hand on her knees, her racing pulse starting to slow. It had been exciting for a moment, then terrifying. She breathed in and out.

“You’re not hurt?” he asked.

“No. I’m fine.” She winced and put a hand to her right side.

“What’s wrong?” He knelt by her so they were face to face.

She became instantly aware of his close proximity, and her pulse sped up a little. Why, she didn’t know. She blinked and said, “My side. Someone elbowed me and it aches a little.”

His mouth curved downward in a frown.

It is a very handsome frown , she thought. Then she remembered that they didn’t like each other. Indeed, he had taken a dislike to her ever since she’d trodden on his foot and made him spill his wine. “You no doubt wish to return to your partner.”

He looked at her blankly.

“Mrs. Sherwood?” she clarified.

“Oh.” He straightened and looked over into the crowd. “Yes, of course. A family friend. Ever since she became a widow a year ago, she has been most keen to go out in society again. Shall I call a doctor for you?”

“No, I am well.”

He bowed, his face serious. “As you wish. Excuse me.” He nodded and walked away.

She opened her mouth, then stopped. He had done her a courtesy, pulling her away from the fight like that. And he’d been so strong. She was no meek miss, but he’d lifted her as if she weighed nothing at all.

“My dear Anastasia, are you all right? I heard about the fight. And look who I found.” Aunt Mildred came bearing down on her, accompanied by her younger sister. “You, young lady, and I are going to have a little talk when we get back home about your going out unaccompanied.”

Betsey crossed her arms and her bottom lip jutted out in defiance. “How are you feeling, Ana?” Her voice held a slight trace of concern, even though Anastasia knew she was simply trying to deflect their aunt’s attention from her.

“I’m fine.”

“But your hair. You’re hurt.” Aunt Mildred looked up and snapped her fingers at a passing servant. “My niece is unwell. Bring us a doctor here immediately.”

“I am well, I assure you,” Anastasia said.

“Nonsense. You look a mess. Come, my dear, I shall take you home. This has clearly been too exciting an evening for us all.”

“No, Aunt, honestly. I am well. Truly.”

“Well, tell us, what happened?” Aunt Mildred asked.

“I was watching some men balance on their hands, when one fell over and accused another of pushing him and things got heated.”

“Ah.” Aunt Mildred sniffed just as a gentleman, who introduced himself as a doctor, approached.

The gentleman was perhaps in his thirties, with light-blond hair, blue eyes, and fair skin. He knelt before Anastasia, as Mr. Hardwicke had done, and said, “Now then, what seems to be the trouble?”

Anastasia relayed the circumstances of the fight and touched her right side.

“If I may?” the doctor asked. He gently reached and felt along her side, pressing down along her abdomen.

Anastasia winced and stiffened. His hand was gentle, but she still tensed at the touch of a stranger. At her intake of breath, her chest hitched and her ribs felt sore.

“Ah. Right. I suspect some bruising, no thanks to those flying elbows, but you’ll likely be fine in the morning, if a trifle sore. If the pain persists, do send for me.” The doctor rose and pulled out a card, handing it to her. He bowed and excused himself.

Anastasia surveyed the card. It was a plain, ordinary white calling card, which bore his name and the address of a medical practice in London.

“That was very quick,” Betsey remarked. “He’s handsome too, although not nearly so good-looking as your Mr. Hardwicke.”

“He’s not my Mr. Hardwicke,” Anastasia said.

“And just what are you doing here, Betsey? I did not invite you to join us this evening.” Aunt Mildred’s face was stormy.

“I… um…” Betsey began to turn pink.

Their aunt surveyed them both fiercely, as if expecting one or both to fess up to telling a lie.

But when neither did, she simply sniffed and raised her chin.

“Well. I’m not pleased, but I think we should take our leave.

It is a shame, for Mrs. Dove-Lyon always ensures the people are safe in her institution.

It is a pity you got involved in the altercation, Anastasia, but never mind. ”

The sisters followed their aunt out. But Anastasia couldn’t help but feel as if someone were watching. She turned to look and met Mr. Hardwicke’s gaze.

His brown eyes had been wild with surprise, she remembered, and his hands had been so warm and comforting, even in the sudden moment of their being thrown together. In the moment of her fall, she’d been startled but had felt safe knowing that it was he who had protected her.

Now he stood by Mrs. Sherwood who was talking, but his eyes were on her. He did not speak or move, only watched as she turned and followed her aunt and younger sister up the stairs to the ladies’ floor.

Anastasia wished she hadn’t set down her wine, for she would have liked more of it.

And it would have given her something to do with her hands as she completed her ascent to the ladies’ area.

She should have nodded back, or at least said thank you to Mr. Hardwicke, but she hadn’t.

She hadn’t meant to be rude, it was just…

She didn’t know. She felt like they disliked each other, but maybe she was wrong.

He wasn’t interested in her, anyway, if his attentions toward Mrs. Sherwood were any indication.

But then he had only said she was a family friend, and a widow.

Perhaps he was just doing the woman a kindness, by escorting her to the Den.

Or perhaps he was interested in Mrs. Sherwood.

But if so, then why was he watching her?

She gave her head a little shake. What was she thinking? He was a rake, just like Mrs. Sherwood had said. So why was he acting as if he cared? Then again, she had rather fallen on him, so she supposed it was just polite.

“Lord, you’re a mess. I leave you for five minutes and look what happens. Did you get into a fight?”

Theodore Hardwicke looked at his companion, Mrs. Sherwood, who stood by his side as she had mostly done all evening, doing what she loved most: talking.

The woman loved the sound of her own voice and tended to go on about nothing in particular.

But they had grown up together, as his sister, Julia, was good friends with Mrs. Eliza Sherwood.

“No. I saved a young woman from getting mixed up in one.”

“Oh. Who?”

“Miss Banks.”

“The woman we met the other day at the concert?” Eliza simpered and giggled behind her hand. “The one with the poor balance? Who made you spill your drink?”

“The very same. She strikes me as stubborn, opinionated, and taciturn.”

“My, my, what a firm appraisal of her character, and you only met her a few times for a few minutes.” Eliza laughed. “You do have bad luck, don’t you? What a shame you had to bump into her again. I’d keep my distance if I were you.”

He looked away. Now the young woman in question had disappeared. Where had she gone? Was she still hurt? He suspected she was putting on a brave face for the assembly. And he hadn’t liked the way that doctor had been examining her. What had they discussed? Had she mentioned himself?

He blinked. Why did he care? Why did he want to know if Miss Banks thought of him at all? Never mind that now. She had vanished.

“It’s rather insufferable, isn’t it?” Mrs. Sherwood said. “The way she carries on. I mean, if she wanted to capture your attention so badly, there are subtler ways to go about it.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

Eliza looked at him. “Why, Miss Banks, of course. The elder one. She practically threw herself into that fight, I’m sure of it, just so you or another kind gentleman would fish her out of it.

To expect that the men stop everything and attend to her every whim, when she knowingly threw herself into the fray…

” She huffed. “It speaks of a willful deceit and manipulation that I do not like.”

“I think she was simply curious about the bets. The men didn’t start out fighting.

They were balancing on their hands.” He’d been too late to place a bet, he was sorry to say, but not so late as to get stuck in the fighting.

Some men loved a good tussle, and whilst he wasn’t opposed to a bit of fisticuffs for sport, a lady’s presence in the thick of things was no good at all.

He remembered the stiff material of Miss Banks’s plum-colored dress as he’d pulled her back, but then she’d tripped and fallen on top of him, landing on his stomach and then sliding down, which had made him gasp.

The poor wretch had no idea about the trouble she’d have caused if anyone had seen.

A lady, sliding down and using a man’s lap as her cushion. Inconceivable.

And yet he couldn’t forget the softness of her body crushed against his for that fleeting moment.

The feel of her small chest pressed against his ribs, almost as if they had been one.

He could feel her heart beating wildly; it had matched his own.

He licked his lips. The sudden pressure of her hips and legs against him as she’d fallen and struggled for purchase.

Or the way she’d looked into his eyes, all sweetness and innocence.

He’d felt struck by lightning. He ought to write the tussling men a letter of thanks.

He’d not felt the softness of a woman’s body pressed against him like that for some time, and the very thought of Miss Banks on top of him excited and annoyed him at the same time.

He found Miss Banks quite irritating, so why was he thinking of her?

But he couldn’t ignore the soft brush of her hair as it had tickled his face, or the scent of her rosewater perfume.

It lingered in his senses and he found himself pondering it, despite his better judgment.

It is irrational , he decided, this thinking of Miss Banks .

She was rude, argumentative, and she had no sense of space or any awareness or inclination to ensure she wasn’t in someone else’s way.

His thoughts drifted back to the night when they’d first met, and when she’d stepped back and trodden on his foot.

He’d been angry at the time, yes. But not for the reasons she thought.

He’d come to the evening in a foul mood, anyway, having argued once again with his father about why he didn’t make something of himself.

They were not an aristocratic family, but they were wealthy, and as the eldest, he expected to inherit.

Except for the fact that his father had made a poor business decision, investing in a new idea for a company by Theodore’s uncle, a wastrel who was his mother’s brother, who’d lost all the money at the gambling tables and had sunk deep into debt.

Theodore’s mother had been distraught and his father had tried helping, but a mere gift or loan had barely scratched the surface.

When old Uncle Simon had been thrown into debtor’s prison, his true financial situation soon had come to light, and it had become clear that the man his father had been trusting with his money had really just been using it to fund his lavish lifestyle and pay off his creditors whenever they harassed him at home.

As far as his father was concerned, Simon could jolly well stay in debtor’s prison and see how he liked it.

But Theodore had seen the inside of a prison before, and it was foul.

He wouldn’t let his mother visit, and she fretted so much, worrying herself sick, that in the end, he and his father had worked to pay off his uncle’s debts and get him released.

His mother was relieved, but paying off his uncle’s debts had made a serious dent in their finances, and they needed time to rebuild their savings again.

It didn’t help that his father had only recently recovered from a bout of pneumonia, which had left him weak, easily tired, and prone to wet coughs that wracked his heavy-set and bony frame.

Theodore did not doubt that it was the stress and fear from saving his uncle that had made his father’s recovery from illness take longer than it should have.

He had been about to leave that night when his mother had said, “Oh, and be sure to give my best to Mrs. Sherwood tonight. I’m certain she will be there.”

Theodore had looked at her. There was a self-satisfied, knowing smile in her eyes that he did not like. Normally, he didn’t mind, but his mother loved schemes as much as the next woman, and lately, she had been watching himself and Mrs. Sherwood, more closely than usual.

So he’d entered the concert hall and rather than be sociable, he’d taken a glass of red wine and perched by the wall, gazing at the paintings.

He’d preferred to lose himself in the art and let his mind drift to pleasanter things.

But then that dratted woman had stepped back and he’d lost his countenance and his foul temper had made him snap.

It wasn’t the way he would have wanted to make the acquaintance of Miss Banks, but there was nothing for it, now that they knew each other.

Now as he watched her leave the main room of the Lyon’s Den, eyeing her lithe form in her plum dress, he knew two things.

First, his sister’s childhood friend Mrs. Sherwood talked far too much about nothing of consequence.

Second, he wanted to see Miss Banks again.