Page 7 of Pretending to Love a Lyon (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

T he following morning, Amelia sipped tea at her brother’s bedside. Mr. Blakewood had not yet come to join her, which she tried to feel jubilant about, but she was far too irritated with his behavior last night. Could he not unclench his arse for one evening and enjoy himself? They already had enough concerns about Sam, and sitting in a box in public wasn’t nearly as scandalous as he made it seem. The other guests, Mr. Granger and his wife and daughter, arrived just before intermission, and their only concern had been for Sam’s absence. Mrs. Granger was hoping to impress upon him her daughter’s fine qualities. Amelia and Mr. Blakewood hadn’t spoken for the rest of the evening.

Amelia was two and twenty. Hardly in her first blush, and most of society did not care what she did or with whom. Because of her Aunt Ruth’s scheming and the number of fortune hunters who had hounded her skirts during her first season, Amelia had declared she would never marry, and most of the ton knew it. So unless she committed some heinous transgression in the eyes of polite society, her reputation would remain unscathed by most things that would tarnish a young lady searching for a reputable match.

And still Amelia was invited everywhere due to her brother’s title and wealth. Sam would one day be the most eligible bachelor in London and no marriage-minded mama wanted to slight the sister of such a man. She existed in her own bubble that most wouldn’t bother to pop. Except for Graham.

Amelia frowned down at her tea, her feelings about last evening swirling in a mixture of confusion and anger. When he’d swept her into his arms and carried her to the box, her stomach had fluttered like a swarm of butterflies, her pulse racing like a shooting star, but then he’d returned to his stodgy, lecturing self and ruined the effect. She must have imagined that moment outside the carriage. When he’d looked down at her, she had been certain just for a moment that there was something in his eyes—something that made her quiver inside. She’d waited, holding her breath for something she couldn’t yet grasp. But then she’d pulled back from those feelings, terrified of what they were or what they meant.

This was Mr. Blakewood. Stoic, boring, and judging Mr. Blakewood. A person incapable of such a change so suddenly, if at all. She should be glad they’d argued in the box. It had brought her back to her senses, smothering that peculiar quiver she did not want to acknowledge and suffusing her with the comfortable heat of anger once more. They shared one purpose, but between them, there would never be more than a cold acceptance of the other. She would rein in any outright hostility, but only for Sam. Sam needed all their attention.

Petrov entered, intent on shaving Sam and shaking her out of her reverie. Sam slept soundly, but his face was still as pale as white cotton. She swallowed down a chill of desolation as she studied the waxy details of his face. Every day he lived was a miracle. A gift. Even as her fear turned her heart cold, she tried to remember that gift.

“Did you give him water?” Amelia asked.

“Not yet, my lady.”

Amelia swallowed nervously. Doctor Bradley had changed his position on giving Sam water and advised them that if the injury had not yet killed him by now, dehydration surely would. For the past few days, attempts to get him to drink had been few and largely futile. He couldn’t stay awake long enough to swallow much without risk of choking.

“I’ll help,” Mr. Blakewood said from the doorway.

Amelia hated the way his presence made her feel slightly braver.

“We can’t jostle him. If his blood is clotting—”

“I know. I spoke with Doctor Bradley yesterday.”

She moved to Petrov’s side, gently lifting her brother’s head, while Petrov tucked a pillow underneath. Sam’s brow furrowed as she settled his head back down on the pillow and Amelia gasped.

“Sam? Are you awake?”

His lips twitched. Amelia snatched the glass of water from the side table, spilling a little on the bed. Her hand shook as she dipped the spoon in the water. Sam didn’t open his eyes, but his mouth moved, and his dry lips parted.

“Lady Amelia,” Blakewood whispered.

“I can do it.” She drew a slow breath to steady her nerves. “Sam, here’s a bit of water to wet your mouth. You have to swallow it, Sam. We’ll go slow. Take your time.”

She tipped the spoon over his lips, dribbling the water over the cracked skin. Sam’s tongue peeked out, as if trying to catch it. As she tipped more water into his mouth, Amelia bit back a relieved whimper. Blakewood reached over and rubbed his throat.

“Swallow,” he said.

Sam’s throat moved under his hand. Amelia closed her eyes for a second, willing back the rush of tears, and then opened them, and for several silent minutes, they fed Sam water half a spoonful at a time.

“That should suffice for now,” Blakewood finally said.

“Do you want more, Sam?” She didn’t need to take Blakewood’s word for it, after all.

Sam didn’t answer. He licked his lips with his pale pink tongue and sighed. He slipped back into unconsciousness, his features going slack. Amelia grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “That was perfect, Sam. We’ll try again soon.”

“We cannot rush this,” Blakewood said softly.

Amelia knew it was true, but she hated going slowly for any reason. But annoying as he had been last night, she was still determined to honor their truce, such as it was, and since she couldn’t think of anything neutral to say, she said nothing.

“I’ll shave him now, my lady, and change his bedding,” Petrov said.

Amelia nodded, taking one last long look at her brother, and stepped into the hallway. She bit her fist, trying to stuff the torrent of emotion back inside and lock it in her chest.

“That was good,” Mr. Blakewood said, following her out of the room.

Amelia couldn’t yet speak through the vice around her throat.

“Still determined to not speak to me, I see.”

Amelia looked up at him and found her voice. “What is there to say? Nothing really. It isn’t the first time we’ve disagreed about something, nor will it be the last. I don’t intend to let it ruin the day.” She took a breath, mentally shaking herself. “We’ll be attending Lady Cecily’s garden party this afternoon, if you recall.”

He winced.

“I know. Sam hates them, too. But she was my mother’s friend. She will wonder where Sam is. My aunt will be in attendance, too.”

He straightened, tugging at his waistcoat and rolling his neck. “And what will we say? Is he still sick?”

“He couldn’t be. He...” She turned to face him and shrugged. “I’m out of ideas. I’m... tired.” She wanted to slump against the wall.

“I know, Lady Amelia. I’m exhausted, too,” he said, his voice rough.

She didn’t have the energy to be properly angry with him. “I’m tired of being the intelligent half of this charade. You think of something.”

He cocked his head. “If you’re the intelligence, what does that make me?”

“The brawn.”

He half-smiled. “Careful, that sounds like a compliment.”

“It isn’t,” she replied, but her cheeks warmed as she took in his massive size. He made the spacious hallway feel smaller. He wasn’t looming over her, but he did demand all her attention.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll think of something.”

“Something so banal, no one would dare question it. Something so boring that people will be half asleep before you finish speaking. I have complete faith in your ability.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw—was that amusement?—but he turned away without answering.

Amelia almost smiled, but that would have taken more energy than she had at the moment. Sam had drunk water. That had been her only hope for the day and it had been accomplished. Nothing else mattered now.

And at least the conversation between her and Graham felt normal once again, maybe even slightly friendlier. Certainly, none of those odd feelings from last night remained. She had no reason to be nervous around him. He may be large and overbearingly protective, but he was harmless to her. From now on, he wouldn’t stir any more emotions from her other than annoyance. She knew it. Last night was an oddity. Those anxious moments when he saw her in the breeches were only a brief moment of idiocy. Nothing had changed between them.

Nothing at all.