Page 12 of Pretending to Love a Lyon (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

G raham waited in the hall for Lady Amelia to come down. He glanced at his pocket watch for the tenth time. She wasn’t delaying them, but he could feel every second that passed like it was a hair plucked from his skin. He didn’t know what awaited them tonight, and it worried him. What other calamity could Lady Amelia’s mouth bring down on them? His neck ached from the tension of grinding his teeth. He’d spoken to Alston about the afternoon and how he wanted to rip Nelson’s arms from his body for his indecent behavior toward Amelia, though he wasn’t sure Alston had been aware of him. But he didn’t speak of their conversation in the maze. Even if his friend couldn’t hear him, that had been a moment he couldn’t describe. He’d almost lost control. He had almost taken her in his arms in a fit of anger and jealousy. He’d wanted to show her she belonged to him, only him, and any man who touched her would forfeit his life.

Which was insanity. This engagement would be temporary. He simply had to regain his composure and wait for the tempest which was Lady Amelia Clark to run its course. And if luck favored them, he and Alston would one day laugh about this whole deranged charade over whisky at the Lyon’s Den.

Graham closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, stilling the clashing currents of thoughts inside him. The stairs creaked, and he looked up to see Lady Amelia descending, eyes on the carpet, in a steel-gray satin gown. He ground his teeth and clamped his mouth shut, sealing in the groan that rose to his throat. The dress hugged her breasts, lifting them and presenting them like desserts on a platter. The fabric moved with her body, somehow taunting him with the shape of her figure as it swayed with her steps. The candles set off the silver gems on the bodice, making her sparkle. A simple and elegant necklace with a single drop-shaped diamond floated right above the valley of her breast, teasingly, as if at any moment it might fall into the dark heaven and disappear. A storm—a beautiful, chaotic storm—morphed into a woman draped in a dress spun of rain clouds and shimmering with icy drops.

She tentatively locked eyes with him and then dropped her gaze back down.

Graham knew he was scowling. He couldn’t do a damn thing about it. The alternative was to throw her over his shoulder, take her to his room, and peel that dress off—but no. No . Those were the thoughts he had to bury. Deeply. In an unmarked grave.

He turned away, and a footman held out his cloak and hat. Graham gathered himself together as Lady Amelia stood behind him, accepting the help of a maid to put on her cloak. He sighed in relief. At least she’d be covered by her cloak in the carriage.

The footman held the door, and Graham waited for her to exit first, his gaze pinned to the elegant jumble of curls on her head that was likely crafted with a multitude of pins but seemed to taunt him, tempting him to claw his fingers through them. Longer curls bobbed around her shoulders, begging him to give them a tug. Everything about her appearance tonight enticed him to touch. Was that intentional? Was she trying to tempt him? Torture him? Stun him into willing compliance?

He fisted his hands for a moment as he stopped next to the carriage and offered to hand her in. She bit her lip, her cheeks blooming with color as she set her hand in his. He followed her, curious about her sudden bit of shyness, and took the seat across from her.

On the short trip to Mayfair, they didn’t speak. She stared out into the misty evening, and he did his bloody best not to stare longingly at her. When they pulled into the queue of carriages, the mist turned to sprinkles, and by the time they disembarked, they had a proper rain shower. She exited with her hood over her curls, and he followed. Once inside, they gave their cloaks to the waiting footman and followed the other guests into the music room. Doors opened to the drawing room, alleviating some of the crush.

Graham paused to ask her where she’d like to sit, but she stood frozen, tucking herself behind a door.

“Whe—what are you doing?”

“Aunt Ruth is in there,” she whispered.

“We knew she’d be here.”

“But . . . I’m not ready. I’m not composed.”

Unchecked, his gaze wandered eagerly over her body, and he swallowed. “You appear composed.” He would not mention the blush in her cheeks or the rapid pace of her breathing.

“I thought I was, but then you glared at me, clearly disapproving of my gown and this dress was supposed to be my armor, and yet I feel naked—”

“I beg your pardon,” he growled, stepping closer to her. “Do not utter the word naked in my hearing—or anyone’s hearing.”

She glowered at him. “Metaphorically speaking, I feel vulnerable. Is that better, you prudish ninny?”

He tugged at his cravat and stepped away from her. “What would you like to do?”

“I just need a moment to gather myself.” She drew in a breath.

Graham glanced away, needing to look at anything but the rosy blush spreading down her neck and her chest.

“I’m ready.”

She lifted her chin. Her hand slipped around his elbow, and he braced himself for her touch and nearness. Her perfume floated toward him, an invisible hook that snared him and drew him closer as he inhaled deep. Sultry and sweet, like burnt sugar. His body locked up as he fought his arousal.

She cast him a peeved sideways glance. “There is no need to look so sullen.”

“This is how I always look,” he gritted out.

“Yes, but could you perhaps try to appear, I don’t know, pleased to be engaged to me? Just a little. Nothing to ruffle your starched sensibilities.”

Familiar, vague annoyance overtook the clawing lust inside him, and he let out a breath of relief. “It might arouse suspicion if I change my character now.”

“Perhaps others might think you’re happy. For once. For the first time? Did you come out of the womb frowning?”

He smiled. “Is this better?”

“No. That smile is not at all natural and is quite sinister. Please stop.”

His lips twitched, but he held back his genuine smile at her words. “Then what do you want me to do?”

“At the very least, seem bored rather than disagreeable. People often misinterpret boredom as sophisticated aloofness.”

“Spectacular. Like this?” He raised a sardonic brow and slowly peered around the crowded drawing room.

“Yes. Perfect.”

“Why don’t we find refreshment? Some wine might soothe your fears.”

“I’m not drinking wine.”

“I’m fairly certain I’ve seen you drink wine before.”

“Not tonight.”

“Why not?” Graham asked.

“I want to keep my wits about me and not blurt anymore proposals in panic, preferably.” She shrugged one shoulder, and the motion dragged his attention back to her supple cleavage. He ripped his focus away. She continued grudgingly. “I’ll have to endure tonight with only lemonade and remain woefully sober.”

“My condolences.” He led her to the table and accepted a tumbler of whisky. She might not be partaking, but he would need the courage to get through this night. Something to dull his senses and the allure of her warm body.

Bloody hell. He had to put an end to this madness. There was absolutely nothing remotely romantic or compulsory between them. This was only lust—unbridled, neglected lust. And only on his side. She was a beautiful woman and he’d gone too long without feminine company, and this was the result. He just had to endure. Their close proximity made these feelings all the more tangible. That was all. There was nothing between them. Nothing.

He threw his drink back in one swallow, relishing the burn that cleared his thoughts. “We should find seats.”

He led her into the music room, one of four locations in which Mrs. Gibson would display the many talents of her musical grandchildren. Every chair was taken. They returned to the drawing room, and he led her to an open row of chairs.

She stepped closer to him and leaned in, her perfume thick and sweet, sending his head into a dizzying spin. “Wait, we should wait until my Aunt Ruth sits and then select our seats as far from her as possible.”

His mind had gone blank, so he just nodded. She tugged him toward the back of the room, where other guests had congregated, some of whom he knew as acquaintances.

“Blakewood, surprised to see you here. I thought you’d be haunting the corners of the Lyon’s Den while...” The young man stopped as he noticed Amelia. “Lady Amelia, a pleasure. I know your brother well. We met last season at the Archeron Summer Solstice party.”

“I’m afraid I don’t recall,” she said.

“Mr. Phillip Deveraux,” Graham offered.

“Oh, yes. Now I remember. You went to school with my brother.”

“Indeed, is Alston here? I have a wager I’d like to discuss.” He paused and peered around the room.

“He’s traveling north for... Mr. Blakewood? What was the urgent issue?” She peered up at him innocently.

Graham cleared his throat. “An issue with the well water.”

Deveraux grimaced. “I’m pleased to remain a mere third son and let my father and two older brothers handle estate matters.”

“Indeed,” Lady Amelia returned. Some of the stiffness left her. “My brother is always busy.”

A lady joined their small triangle, and Deveraux made room for her with a coy smile. Graham recognized her instantly and cursed in his mind.

“Lady Foxcroft,” Mr. Deveraux crooned.