Page 18 of Love, Lies, and the Lyon (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

Theodore Hardwicke stood along the northwest side of the room, standing silently.

His mind was elsewhere. He kept thinking back to that moment where Miss Banks had slipped and fallen into the pond at St. James’s Park.

She’d fallen in and he’d done what any gentleman would have done, he’d jumped in to save her.

Never mind that he’d gotten wet in the process.

When she had emerged, it was like seeing a water nymph for the first time—magical.

Her bonnet had fallen off her head, revealing tendrils of blonde hair that had escaped from her sturdy bun.

The sight had made him wonder what it would look like on a pillow beneath him.

Her skin was fair, her cheeks rosy, and her eyes were positively wild.

The sun had made the droplets on her hair and nose sparkle like diamonds, and he felt himself reaching to caress her cheek.

Of course, such a gesture would have been completely inappropriate. Instead, he’d helped her out and held her for a moment longer than he should have. He’d told himself mentally it was to make sure she did not lose her footing and slip again. But now he wondered if that were true.

Miss Banks had coughed and sneezed, dispelling all notions of romance.

He’d instead given her his coat, taking a private pleasure in wrapping it around her.

He’d liked seeing her in his coat. If only Mrs. Sherwood and Miss Betsey hadn’t come across them a moment later, he would have paid her a pretty compliment.

One had certainly sprung to mind. But she seemed imminently practical, and he doubted she would like being described as a nymph, or a creature that looked as if she’d stepped out of a painting.

A very wet painting, but a painting, nonetheless.

He realized he was looking for her, here of all places, in the ballroom.

He didn’t know if she attended many social events.

Maybe she did. He mused over a conversation he’d had the previous night with Mrs. Dove-Lyon, who had shared a few choice pieces of information about Miss Banks.

He had listened intently, and when she’d asked his opinion on whether he would be open to such a match, he’d coughed and uttered an excuse.

He’d needed to think. Another fortifying glass of red wine later and he’d found the matchmaker and gave his consent.

She had toyed with him, saying he’d spoken too quietly.

He raised his voice and bellowed, “I agree,” to which Mrs. Dove-Lyon smiled and said, “Dear Mr. Hardwicke, there’s no need to shout.”

Now very conscious of many pairs of eyes watching, he’d nodded and left without another word.

He had lain awake the rest of that night, thinking on what he’d agreed to.

Was he truly open to this? And yet, Miss Banks was the only woman he was thinking about.

She filled his dreams, although when his mind replayed the fantasy of her emerging from the pond, she was wearing no clothes at all.

Theodore coughed and pulled at his stiff white cravat.

Enough of that. He was not used to such bold discussions about love and romance, and the Black Widow of Whitehall’s practicality about such matters of the heart made him blink.

He knew what he wanted, and that was to spend more time with Miss Banks.

Theodore didn’t care if she was hesitant or wished to turn her back on love.

He was open to changing the young woman’s mind and had agreed to go to the Fashionable Institution that following evening, thanks to two spare tickets from Mrs. Dove-Lyon.

For propriety’s sake, he’d brought along Mrs. Sherwood. But his choice of a lady companion was proving a disappointment, as she was chattering beside him, as usual, when she groaned. “Good Lord. Whatever are they doing here?”

“Who?” he asked.

“That horrid Wildemay woman and the Banks girls. Look.”

Theodore instantly followed her gaze and then saw them. Or rather, her. Miss Anastasia Banks. Worry was sketched across her features as she looked around for someone.

The blood began to pump in his veins, and his hands felt sweaty. Was she looking for him?

“Look at the state of her dress. Where did she have that made? The country? I wouldn’t be caught dead in a dress like that.” Mrs. Sherwood scoffed.

“Just as well you don’t have to,” Theodore said.

The dress Miss Banks wore looked pretty enough.

It was of a light teal green, with a scoop bosom that was lined with a sash that caught the light; gold, if he wasn’t mistaken.

She looked very pretty with her hair up, but a part of him wondered at that moment what it would feel like to run his hands through it and twist it as she lay beneath him.

He blinked. Such rude thoughts. He was surprised. He hadn’t entertained such thoughts about any young woman for a time. He’d been too busy working with his father to rebuild their finances to pay much attention. But who was Miss Banks looking for? Was it him?

Mrs. Sherwood continued. “I cannot believe they are here. I can’t believe they were actually sold tickets. I shall speak to the secretary about this and tell him he needs to take better care of whom he sells seasonal tickets to.”

“You do that,” Theodore said, walking away.

“Hardwicke, wait. Where are you going?”

“To inquire after Miss Banks’s dress.”

“But I was joking. Hardwicke, don’t—” Mrs. Sherwood’s voice got lost in the din as he left her side and entered the rabble of people.

It was mean of him to leave Mrs. Sherwood’s side like that, especially when she knew no one there but him, but he felt he had done his duty by escorting her to the evening, and now could do what he pleased.

Namely, speak to Miss Banks. A part of him wanted to stay close to her throughout the evening, but that would be too much.

As he crossed the room, moving around people drinking, laughing, talking, finely dressed women with large and ornate hair pieces, jewelry, and feathers that threatened to tickle his face as he strode by, he skirted aside the row of dancing couples and got closer to Miss Banks.

She really was quite fetching. The teal dress suited her pale complexion perfectly, and with her hair swept up like that, it reminded him of the ancient Greek muses he’d seen in pictures of old.

As he drew closer, he saw that her golden hair was arranged to have small ringlets curled by the sides of her face. The effect was pretty, and his eyes were drawn to her bosom, before flicking back up her cheeks.

“Miss Banks,” he said.

She paused and looked right past him. All the color drained from her face, and her mouth dropped open.

“Miss Banks, are you all right?” he asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

She uttered, “I think I have.”