Page 11 of Pretending to Love a Lyon (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

A melia pretended not to notice when Mr. Blakewood returned and that he hadn’t taken his dinner with her as they habitually did now together at Sam’s bedside. Her throat tightened with the guilt and hurt warring within her. She’d done something unforgivable, more so than she’d realized in the moment. He was honorable—to a fault, in her mind—morally rigid, stubborn, and cold. And deeply self-controlled. And she’d usurped his control and declared them engaged.

But it wouldn’t stick. He had to realize that. Engagements weren’t a permanent affliction. There might be some bumps in the road ahead, but once Sam recovered, things would smooth. She had to believe that.

Amelia sopped up the last of the juices from her meat pie and turned toward Sam. He lay still, pale, eyes closed in sleep, but he was still here. He was her confidant, her twin soul, and her only real ally.

“Before he returns and gives you a far more nefarious account of this afternoon, I’d like you to know that I do regret what I did, but I truly believed at that moment that there was no other choice.” She set her plate on the side table and smoothed the napkin across her lap.

“If you could have seen the rabid sparkle in Aunt Ruth’s eyes and the disgusting glint in Nelson’s, you’d agree with me. I know you would. She wanted to move in here or take me hostage in their house. Neither option could happen. Not without risk to both you and me. So I told them and everyone at the garden party that Mr. Blakewood and I are to be married. It’s only temporary, of course.” Amelia swallowed, lifting her gaze cautiously to Sam, as if she’d find him glowering at her.

“See? Not so terrible. If you remember correctly, it was your idea that he marry me, so I’m sure you approve of the plan. But once you return to health, we can dissolve the engagement. There won’t be a shortage of reasons why we shouldn’t marry.”

Amelia huffed, but then guilt flooded her again, and she took hold of Sam’s hand. She hated how pale and waxy it appeared. She wrapped her hands around his, trying to warm the chilled skin.

“We loathe each other,” she went on with a tight throat. “For good reason. We are utter opposites. We would only make each other unhappy. I might even be driven to kill him. Can you imagine the lectures he’d give me over breakfast? In his mind, I can do nothing right. I’m sure of it.” She brushed away the greasy hair on his brow. “You know, sometimes I think he’s right,” she admitted. “But I don’t want him to know that.”

Sam’s brow furrowed.

“Sam?” Amelia leaned closer. “Can you hear me?”

His eyes opened, bleary and dry. Amelia’s heart raced as she reached for the cup of broth. He’d taken water earlier, and now she wanted to try a liquid with more sustenance. Amelia wiped his face with a cool rag.

“I’m here, Sam. I have some broth for you. It’s not overly salty like you hate; I made sure.” She choked back a sob, dribbling a little over his lips. He slowly blinked at her, but his lips parted.

“Good, Sam. Take as much as you can.”

It felt like an eternity, dripping broth into his mouth until his eyes closed and his face went slack. Amelia dabbed at his chin.

Tears rushed into her eyes. “That was perfect. You’re getting better every day.”

The ever-present vice around her heart tightened, and she couldn’t take a breath as she set the bowl of broth down and stood, backing away. She bit her fist until it hurt, fighting the emotion that threatened to swallow her whole. She couldn’t do this. She was going to fall apart, and she had no one to hold her or help her bear the weight of this crushing fear. Her entire body trembled, unable to contain the scream of anguish that was building inside her. She ran into the dressing room. She didn’t want her brother to see; or even if he couldn’t see, he might hear her.

She dropped to her knees, and dragged a blanket to her face, bundling the fabric against her mouth, and screamed. She was utterly alone, having dismissed Petrov to eat in the kitchen with the other servants, and Mr. Blakewood— bloody Blakewood —was thankfully not here to witness her transformation into a bawling babe.

Amelia drew in a breath, the sobs scalding her throat as they wrenched her apart from the inside as she vented them into the thick blanket. A hand touched her back, and she jerked, falling on her hip. The scent of cigar smoke and pressed linen filled her nose as Blakewood picked her up in his arms, cradling her like a child.

Lord, how she wanted to cling to him. He lifted her like she was nothing. She was not nothing. She was taller than average and an active rider—hardly a waifish English rose. But she felt small in his hold, delicate even. Delicacy was not tolerable. She couldn’t afford such a luxury when she was the only one standing between her brother and Death and the leeches intent on bleeding them dry.

“No,” she wiggled, her voice raspy.

“Amelia.”

“No,” she said, pushing at his firm chest. He set her down. Amelia held the blanket to her front. A shield against him, his strength, his stupid honor, and his ethics. “I don’t need to be coddled. It was just a hysterical moment that caught me off guard.”

He folded his arms, his mouth set in a stern line. He was already dressed in his evening attire. “Crying is not shameful.”

Amelia sniffed and shook her head at him. “Of course not, but it is something I don’t do, even if I’ve cried more in that last few days than I have in years. I am unused to it, and I don’t like it. Others can perceive crying as a weakness, something to exploit. I learned that a long time ago.”

He frowned.

“Never mind, it’s not important. I need to go dress for this evening.” She brushed past him. He didn’t stop her as she expected. He was different than before. In the maze, he’d been temperamental and gruff in a way that felt human. Now, once again, he was cold and austere, like a statue. Revealing nothing or feeling nothing—she never knew which.

“Sam took some broth,” she said without turning. To hide her puffy eyes, she laid the blanket over the end of the bed, keeping her back to him. She didn’t need any further humiliation today.

He cleared his throat. “I wrote to my parents and my sister,” he said.

“Oh?”

“The news of our betrothal is spreading quickly,” he said stiffly. “I don’t want them to hear it as a rumor before speaking with me.”

“It’s fortunate they’re away. They won’t have to deal with the gossipmongers like we will.”

“I’m betting they will want to return to town when they hear the news.”

Amelia pressed her eyes closed. She’d met his family once, when she’d attended a family dinner with Sam. They were nice people, which made the scorn of their son all the more unpalatable. Even his sister was sweet, and Amelia could see her as a friend, if only her brother weren’t him .

“Wonderful.” She turned and headed for the door. She paused and looked back to see him at Sam’s side, speaking softly enough that she couldn’t make out the words. Tonight would set the tone for the rest of their engagement, for however long it lasted.

And it would be awful. She needed armor against Blakewood as much as she did against the unyielding gaze of society that would now be focused on her. Unfortunately, her armor only came in satins and silks. And for tonight she needed a dress that would be both stunning and standoffish. She knew just the one.

Blakewood was going to hate it.