Page 28 of Love, Lies, and the Lyon (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

“Leave the poor man alone, Lucy,” her husband chided. “You know these young people, always fancying themselves in love with each other, only to have their hearts broken in the end. It’s not Hardwicke’s fault if a girl’s fallen for him. She wouldn’t be the first.”

Anastasia watched Mr. Hardwicke out of the corner of her eye.

“Nor the last, I’ll wager,” Mrs. Linden said, eyeing him. “And you, Miss Banks, how have you been enjoying your time in London? Have you met many young men?”

Anastasia sensed Mr. Hardwicke become still beside her. What was he waiting for?

She said, “No, Mrs. Linden, I have not. But I have enjoyed the concerts and dances, and the Royal Exhibition. I do so love art.”

“Ah, yes, we have great artists here in Town.” And that ended that line of inquiry.

More guests joined the Lindens after dinner, and the group grew to a number of about twelve.

As Mrs. Linden and her aunt were close, Anastasia realized that they had been treated to a good dinner, whereas the other guests had come after for drinks and discussion.

What an interesting woman Mrs. Linden is , she thought.

As their hosts encouraged them to take in the views from their small balcony and enjoy the books in Mr. Linden’s library, Anastasia excused herself and wandered into the library. The room was lit with a few candles in the sconces on the walls and a small candle on a side table.

It was a comfortable-looking room, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, all stacked full of books.

Anastasia instantly felt at home and traced her hands along the spines of some of the books, reveling in their touch.

Small books with black, spidery titles, their print mostly faded with age, older printed editions, some leatherbound works with titles tooled in gold leaf…

It really was a treat to touch and admire the tomes.

Then came a breath, some distance behind her, and she knew she wasn’t alone. She turned and nodded. “Mr. Hardwicke.”

He bowed and entered the room, walking with purpose toward her. “Miss Banks.”

She looked up at him. He stood so close, hardly more than two feet away. The very intensity of his gaze made her heart skip a beat, and her pulse sped up. She suddenly felt warm. Could it have been the wine? Somehow, she didn’t think so.

“I thought I might find you here. I did not know you were a lover of books, as well as art.”

“I like many things.”

His smile seemed genuine, then disappeared. “May I speak frankly?”

She inclined her head.

“Regarding what you heard at dinner… I am not engaged to Mrs. Sherwood. I never was. She believed us to have a closer relationship than—”

“A romantic relationship.”

“Yes.”

Anastasia’s shoulders tensed. This sounded all too familiar. She too, had been guilty once of thinking she and a man were closer than they had been. And she’d learned her lesson.

She turned away. “Then she has my sympathy.”

He stepped closer. “Why? She has been nothing but antagonistic toward you. She is no friend of yours.”

“Because I know how she feels.”

“But you do not know how I feel,” he said, stepping closer.

She stepped back. She raised her head, met his brown-eyed gaze, and forced herself to look away.

It was like a dance. He moved forward, she moved back. But then her back hit the wall of books, and there was nowhere to go. Her blood raced in her veins.

“Mr. Hardwicke, what are you—”

He lifted her chin with a gentle but firm hand and kissed her.

Her eyes closed of their own volition, and she practically swooned as a wave of sensation took over her. She had not been kissed in so long. It felt strange, almost alien, and yet she’d forgotten how wonderful a simple kiss could feel. His touch was feather-light, and just as soft.

He kissed her thoroughly, releasing her chin and putting two hands on either side of her body, trapping her between him and the bookshelves.

At that moment, there was nowhere else she’d rather be.

Her heart fluttered in her chest, and she felt as light as air.

She hardly noticed as his hands wound around her waist and pulled her to him, pressing ever so firmly against him.

She barely registered her own hands finding their way around his back and into his hair, mussing his brown waves, pulling him close.

They breathed as one, together. They kissed, tasting and exploring each other. She felt him break the kiss and trail feather-light kisses down her neck, sending shivering sensations down her spine. She laughed and squirmed as his lips tickled her, making a small noise as he moved back.

He let out a small laugh and murmured in her ear, “I’ve wanted to do this since that night at the concert.”

She murmured back. “When I stepped on your foot?”

“Yes. It’s all I’ve thought about since that night. You are all I’ve thought about.” He kissed her again.

If she could melt in his arms, she would have.

“Miss Banks.” He stepped back. “I’m sorry, that was too forward of me. Forgive me.”

She blushed and looked at her toes, then back up at him. A man had never apologized to her for that before. Not like that. At that moment, she didn’t want him to apologize. Anastasia licked her lips and looked at him hungrily. She wanted him to take her in his arms again.

“May I have permission to court you?” he asked.

Her eyes widened. “Court me?”

“Yes. I presume you are open to the idea.” He gave her a small smile.

She blushed harder. “But I am a spinster. I am old. I’m twenty-five. Nobody wants me. The idea is laughable.”

He took her hand and kissed it. “Permit me to disagree.”

Her chest rose and fell, and she caught him eyeing it. A daring part of her wanted him to continue looking and never stop. Oh, to be courted by this man. To have him kiss her again. The very thought made her heart sing. “But what about Mrs. Sherwood?”

Mr. Hardwicke’s expression darkened momentarily.

“Let me worry about her. She is an old family friend. What I thought had been just a good-natured affection, as we had grown up together, I had not realized she felt had been something more. She decided to try to push the matter, and I informed her I did not share her feelings.”

A slight pang of regret filled Anastasia’s chest. “I am sorry for her.” She had known such heartache once. It did not disappear overnight, and she was briefly reminded of weeks of crying herself to sleep after her mother’s death, and her one tryst with Jeremiah.

“What must I do to convince you, Miss Banks, that you are worth pursuing? I have a mind to court you. May I write to your father? I would ask your aunt and uncle, but it’s really your father I should speak to. If you have no objection?”

She blinked and dropped her hand, but he did not let go. They stood, holding hands.

Her voice was quiet, hardly above a whisper. “If that is your wish, then… No. I do not object.” Her voice grew calm and steady.

Theodore squeezed her hand and then let it fall. He bowed. “Good night, Miss Banks.”

“Mr. Hardwicke.” She curtsied and watched as he quit the room.

Her thoughts ran wild. What was happening? Had she dreamed it all? Had Mr. Hardwicke really just asked permission to court her? Her, of all people?

“Ana? There you are,” said Betsey, appearing behind her. “We were looking for you. Aunt Mildred and Uncle Richard are ready to go. It’s late, and I’m tired. Are you ready to leave?”

“Yes.”

“Was that Mr. Hardwicke I saw walking out of here just now? What did you say to him? He looked strange.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was odd. I’ve never seen him look that way before. His hair was a bit messy and he looked… happy.” Betsey gave a shiver. “As if a rock could suddenly smile. Ugh. Anyway, let’s go.”

Anastasia rejoined her sister, aunt, and uncle and took their family carriage back to her aunt’s home.

She hardly noticed the conversation or the journey back.

Her mind was full of a strong, handsome face; warm, brown eyes; and a polite request to court her.

She felt like the luckiest girl in the world.