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The Lyon’s Den, London

“T he victor, he comes!”

“Unicorn! Unicorn!” Chanting rose up from the gaming room and Clara leaned over the balcony to witness the moment of victory.

Four ropes had been suspended from the balustrade. Her heart fluttered as a masked man swarmed up one rope toward her.

This is it.

Through her veil she discerned a unicorn’s head, as if he were a mythical creature with the body of a man.

And what a body! With thick, powerful arms he hauled himself upward, swallowing up the rope on his quest to secure the prize.

And that prize was her.

A second competitor reached the foot of the rope, wearing a mask in the shape of a bull.

“Minotaur! Minotaur!” drunken voices cried, and Clara heard the chink of coins exchanging hands.

Surely, they weren’t placing wagers? Unless the unicorn lost his grip and fell, victory was inevitable.

The minotaur had taken too much of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s brandy, and could barely walk, let alone climb a rope.

The remaining finalists—one with the head of an eagle and the other a serpent—had already given up.

The eagle limped toward the ropes with a distinct lack of enthusiasm and the serpent had prostrated himself on the floor, to the protestations of his backers.

The unicorn lost his grip, and a ripple of gasps threaded through the crowd, followed by a further exchange of coins.

He gave a low growl then regained his purchase, grunting as the rope swung sideways.

Then he glanced up and a pair of eyes focused on Clara, glittering behind his mask.

Their expression spoke of determination—a beast ready to claim his female, then take her to his lair.

Clara retreated from the balustrade and joined her mother beside the black-clad, veiled hostess.

“Are you well, daughter?”

Clara nodded, her cheeks warming with shame at the thrill coursing through her at the prospect of being claimed . “I-I was concerned he might fall.”

“Then he’ll have proven himself undeserving, Miss Martingale,” the veiled figure said.

“A little harsh, Bessie,” Clara’s mother said. “Making men risk their necks?”

“But necessary, to find a champion worthy of your daughter’s hand,” came the reply. “The finalists have shown their prowess in intelligence, writing verse, and arithmetic. Tonight, we test their physical ability and endurance. Strength and Honor —that was the challenge.”

A growl filled the air, and Clara’s heart rate increased as a large hand appeared, followed by an arm, then a body. The victor swung his legs over the balustrade to stand on the gallery. Facing the crowd, he raised his arms and roared in victory, his voice reverberating through Clara’s chest.

Their hostess approached him, and the cheering subsided as she raised her hand.

“A worthy champion,” she said. “Unicorn, I declare you the winner of the Strength and Honor challenge. Come claim your prize—the hand of this fair maiden.”

She turned toward Clara. “Your champion awaits, my dear. Let the company witness your betrothal.”

Clara approached the balustrade.

“Reveal yourselves before the world!” Mrs. Dove-Lyon cried.

The moment had come. But Clara conquered her fear. Mrs. Dove-Lyon had assured her that all competitors were of good character—strong in body and in heart.

And handsome—their hostess had said that were she twenty years younger, she’d have been tempted herself.

But Clara cared little for a handsome face. She only required a husband who was kind—who did not judge her for the disgrace of her birth.

Unlike him .

Clara swallowed the pain that stabbed at her soul at the merest thought of the man who’d shattered her heart. But her heart was reforged—strong and impenetrable. She’d never permit the victor before her—whomever he might be—to claim her heart only to crush it into dust.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon had assured Clara and her mother several times while they negotiated the terms of the contract that her future husband would be a good man. And, according to Mama, Mrs. Dove-Lyon was never wrong.

“Come, lovers,” their hostess said, returning Clara to the present. “Why the hesitation? Do you seek to increase the anticipation for our witnesses?” She gestured to the crowd below. “Our guests are already quivering with eagerness.”

She turned to the victor.

“Sir Unicorn, don’t keep your lady waiting. Let her eyes feast on your virility while you indulge in her beauty.”

She raised her hand. “On the count of three. One. Two. Three! ”

Clara lifted her veil as the victor removed his mask.

Her gut twisted in horror as a pair of intense emerald eyes focused on her.

Dear Lord—no!

The victor was handsome, as promised.

Brutally handsome, as if his features had been carved from granite, with sharp cheekbones and a nose bearing a slight kink, as if he’d endured—and won—several fights to the death. His brow furrowed and two dark eyebrows formed deep slants to convey an emotion that could only be described as fury .

It was the face that had invaded her dreams these past months—a face capable of transforming the world when he smiled, like the sun breaking through a thundercloud.

But tonight Clara saw only the thundercloud, the precursor to the storm that would wreak vengeance upon her for merely existing.

As he had done two months ago.

But not again.

“Sweet heaven! I-it’s you !”

Clara’s heart broke at the pain in her mother’s voice.

He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could voice his condemnation, Clara fisted her hand, then lunged forward. Her fist connected with his jaw, and he reeled back, lost his balance, and toppled to the gallery floor.

Cheers rose up from below.

“I say! Topping spectacle, what?”

“He’s won a spirited filly, I’ll wager!”

“He’ll have a lot of fun breaking her in!”

Clara shivered as a low growl came from the huge male form struggling to his feet before her.

“Is this part of the entertainment, Mrs. Dove-Lyon?” someone asked.

“Of course, Lord Staffington,” their hostess said. “Don’t I always promise the best forms of satisfaction in my establishment? And now, may I present the victor of the Strength and Honor challenge, Murdo McTavish, and his betrothed, Miss Clara Martingale!”

The crowd burst into applause and the victor approached Clara again.

“No!” Clara’s mother cried. “Not him. Not after the way he treated us. Anyone but him!”

“You signed the contract, Duchess,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said.

“I did, but—”

“Then you must abide by the terms.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon glanced at Clara, then the victor. “ Both of you must abide by the terms.”

She took Clara’s hand and placed it in his. Clara drew in a sharp breath as thick, calloused fingers curled around hers, in a grip of possession.

Those fingers were strong enough to crush a man’s neck. Yet they were also capable of drawing out the most exquisite pleasure in the woman he desired.

Clara lifted her eyes to meet his gaze once more, and she caught a glint of silver in their emerald depths.

But she saw no desire—only savage possession.

A deep voice thickened in her mind, filling the air with a single word.

Mine.

Like it or not, the man before her was now her fiancé. In a matter of days, she would be his to do with as he pleased.