Page 1 of Pretending to Love a Lyon (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

“W hat’s happened?” Lady Amelia Clark cried as she rushed up the stairs.

“He took a fall,” Graham Blakewood said.

Despite her frantic racing, Mr. Blakewood continued to march steadily behind her.

Amelia spun around. “This is your fault. I told you not to let him ride that devil of a horse. I should shoot that mad beast myself.”

He paused two steps below her, their gazes level, and said, “He wasn’t on Titan. He took your words to heart.”

Amelia’s heart tumbled around like a pebble caught in an avalanche. Her bottom lip shook, and she bit down to hold the bloody traitor still. Mr. Blakewood stared back at her, calm and resolute, his gray-green eyes filled with worry, his auburn hair tousled like he’d been grabbing it in fistfuls.

Her twin brother Sam, the Earl of Alston, the only sibling she had—and the only family she had left besides her aunt and wasteful cousin on her father’s side—lay abed upstairs. She would not waste a second being a foolish, simpering girl during his last moments. For that was what Mr. Blakewood’s eyes said. He wouldn’t be worried if there weren’t something to worry about. The man was as immovable as a mountain and as emotional as a marble bust. But at this moment, he’d let go of his control enough for her to see the man under the marble.

His worry was the cold breath of Death on the back of her neck.

Amelia spun, losing her balance, and a hand caught her on her lower back, gently shoving her forward. She caught her step and resumed her climb to her brother’s bedside. She opened the door to Sam’s room, her heart stopping as the doctor backed away from the still, pale form on the bed.

A wail burst from her lips as she ran forward to cling to her brother, the other half of herself.

The doctor approached. “Lady Amelia, I must insist you remain calm, or you will be removed from the room. Your brother has sustained a grave injury and must remain absolutely still.”

But Amelia could hardly hear him beyond her own cries of anguish. That is, until her brother’s eyes opened. She went limp. If not for Mr. Blakewood’s swift catch, she’d have collapsed on the floor.

“Sam?” she cried hoarsely.

“Amelia . . . I see you.”

Mr. Blakewood’s hold eased, but oddly, it was Amelia who did not want to let go of his sturdy support. She forced herself to release her grip on his thick arms.

“Sam, what on earth did you do?”

“Carson stepped in a hole,” Sam said with a wince. “Poor Graham had to put him down. The break was too bad.”

“And what of you? Did he shoot you as well?”

Amelia heard Mr. Blakewood’s huff of annoyance. He hated her humor. Far too serious a man, dull, and prone to lectures about duty and honor, which is why she chafed in his presence. But he was good for Sam. He connected with Sam in a way that other gentlemen Sam’s age could not.

Sam chuckled softly. Her heart eased into a calmer rhythm now that he seemed to be at least able to laugh. He couldn’t be dying if he could laugh, could he? She stepped closer with Mr. Blakewood on her heels, as if she were a danger to her brother. Amelia ignored the looming giant and sat on the edge of the bed, taking her brother’s hand.

“What is your condition?”

The doctor stood on Sam’s other side. He cleared his throat. “There is some internal injury, Lady Amelia. Lord Alston is in dire health. You should summon family and Lord Alston’s man of business.”

Amelia stiffened. “That won’t be necessary.”

Dr. Bradley frowned. “My lady . . .”

“Just say it, Bradley,” Sam said.

Amelia shook her head. Already knowing what he would say. “No.”

“His demise could be imminent,” Dr. Bradley said. “Every second is a gift.”

Amelia swayed where she sat. A hand touched her shoulder. Steadying her. For one heart-wrenching second, Amelia considered turning and leaning into Mr. Blakewood’s hold. He might be a cold statue, but at least he had the strength to hold her when Sam could not. Sam was all she had in the world. He was the only person who understood her and accepted her as she was, who fought for her, who stood by her through everything. Including when she was wrong.

Amelia pinched her eyes closed. Tears pressed against her lashes, hot enough to scald. A sob caught in her throat, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t even think.

“Amelia,” Sam said. “Don’t cry.”

“What am I supposed to do? Tell me what you need me to do to help you.”

“Aunt Ruth and Nelson should come.”

Amelia shook her head. “Anything but that.”

Sam laughed with a hitch of pain. Amelia squeezed her eyes tighter. She couldn’t bear this. She would not survive if he didn’t.

Amelia sucked in a breath and opened her eyes. “You can’t die. I won’t allow it.”

“Lia, we all die. We know that better than most.”

It was painfully true. First, their mother had died during their birth, and then their father had passed away when they were twelve. Sam had born all the responsibility, assisted by their guardian and fraternal uncle, Roger Clark, who had passed just last year.

“But not you, Sam. Please live. For me. We’ve always been together. You can’t go anywhere without me, least of all...”

He smiled weakly. “Lia... your stubbornness will not win this time.”

“Don’t say that. You underestimate me.”

The doctor cleared his throat. “I’ve done all I can. There is medicine to keep his lordship comfortable. Send for me when—”

Amelia cut him off with a glare.

“Thank you, Doctor Bradley,” Mr. Blakewood said.

Amelia had almost forgotten about him. He was so quiet.

“You may leave as well,” she said to Mr. Blakewood. “I want to be alone with my brother.”

She could feel his reluctance, but all he replied was, “I’ll see the doctor out.”

“Thank you.” Amelia waited until the door closed behind the two men.

“You’ve got an ally in Blakewood,” her bother said. “He can protect you. He’s almost as stubborn as you are.”

Amelia rolled her eyes. “He loathes me. And there is no reason for him to be here without you.”

“Amelia, consider . . . you could marry him.”

Her chest turned cold at the hopelessness in his voice. “Don’t.”

“If I ask him to, he’ll marry you.”

“Stop. You don’t need to worry about me. I have my own money and house. I don’t have to marry at all if I don’t wish to.” A sharp pain rose in her throat, and she had to swallow before speaking. “How did this happen? How did you... get so hurt?” The abnormal blue shade of his lips terrified her, but she remained strong, keeping her tears at bay so she could speak to him longer.

“I landed on a rock. It felt like I took a cannon ball to the side.”

“But you’re talking to me. Surely, you’ll be all right in time. You just need to heal. The doctor is wrong.” Or was it wrong to keep him talking? Was she taxing him further?

“I’ve got some broken ribs, and he suspects I’m bleeding inside my body.”

“You’re supposed to do that. The blood belongs inside.”

He half-smiled. “In my veins, yes, but not in other places.”

Amelia swallowed. His hand was so cold in hers. She didn’t know what a deceased person looked like—she hadn’t been allowed to see her father or her uncle—but she could well imagine it looking like this. Sam’s color was all wrong. It was as if all his life had already been leeched out of him, and she was talking to his ghost.

“No more speaking for now,” she said. “You need to rest. And your hands are cold. I’ll build up the fire.” She turned away, uncertain whether her legs would hold her as she took that first step. But she managed the few paces and then knelt before the fire, where she added another log and shifted the coals. Returning to his side, she pulled the coverlet up to his neck and laid another blanket on top. His eyes were closed and his breathing labored.

“Fetch Graham,” he whispered.

Amelia went to the door, pausing to look back at him in case it was the last time.

She steeled herself. It would not be. Hellfire would not pry her from this room until she was certain her brother would not die. They came into this life together, and he would not leave it without her.

Amelia opened the door to call for a footman to find Mr. Blakewood, but he was already there, hands braced on the jamb as if he’d been holding himself back from entering. He hadn’t moved since she’d opened the door, almost as if he weren’t aware she stood there. His eyes were closed, his brow furrowed. His coat was gone, and his waistcoat and cravat undone. She’d never seen him so disheveled. It was the most vulnerable and the most human he’d ever seemed.

“He’s asking for you,” she said quietly.

His eyes opened, their pale gray-green bright with unshed tears. Stunned, Amelia couldn’t move.

“Lia . . .”

“Don’t. Please.”

He’d never called her that before, only Sam did. There had always been a wall between them, a barrier of polite—and sometimes impolite—indifference. And she wanted nothing about their relationship to change—not because of this. She certainly didn’t want any advice. He was Sam’s friend, not hers. He’d made that clear years ago when he had rebuffed her offer of friendship. She didn’t need his comfort now for something that she’d already determined wasn’t going to happen. If she had to be the one to believe enough for all of them that Sam would be fine, so be it.

Amelia stepped aside, and he lumbered past her. He moved slower, heavier than usual, like his fears pressed down on him and he struggled to carry it. She almost reached for him—to do what, she didn’t know. Pat him on the back? Comfort him ? That was not the relationship they had.

Amelia took a breath and poured herself a glass of water. In Sam’s dressing room, she saw a shadow move.

“Petrov?”

“Aye, miss.”

Amelia came forward, pausing at the doorway, and the valet sat on a stool with his head in his hands.

“He’ll be well again.”

Petrov looked up at her. Even in the dark, she could see his grief. Petrov was a Russian immigrant who had been with them in one capacity or another for as long as she could remember. He was older than she and Sam were, but not old enough to be their parent. Still, he was almost family anyway. Someone who provided stability by just being there for most of their life, like much of the household.

Her stomach dropped when she saw the streaks of tears running down his cheeks. She didn’t know men could cry so. The sight of Petrov shook her, and her courage wavered. What was she going to do? She couldn’t be strong for everyone, could she? She’d never been this alone, but right now, with Sam fading and the house stricken with grief, she already felt the weight of everyone’s worries settling on her shoulders. She didn’t know how to withstand it.

Amelia peeked over her shoulder at Mr. Blakewood and her brother. Blakewood bent over him, as if listening for breath. Amelia dug her nails into the door jamb, a whimper escaping. But then she saw Sam’s chest rise, and Blakewood nodded.

Her brother’s lips moved. He spoke very slowly, and Blakewood replied.

His last wishes? Amelia held a fist to her stomach, digging into the hollowness as if she could punch through it. This couldn’t be happening. They were only two and twenty.

She stepped forward hesitantly. A hand grabbed her elbow.

“Miss,” Petrov whispered.

“What is it? My brother needs me.”

“What will happen to us?”

“Nothing is going to change,” Amelia assured him. “But we have to be strong. We have to make him better, Petrov. We all need him, and he needs us.”

Petrov nodded, but his eyes held sorrow.

Amelia turned away. She wasn’t going to give up. She strode across her brother’s room and went to his side. “You should drink something.” Surely that would help, wouldn’t it? A body needed water. She reached for the glass and pitcher that stood on the table near his bed.

“Lady Amelia,” Blakewood said sternly. “Dr. Bradley advised we give him nothing.”

Amelia stared him down.

“Stop arguing over me.” Sam whispered.

Blakewood held her gaze and nodded toward the hall. Amelia shook her head.

“Please,” Blakewood said.

Her brother’s breath rattled.

“Petrov? Come and wait with Lord Alston. I’ll only be one moment. I’ll be right outside. Try to offer him water.”

Petrov glanced between her and Mr. Blakewood.

Amelia led the way, chin firm. In the hall, she turned to face him. “Make it quick.”

“He made it known what his final wishes are.”

Her stomach trembled, and her skin was both cold and hot. “If you even mention marriage, so help me, I will do you bodily harm.”

His jaw clenched. “Be reasonable. It’s better to be prepared for the worst outcome than to try to make decisions later. We don’t have to marry—”

“Correct. I’ve spent years fighting off my cousin’s advances and his mother’s machinations to take hold of my inheritance, and I won’t be convinced to give it up now. I don’t need to be cared for like a child. I don’t need a husband to rule my life.”

“That doesn’t mean you won’t need support in one way or another. He told me about your aunt and Nelson. Let me help.”

“He is not dead, and if you let me see to my brother, he will not die .”

“Are you going to make a miracle? I saw him fall. I could hear his body breaking. He hasn’t long. Don’t make his last moment fraught with... contention.”

“Or what, you’ll put him down like you did his horse?” Amelia said in the kind of irrational anger that could only come from fear. She regretted it instantly.

His jaw flexed and he shook his head, and then he strode away, muttering.

Amelia wasted not a moment more on him—perhaps she would try to apologize later—and returned to her brother’s side. Petrov was wiping a damp cloth over Sam’s parted lips.

“He is too weak to take water,” Petrov said.

“Tomorrow will be better,” Amelia said.

Petrov’s lips tightened in response.

For the remainder of the evening, Amelia and Petrov kept watch over her brother. Amelia savored every breath, noting the seconds that passed to minutes and hours. Her hope grew as her energy waned. Petrov bid her sleep and said he would keep watch. Amelia promised to try for a half hour, and then he could rest. She managed only to lay back in her chair with her eyes closed, aware of every sound and movement, including that of Mr. Blakewood as he returned and took a chair by the hearth. Holding his vigil, just as they were.

She knew better than to try to make him leave. He was as immovable as she was.