Page 4 of Pretending to Love a Lyon (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

A melia’s toes cramped in her brother’s finely made shoes. Her maid had rolled up stockings to fill the toes and folded some of Sam’s handkerchiefs under her heels to give her some extra height to complete the transformation, but it wasn’t particularly comfortable.

And she was still blushing from that earlier incident. She hadn’t realized... hadn’t thought... about what her own behind looked like in breeches.

But when Mr. Blakewood had looked at her... she’d felt naked. Fran had teased her about it without ceasing while she’d put on a jacket.

“Some men can’t resist a fine back end, my lady,” Fran had said.

“My back end is simply that—my back end. He seemed quite put out and embarrassed.”

“Only to your innocent eyes,” Fran said with a wink.

Amelia scoffed. “Mr. Blakewood doesn’t see me like that. I annoy him.”

“Certainly, but a fine back end can overrule any number of annoyances. I tell you—no, I ought not to.”

“What? You should tell me. Should I not be knowledgeable?”

“Pfft. You’ll get ideas. We can’t have you, of all young ladies, getting ideas. I’m protecting you. You’ll be the ruin of yourself if you’re not careful. Truly, you should just marry, but you hate when I say that, so I won’t.”

Amelia rolled her eyes. “You just did.”

“If you want to know things, find a husband. He’ll teach you.”

Amelia drew a breath as she suppressed a scoff at the memory of her talk with Fran and pushed it away. She took the chair across from Mr. Blakewood while he glared at her.

“Well?” she asked.

“Even if this were to work—which it won’t—it isn’t a permanent solution.”

“Of course not,” she agreed. “Sam will get better. We just need to give him time.”

Mr. Blakewood dropped his head into his hands, weariness draping over him like a cloak. She chewed her lip as a pang of guilt struck her. She was trying to find solutions, but she could see she was making things harder for him when they needed to work together. They were just so different, and her ideas seemed always to be in conflict with his. Would they ever find common ground?

Amelia leaned back into the plush chair. Her mind raced with thoughts and fears. In her heart, she knew that Mr. Blakewood was right—masquerading as her brother couldn’t work. Recalling his and the footman’s reactions finally convinced her of that much. Amelia sighed to herself. It felt like she never did the right thing. And now it was so important that things go smoothly. She’d pray nightly until Sam was well.

All this would be so much easier if she were a man herself and not just trying to pretend. She wondered what her life would be like—no threatening aunt, no viperous relatives, no being pushed to marry Nelson. Would she have been able to pursue her dreams, to marry whomever she loved, and to carve out a life that was uniquely her own? Or would she have been constrained by society’s expectations in other ways, forced to lead a life that was stifling and unfulfilling? Did Sam like his life? He’d inherited young and had been saddled with mountains of responsibility, but he also got to do things Amelia could never do.

Mr. Blakewood’s voice broke through her thoughts. “Are you all right?”

She shook her head. “Are you?” A stray thought struck her. “Don’t you have your own responsibilities to tend to? Your own life? How are you able to be here for so long?”

“My parents are in Bath taking the waters, and my sister is staying with our cousins in Wilton. I’ve arranged for my correspondence to come here. When Alston asked me to stay, I could not, in good conscience, leave you to manage this on your own.”

“I’m not incapa—”

He held up a hand. “This isn’t a judgment on your capabilities. No one could do this on their own.” He leaned forward. “Let me help—truly.”

Her throat tightened and Amelia nodded.

He sighed heavily and leaned back in the chair. Lines of exhaustion bracketed his eyes, and he rubbed his face, holding a hand over his eyes like his head pained him. Amelia sat back, folding her arms around herself. She shifted to get comfortable, enjoying the freedom of movement the trousers allotted her. It had been so long since she’d swapped places with Sam, she’d forgotten how easy it was to dress in boys’ clothing.

“This is comfortable,” she murmured.

He dropped his hand for just a heartbeat, then lurched forward, grabbing her knees and locking them together in his iron grip. Amelia lurched forward in surprise, bringing them face to face.

“What are you doing?” they both said in unison.

“You cannot sit like that,” he said, voice thick.

His hands were still on her knees, and she could now feel the warmth of his touch through her trousers. It trickled up her legs, and strangely, she enjoyed it. No one had ever touched her like this. Gripped her. Held her... her knees. She bit her lip. Her knees were just knees, and yet the touch felt... scintillating. Intimate.

“A woman can’t sit like a man. It’s improper.”

So were his hands on her knees, but Amelia would not state that fact aloud. Because then he’d remove them. And he’d no doubt be scandalized and horrified. But somehow it seemed he hadn’t noticed he was touching her. In fact, he never touched her. He might extend a hand, offer an elbow, do as gentlemen do, but there was always a buffer of air between them. And Amelia usually rebuffed his offered touches, but now his hands were on her, and it was... hot. Her skin flushed. She was growing warmer every second he touched her. Maybe it was simply that it was a needed distraction from all her cares, but she discovered she liked it—this fire and heat, this touching that had never existed before now.

She feigned innocence. “Why ever not?”

“You just . . . can’t.”

“But you can do it, so why can’t I? Dresses don’t let me sit like that—too narrow—but in trousers it’s so freeing. My legs feel unrestricted and weightless.”

He swallowed. “As a woman, it is wholly improper.”

Amelia rolled her eyes. “You said that already. And anyway, you can’t use that argument anymore. You staying here while my brother is recovering is also improper. So we must suspend judgment of what isn’t and what is improper for the time being. Don’t you think?”

“Only when necessary. Which isn’t right now. I insist you remain cognizant of that fact.”

“But we’re alone.”

“Lady Amelia, please . . .”

“What is it that so offends you?”

“I can see too much of you.”

She snorted. “These trousers are not transparent.”

“No, indeed. But you are shaped differently.”

He spoke every word with difficulty, like he had to wrestle each one off his tongue.

“Yes, I concede that is true. But you sit like that, exposed to the world with all your shapes, and think nothing of it. Can you explain that to me?”

He stilled. “What?”

Amelia bit back a smile. “If we are speaking of differences in shapes, it may as well be said that as a woman, I have an absence of shapes in my trousers while you—”

He covered her mouth with his hand. Amelia just sighed. She could not read his expression, but he’d taken a hand off her knee, and it appeared the spell was broken. He quickly let go of her altogether and hugged a pillow over his lap. Amelia did the same.

“See how ridiculous this is? Men behave as though my body is something that I must cover and protect, and yet yours is displayed quite openly. You’re free, and I am in a prison made of muslin because of what, exactly?”

He said tightly, “Society’s rules are for your protection.”

“Protection from what?”

“The perversion of abuse and defiling of your body comes from bodies like mine.”

Amelia cocked her head. “So, the male body is the threat, but we imprison the females. It makes perfectly cruel sense.”

He watched her with hooded eyes, or at least it felt like it.

“I didn’t make the rules of the world,” he said finally.

“But you do uphold them.”

“Lady Amelia, please, for my sake—just do as I ask.”

Amelia leaned forward. “That is precisely it. You haven’t asked. You’ve ordered. And you expect me to obey without explanation. I just want to know why. Why must I live so caged if the problem is men and not women?”

“We long ago accepted that we men are disgusting creatures of base urges. My apologies. We’re only trying to protect you.”

“From yourselves.”

“Yes.”

“But you are not all of mankind. So why is it such a problem when I am only here with you? What are you protecting me from when it’s just the two of us?”

He remained silent. And that silence spoke words that Amelia wasn’t prepared for. Awoke questions she didn’t know how to ask him.

For the first time, she looked at him and saw something she’d never cared to see before. A man. And he saw her as a woman. A woman who inspired his base urges.

She should have been scared.

But this was serious Mr. Blakewood, and for all his talk of disgusting men and their urges, she did believe he would always protect her. She may not like his choices or his personality, but truly, he was a man she could trust with her well-being above all things. Her brother obviously felt the same, and that was why Blakewood was here at all. She would do her best to be more considerate of his help.

But a card had been flipped, altering the course of this game. She saw him differently. And he had revealed he saw her as a woman, even dressed as she was right now in Sam’s clothes. She swallowed, determined to get the conversation back on track and away from this intense stalemate.

She stood and came to stand beside his chair. “What if I refuse Sir Daniel’s invitation and you and I go someplace crowded and dark, like Convent Garden, where I can be seen as a perfectly healthy Lord Alston from a distance.”

“No. You cannot leave the house dressed like this. He would never forgive me if I let you do this. I’m sorry.”

“Please, we don’t know how long...”—she swallowed and set her hand on his shoulder—“how long he’ll be unwell.”

Or alive. The unsaid words hung in the air between them.

Blakewood put his hand over hers. Bare skin to bare skin. He held his breath. Even her hands were too pretty to be Alston’s.

“Mr. Blakewood, please,” Amelia begged. “I might be losing my brother. I’ve never been so scared in my life. Just please help me.”

“I will do whatever is in my power to help you. But not this. Go change. We will think of something. You’re scared and exhausted. With rest, things will be clearer.”

Fat teardrops rolled down her cheeks and Amelia angrily swiped at them. Mr. Blakewood brought her close against his chest with a tug of her shoulder, keeping his hands on her upper back, and she didn’t fight him. He held her, letting her cry into his shirt, until she was able to draw a steady breath and stepped out of his hold.

Amelia mentally shook herself, jerked her jacket back into place, and lifted her chin. “What about tonight?” she asked.

“Tonight you’re both ill. The fish was bad.”

She sniffed and rolled her eyes. “Very well.”

“I’ll send the reply.”