Page 5 of Pretending to Love a Lyon (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

T he next morning, Graham took a bath in the chamber that had somehow become his by default over the last few days. He was more comfortable here than in his own lodgings, which were rented rooms in a fine house suitable for men like him, wealthy gentlemen unencumbered by things like inheritance and titles. That was his uncle’s problem and his cousin’s future problem. But his great-grandfather had made wise investments—as had the generations that had come after—and thus, even though Graham’s father had been only a second son, he’d carried on a fine legacy for himself: wealth, security, status born from said wealth, and entry into the highest levels of society. A good name carried itself well even without noble status, as long as there was money to be had.

But he was saved from the marriage mart by being a mere mister and—as Alston would say—so quiet at times he could be a house plant.

Graham liked to observe, to watch the world pass him by like a story being told. Rarely did he want to participate, except when it came to the Clarks. Alston made life more vivid, entertaining, and jovial enough to draw Graham into the action. Lady Amelia, Lord help him, had a way of stealing his breath just by entering a room. Ever wily and quick witted, she reminded him of a fox; playful, beguiling, and so disarming in appearance one could easily forget that foxes had fangs and would not hesitate to draw blood if threatened.

He had infinite knowledge of Lady Amelia’s personality, her likes, and dislikes, by way of Alston’s chatter, and his obsessive need to watch her when she and her brother weren’t looking. Yet it still wasn’t enough—he was always hungry for more. But now that hunger had a new meaning. They were under the same roof, and he had no escape from this constant ache. He’d buried it for so long, since the night of her come-out when he’d first felt the force of his attraction and realized he could never have her. He couldn’t let four years of self-control disintegrate now. Alston trusted him to care for her, not seduce her under his nose.

But last night had only whetted his appetite.

Those trousers, the image of her sitting, spread across from him like an invitation to explore his forbidden fantasies. He didn’t need to wonder if she would take to bed sport like she did everything else—with reckless abandon—he knew it. He knew she’d be the greatest lover to lie beneath him, even without a stitch of knowledge or experience. Her curiosity and her enthusiasm would be enough to drive him to an exquisite death.

Death by sex with Amelia.

His tombstone would be an etching of his smiling face.

But those things would never come to pass.

Ever.

Ever. Ever.

They were all on the edge of catastrophe. He could feel it. A fuse had been lit. If only Graham could know how long they had until the explosion. His thoughts full of a lurking unease, Graham finished dressing slowly and read through his correspondence. Only once that was done, would he be ready to face Lady Amelia and keep an iron grip on his desires.

Later that morning, another letter arrived. Sir Daniel had taken note of Alston’s absence, but their story had bought them perhaps two days in which Alston could be ill. In the meantime, according to Lady Amelia’s new plan that she described to him in detail over breakfast, she would go to the theater to show society that all was well. Alston would have escorted her under normal circumstances, but Graham must go in his place.

“This way,” she told him, “I can lament about Sam’s terrible stomach trouble and also appear unconcerned enough to still meet my familial obligations. Lady Harriet will be there tonight, sitting in Lady Camden’s box. We’ve never missed her garden party. Sam must be revived before then.”

Graham considered this information again in stoic silence that evening as the carriage turned toward the theater and they entered the row of carriages unloading their occupants. He swallowed. Amelia sat in weak lantern light, her cloak swept back in the warmth of the carriage, the diamonds in her necklace winking at him like stars before dawn over a valley of cream hills in a dress so low-cut that his mouth filled with ash.

Graham swallowed again. Their carriage stopped, and he got out first, holding out his arm.

She took it. The touch rocked through his body. He always offered his arm, but she never took his arm. She stepped out, doing a little wiggle and adjusting her dress. Her scent filled his nose. Her perfume, far from being a delicate flowery scent, was instead sweetly seductive, drawing him closer to decipher each note of fragrance. He couldn’t think. His mind had gone vacant and his ears were thumping with his pulse.

“Lady Amelia . . .”

She paused and turned toward him, looking up into his down-turned face, so inappropriately close. If he dared, he could look down into the tempting ravine between her breasts, lose himself, forget his honor, defy all good sense, and simply revel in the devilish hot surge in his blood.

Pure. Carnal. Lust.

Forget the theater, forget this charade. He could have her back in the carriage and six blocks to his rented rooms in less than thirty minutes. If he even made it thirty minutes, which he wouldn’t. He’d pull her into his arms the moment the carriage door clicked shut and cover her mouth with his.

“Mr. Blakewood?” She stared up at him, her eyes liquid pools of half concern and half curiosity.

Did she know? Did she know what she did to him? Her smell, her presence, and every breath she took unraveled his sanity and made him a monster of pure need.

Her lips parted, and her gaze searched his. Between them, the air crackled. She drew in a slow breath, and her breasts brushed his chest.

He blindly reached for the carriage handle, ready to—

She turned away. “Come along. We can’t be late.”

Graham drew in a shuddering breath of thick evening air. He looked up at the sky, the stars hidden by clouds of factory smoke. What was happening to him? Where was his prized self-control and steady reason?

In two strides, he was at her side, shaken, but his feet firmly planted on solid ground again.

What had just happened between them? Had he imagined it?

He cut a side glance at her. Her cheeks were flushed, and her breathing was quick and clipped.

His hands clenched at his sides as they were ushered into the theater and herded into the throng of guests maneuvering toward their seats. The house lights were high, and Graham took every chance he got to watch her, between bumping into other patrons, muttering apologies, and nodding to acquaintances too far away to stop and properly speak to. This show was the most popular of the year, a wicked rendition of Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing , bordering on the improper, which meant sold-out shows every evening.

But every time he got a look at her face as he followed her path through the crowd, she was still flushed, her eyes bright, and her energy frantic like a hummingbird. The crush of people pressed in around them. They’d almost made it to the stairs to the upper boxes when a group of drunken dolts collapsed on each other, pushing between Lady Amelia and Graham. She tripped, her cloak snagged by one of the idiots as if he meant to pull himself up by it. Instead, he pulled Lady Amelia—and her dress—down.