Page 6 of Love, Lies, and the Lyon (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

A little sigh escaped from the door. Their Aunt Mildred filled the doorway and said, “Because, my dears, it’s one of those things that simply never happened. Not for lack of trying, I assure you.” She grinned. “But God simply did not bless us with children.”

Anastasia shot Betsey a look. Betsey turned pink. “Sorry, Aunt.”

“Nonsense, it’s a valid question. And if you can’t ask family, whom can you ask? Now, about dinner. We normally dine a bit later, but I imagine you are both tired and famished from your journey and of course you’ll wish to change before we dine. Would you care to bathe first?”

Betsey tapped a delicate finger against her chin. “Is there much to do in Town?”

Her aunt shot them a wide smile. “Oh, yes, my dears. Lots. Best wash up now. I’ll have the servants draw you a bath whilst your maid unpacks your trunks. We have tickets to a concert this evening. I should be happy for you to join us, if you do not think you will be too tired.”

Anastasia glanced at her sister. The journey had taken hours, but she knew that her little sister would be keen to make an impression on London society. “Yes, please, Aunt. We’d be delighted to join you.”

“Very good. All right, my dears. Bathe and then dinner, followed by a concert. We leave here at half-six if that is acceptable to you?”

“Yes,” the young women chorused, and their aunt laughed.

Betsey gripped Anastasia’s hand. “Just think, Ana. A concert. There’s bound to be lots of young men.” She dropped Anastasia’s hand and practically danced from the room.

That evening, once the girls had bathed and dined, they were ready to go to the concert. Betsey had worn one of her pretty pink dresses, with little sleeves and a scoop bosom marked by a thin blush-pink ribbon and matching sash, with a sprig of white baby’s breath tucked behind her ear.

For herself, Anastasia had dressed in a dark-rose dress that had a deep color.

Not quite red, more like a deep pink, it matched well with her soft, blonde hair.

Thanks to Mary’s skills at styling hair, her waves were pinned up into something slightly less severe than normal, and even though the dress was very high cut and revealed nothing, she felt a bit daring by adding a touch of rouge to her cheeks and lips.

Once adorned in her long cloak and evening slippers, she joined the party downstairs.

Their uncle had taken his leave and after dinner, promptly took himself to his study to read.

Anastasia rather envied him for this choice but wanted to stay with her sister.

So they went with their aunt to a fine carriage waiting outside the townhouse, and on to a concert in a fashionable part of Town.

Anastasia had been used to the concerts in St Albans and thought herself not easily impressed.

But the moment they stepped out of the carriage and into the concert hall, she found herself enchanted.

The candelabras in the wall sconces offered a warm, golden glow to the entrance foyer and she spied many well-dressed men and women in evening finery talking and conversing in cheerful yet hushed tones.

She stood with her sister, who quickly shed her cloak, and as they paid an attendant to look after them, Anastasia admired the frescoes on the walls, which bore beautiful scenes of the hunt and pastoral landscapes.

One rather caught her eye, a painting of a woman standing proudly with her hunting dogs.

The artist had given the woman an ethereal, almost ghostly presence, and Anastasia loved it.

The woman was clearly Diana, the Greek Goddess of the Hunt, and despite her semi-nakedness, the cheeky look in her eye and ferocity of her expression gave her a look that was almost commanding, despite simply standing in a forest.

Anastasia shifted back to admire it from a distance and stepped on a man’s foot. The press of his body against her made her jump. “Oh!”

The man cursed. “You’ve spilled my wine.” His voice was curt.

Anastasia turned around. There stood a young man in a slate-blue evening coat and light-cream waistcoat, with an expertly tied cravat tied at his chin that almost looked like silk.

He stood stiffly, reminding her of men in the military, with a firm, square jaw and sleek, chiseled cheekbones that looked sharp enough to cut glass.

His dark hair was artfully tousled, in such a way that made her want to run her hands through it, as if he’d just come off a ship.

But his mouth was pursed in a hard line, his brown eyes flinty.

“I’m sorry, I—”

He glared at her, the front of his fine white cravat and shirt stained with red wine.

The color drained from her face. “Oh, dear.”

“Have a care, madam, where you put your feet,” he said, his eyebrows furrowed.

Anastasia put a hand to her mouth. She was terribly embarrassed, and yet annoyed too. How dare he insinuate this was her fault? It was , but by accident. There was no need for him to be so ungallant. “Excuse me, sir,” she started.

He turned back around.

“But it was an accident. I may have stepped back, but I did not know you were there.”

“And I am to blame for standing behind a woman?”

It sounded ridiculous, she realized. Curse him for having a voice so seductive and low. It annoyed her.

“No.” She felt her cheeks warm.

“Then what is there to say, other than you clearly need a lot of space when admiring paintings, and that I am in need of a new shirt?” He spun on his heel and stalked away, leaving her staring open-mouthed after him.

She practically growled as a young woman with a long neck and blonde hair in a very eye-catching topknot style smirked and ran after him.

Anastasia’s sister approached. “Who was that?” Betsey asked. “He seemed rude.”

Anastasia swallowed. With one look from an attractive man, she felt undone. And she didn’t even know his name. “I don’t know. And yes, he was.”

Betsey smirked and wandered off in search of refreshment.

A moment later, Anastasia was interrupted by the master of ceremonies, who apologized for interrupting her evening and said, “Pardon me, miss, but there is a young man who wishes to become acquainted with you. If you are objecting to an introduction?”

Anastasia shook her head. The master of ceremonies stepped aside, revealing the man she’d stepped on.

Anastasia froze. Here he was again, and he was staring right at her. His eyes remained flinty, his pursed mouth looked imminently kissable. She pinched herself to banish the thought.

The master of ceremonies said, “May I introduce Mr. Theodore Hardwicke, of London. Sir, I have the pleasure of introducing you to…”

She swallowed and recovered quickly. “Miss Anastasia Banks, of St Albans. I’m here visiting my aunt and uncle, the Wildemays.”

He bowed; she curtsied.

“Very good. I shall leave you to get better acquainted. Excuse me.” The master of ceremonies bowed and left.

“You wished to meet me?” Anastasia said.

“I wished to know the name of the lady who ruined my waistcoat and good shirt.”

She huffed. “It was only a bit of spilled wine.”

“So you are defensive as well as clumsy. That’s good to know,” he said, coming closer.

“And why is that?” she asked, glaring up at him. Blast him . He has no right to be so good-looking.

“Because if we were to dance, I now know that you would blame me if you were to step on my foot,” he teased.

She gritted her teeth. “Well, don’t worry. I do not think that would ever happen.”

“And why is that?” he asked.

“Because for some reason, I do not foresee us dancing together at an assembly. Ever.”

His eyes widened. They were brown, and she liked them. “You are rather opinionated for a young woman.”

“Let me guess. That is a most unattractive quality.”

“In some women, perhaps. But I am no judge of character. Excuse me.” He walked away.

Anastasia’s shoulders gave a little slump. He was the first attractive man she’d talked to in weeks, and now she likely would never converse with him again. She gave a little sigh. He was infuriating.

Betsey returned, a wineglass in hand. “I saw most of that. It looked like you two were having an argument. What did he say?”

“Nothing of consequence. He is rude and found me equally offensive, I imagine.”

“Ha. Making friends wherever you go. Don’t worry, there’re bound to be nicer fellows in London,” Betsey said, sipping her wine.

Her aunt bore down on them like a ship. “Well, my dears, it’s time to go in. Oh, and my dear Ana, I’m afraid you’ve already made quite the impression.” She leaned in. “Did you really throw wine at a young man?”

“No,” Anastasia said firmly. “No, I did not.”

“I see. Well, the gossips are out in full force tonight, so I shall do what I can to soothe the damage. I’ll say it was all a big misunderstanding.”

“It was.”

“Yes, dear. That’s exactly what we’ll say.”

“No, really. I stepped back and bumped into him, and he spilled his wine.”

“Oh. I see. Well, do be careful, as there are people about everywhere.” Aunt Mildred gave Anastasia a sideways look. “You couldn’t have chosen a different person to disturb? Someone less…” She made a motion with her hand that was completely unintelligible. “Worthy?”

“Aunt? What are you talking about?”

“You may not know how to make friends, but you’re skilled in making enemies.

The man you bumped into is none other than Mr. Theodore Hardwicke, an English gentleman with five thousand pounds a year.

I shall endeavor to learn more about him, but from all accounts, he is very proud.

” She tutted and turned away in search of fresh gossip.

Anastasia gave a little sigh.

“Never mind, Ana,” Betsey said. “At least now you don’t have to talk to him. He knows to avoid you.”

“Yes, jolly good luck, that. Perhaps I should spill wine on more people,” Anastasia quipped. She tried not to show how she really felt. Embarrassed, hurt, and under scrutiny from prying eyes. Was it just her mind or were people staring at her?