Page 13 of The Lyon Whisperer (The Lyon’s Den Connected World #79)

C hase awoke in the night from a sound sleep. An unfamiliar and profound sense of satisfaction suffused him.

Amelia .

He opened his eyes to pitch darkness and tried to gauge the time. Based on the chill in the air and the shadowed hearth, the fire had died hours ago. He peered at his drawn curtains. No tell-tale seam of light burned along their edges.

He smiled and reached for his wife—and found nothing but a cold, empty place on the mattress beside him.

He hinged upward and glared at the dividing door between her chamber and his.

She’d returned to her own bed, like a thief in the night?

He flopped back onto his pillows.

Husbands and wives did maintain separate bedchambers, he reminded himself. Presumably that meant they often slept in separate beds. What did he care? They had made love. Their marriage no longer teetered on the edge of illegitimacy.

Perhaps she assumed he would want her to return to her chamber.

Perhaps she had been cold.

Perhaps uncomfortable.

He winced.

He had not been particularly careful with her. He’d meant to be, then she’d wriggled her hips beneath his and his body had reacted with a will of its own. He’d sheathed himself to the hilt.

She’d been so tight. So slick from her recent climax at his touch.

He grew hard again just thinking about their coupling and groaned.

Perhaps it was best she’d gone back to her own chamber. If she’d remained, he’d want to make love to her again, now, and she would be tender.

He rolled onto his side and ordered himself back to sleep. He was nearly there when the thump of a door closing—softly, as if someone tried to mute the noise—drew him instantly awake.

He slung his legs over the side of the bed and stalked naked to the connecting door. He wrapped his hand around the lever, and pulled the door open on silent hinges.

Amelia lay in bed, her back to him. Her white lace cap once more covered the bulk of her hair. She huddled under bedcovers drawn to her nose, apparently sound asleep.

For a moment he considered sliding into bed beside her.

No. He was fine on his own. He pulled the door closed and padded back to his bed.

As his eyes drifted shut, it occurred to him he ought to clarify matters. At breakfast he would inform her she had no need to depart his bed in future.

Chase lingered at the breakfast table reading a copy of The Times when Amelia put in an appearance. He’d long since finished eating.

He set his paper aside. “Good morning, Amelia.”

She offered a shy smile on her way to the sideboard. “Good morning, Chase.”

Satisfaction stormed though him. She was well and truly his now. Lady Amelia Culver, Baroness of Sidford, future Viscountess of Everston. His .

To think their alliance, forged by her father and his uncle, was predicated on the stipulation he get her in line—or else.

To date, other than her mad ride at midnight prior to their marriage, he’d seen nothing to indicate a propensity for outlandish behavior that he would need to curtail.

He recalled the gothic romance she purchased in Copsham, and promptly dismissed the book. One gothic novel did not a hoyden make.

His eyes lingered over her as she filled her plate. She looked lovely and utterly feminine, as always, in a fetching morning gown of pale…plum, he supposed, trimmed with velvet ribbon. He wondered what her clothing allowance had been under her father’s roof and whether he ought to concern himself.

If the Copsham mill had fulfilled the shipyard order for lumber he had negotiated, he would not give the matter a second thought. But one of the recent fires had destroyed most of the inventory.

He would have to inform the ship makers and request additional time.

He shook off the thought as, plate in hand, she made her way toward him. Faint dark circles he had not noticed before underscored her violet eyes.

Guilt pricked him. Mayhap he had hurt her more than he realized.

He rose to pull out her chair. “Did you sleep well?”

She hesitated briefly. “I did. And you?”

He glanced at the footman hovering in the open doorway. “Would you mind fetching a fresh pot of tea for Lady Culver?”

“Oh, that’s quite all right, Howard. It’s still piping hot, just the way I like it.”

Chase stifled an oath. He wanted a moment of privacy with her, and how in hell did she know the servants’ names better than he did? “I insist, Howard.”

The man beamed at Amelia. “My pleasure. Is there anything else I can bring you, Lady Culver?”

She sent him a bright smile and shook her head.

Wearing an ear-to-ear grin, he dashed forward to retrieve the silver pot and hurried from the breakfast room. “I won’t be a moment.”

Amelia waited until the servant had gone to rebuke Chase. “Thank you for your concern, but I assure you the tea is fine.”

He inclined his head. “I wished a word in private.”

“Oh.” She looked momentarily nonplused.

“I awoke to find you gone.”

A faint blush stained her cheeks, but she said nothing.

“I wanted to ascertain you did not suffer any ill effects from”—he paused—“last night.”

“No. I feel very well, sir.”

Her voice, low and velvety, acted like a feather down his spine. His loins tightened with arousal. So much for the notion her effect on his senses would diminish after they consummated their marriage.

“Do you? I am glad. I worried because I know you found the act uncomfortable.”

She licked her lips. “I did, at first. It…improved.”

“It tends to,” he murmured, grateful for the table hiding his increasingly obvious condition. “I daresay, the next time you may even enjoy it.”

“Oh, I did,” she hastened to assure him, then cleared her throat. She glanced at the empty doorway and lowered her voice. “The first part.”

He coughed into his fist to hide his amusement. “I know. I refer to the second part.”

Her mouth formed a small O and interest sparked in her gem-stone eyes. “I see.”

“Amelia?”

“Yes?” Her voice had a breathless quality.

“It is, of course, your prerogative if you wish to sleep in your own bedchamber. However, to be clear, you are more than welcome to stay in mine on the occasion we…share a bed.” He studied her to gauge her reaction.

“Thank you.” She forked up a bite of her eggs.

He resumed reading his paper—or tried to. A vague feeling of annoyance pricked him.

He prided himself on his astute skill at reading people. But when it came to Amelia, his ability failed him at least half the time. Like now. What the devil did she mean by thank you ?

Not that he intended to ask her. Doing so might give the impression her disappearance into her chamber last night bothered him, when, in actuality, his concern was solely for her welfare.

“Did you handle the RSVP’s we discussed?”

“I did, yesterday.”

“Excellent. The first affair we will attend as a married couple will be held this coming Saturday.”

She nodded once. “Lord and Lady Collier’s fête.”

“Precisely. You should be cognizant the details of our wedding will be on everyone’s lips. The ton thrives on gossip and scandal.”

“I’m aware. I was not born yesterday, sir.”

Her affront amused him. “We should get our stories straight.”

She slanted him a glance. “Our stories ?”

“People will want to know how we came to be married in such a short amount of time.”

She inclined her head. “Of course.”

“I’ve come up with a reason that shouldn’t create much stir, and might even stop any talk. We shall let it be known your mother and my aunt were close friends.”

Her violet eyes opened wide. “And were they?”

“You don’t know?”

She shook her head. “Father doesn’t make a habit of discussing her, not with me, nor anyone as far as I know.”

“I see. In answer to your question, yes. Apparently they had a close friendship prior to either of them marrying. I am not privy to further details.”

“I see. Do you mind reminding of her given name? Perhaps my mother mentions her in her journals?”

“Lady Francine Culver is her name.”

“Lady Francine,” she said as if committing the name to memory. “I shall look forward to asking her about my mother.” A flush of excitement tinged her cheeks. “But do go on.”

“Thank you. We shall also put it about that we met when I returned from the peninsula roughly a year ago, after which your father and my uncle began contract negotiations about our union. When an agreement was reached, we proceeded with the marriage.”

She sighed. “Very well.”

“You do not approve?”

“You make it sound like a business transaction.” She gave a graceful one-shoulder shrug. “I suppose it’s as good a tale as any and certainly sounds better than the truth.”

He hesitated, uncertain if he wanted to open Pandora’s box. “And what is it you see as the truth, Amelia?”

“That you approached my father wishing to court me for reasons not entirely clear to me, and he approved your courtship with the caveat that we marry immediately because…” She broke off.

He arched one brow, more curious than she could possibly know. “Because?”

“Because I managed to evade the two previous offers of marriage he approved.”

“I’m aware. I am not, however, versed in the details. How, exactly, did you accomplish that?”

“I don’t see why any of this—”

“Humor me.” He used his most authoritative tone, the one that had had many a soldier quaking in his boots.

Amelia did not appear the least bit cowed. Indeed, her violet eyes flashed with annoyance.

She stayed silent so long he wondered if she meant to defy him.

He’d begun pondering what, if anything, he should do about it when she spoke.

“The two courtships both began at the start of the season. Two different seasons, mind you. They progressed in the usual manner. Calls on me at home. Rides in the park. Flowers.”

It occurred to him he had done none of those things for his bride.

“…and then, just before either of them submitted their formal offers to my father, I…” She licked her lush lips as if to stop herself from proceeding.

He forced himself to ignore the distraction. “Go on.”

“Suffice it to say I confronted them on certain issues, and they took offense. They ended the courtships, not I. My father was not pleased.” Her shoulders rose and fell with a heavy sigh. “I believe that is enough discussion on the subject.”

He disagreed and considered pressing her for more. In the end he decided to settle for names. “Fine. But I would know the identity of the two men.”

She lifted her chin and met his eyes with a defiant stare. “Lord Taylor and Lord Hamilton.”

He nodded, filing the names away. “Well, then. Back to the matter at hand. I have devised a sort of safety net for you. My aunt and uncle will attend the Colliers’ ball. Aunt Francine has promised to keep watch over you. I suggest you enlist those of your friends who happen to have received invitations to act as additional buffers.”

“And you, sir? Where will you be?”

“I will be busy during much of the evening. Parliament is back in session, and I wish to put out feelers among certain members of the nobility to see where they stand on an issue of particular import to me.”

She eyed him with evident interest. “What issue might that be, sir? Perhaps I could offer some assistance.”

“I can’t see how.”

“Of course. Silly of me.” She resumed eating, her face devoid of expression.

Ah ha. No expression. That was a tell she could not hide. If he gauged correctly, his dismissal of her offer bothered her more than she let on.

It would not hurt to share his interest with her, he decided.

“A year ago when I came home from the war, I could not help noting that many of our soldiers returned from battle changed. Damaged, if you will, by their experiences.”

She paused in the act of slicing her sausage. Her gaze sharpened with evident concern. “How so?”

“It is as if some fundamental piece of them—some of them, not all—have not returned at all. I notice a vacant look. A particular malaise.”

“How terrible.” She put down her cutlery, fully engaged now.

“Yes. I have heard of men who find it difficult, if not impossible, to return to their prewar employment. As a result their families suffer as well.”

“What is it you hope to accomplish for them?”

He propped his elbow on the table and his chin on his fist. Discussing the issue with her was surprisingly enjoyable.

And he’d been correct. She had gotten her feelings hurt.

“I seek to implement some sort of program to help rehabilitate them, I suppose. To help them find gainful employment, medical care in some instances, for those injured in battle. That sort of thing.

“There are some members in the house who, to date, do not see the plight of our military men as one that the Crown should address. My goal is to convince them otherwise, and to draft a plan.”

Her gemstone eyes filled with warm approval. “A noble endeavor, sir. I am not at all surprised. I have noted you yourself have hired several officers.”

He considered asking how she came to know his recent hiring practice, but Howard chose that moment to return with Amelia’s tea. The footman took it upon himself to procure another cup and saucer from the sideboard. He filled it and traded out the set with the one Amelia had before her.

“Thank you, Howard.”

By God, the man was blushing.

“Do you intend to venture into London today, sir?” Amelia asked, inhaling the fragrant steam coming off her tea.

He frowned. Did he detect a hopeful note? “Yes. Why?”

Her eyes widened and she gazed at him, all innocence. “No reason. Just idle curiosity, I suppose. By the by, I did receive a missive from Lady Harriet informing me the Ladies’ Literary Society has a meeting scheduled on Monday. I plan to attend.” She lifted her small chin and fixed him with a challenging stare.

He stifled a grin. “Very well, Amelia. I shall endeavor to avail you of the carriage.”

She sent him a brilliant, if not triumphant, smile. “Thank you, Chase.”

Chase said his goodbyes to Amelia, locating her in her antechamber and pressing a firm kiss to her soft mouth before heading downstairs and out to the stables.

The team was hitched to the carriage, everything set for his departure.

He glanced back at the manse, eyes narrowing. Something niggled at the back of his mind.

She’d been doing something when he entered her chamber. Something she had not wanted him to see. She’d gone so far as to hide whatever it was. He was sure of it.

A diary? A letter?

Did her secret doings have anything to do with the hopeful note he detected this morning when she asked if he meant to leave today?

“M’lord? Is aught amiss?” his groom, Geoffrey, asked.

Everything in him wanted to go back to the manse and see exactly what his wife was up to.

Visions of his father and mother’s relationship flashed in his mind.

His father had not trusted his mother—with good reason. She had treated him with blatant disrespect, and, at the end, contempt, for the crime of having loved her and, according to her, having trapped her in the mundane prison of marriage.

Time would tell if his beautiful, seemingly docile, wife merited his trust. But he would not lower himself to stalk her like his father had done his mother.

“I thought I forgot something in the manse. I was mistaken. Let’s away.”

Amelia gazed at her reflection in her dressing mirror with a critical eye. A bit too much color bloomed on her cheeks. Likely she had not taken enough care to avoid the sun when out of doors the last few days. She made a mental note to wear a wider-brimmed hat tomorrow.

She wanted to look nice for her husband, she acknowledged. He did not lavish her with flattery as so many men of the ton did whether or not they in fact meant their flowery words.

Instead, when Chase uttered a compliment in that rich voice he used for her ears only, she got the sense he meant every word.

For the topic she wished to broach tonight, she would need every ounce of confidence she could muster.

Unfortunately, she’d had to hurry with her toilet tonight having been occupied throughout the day, thanks in part to her special project, and more so due to the new task she’d thrown herself into—for Chase.

That’d left Sally no time to style her hair beyond brushing it with rose water and pinning it in a simple bun at her nape.

At least her teal gown with its crushed-velvet trim and dainty capped sleeves fitted her to a tee, cinching in at the waist and showing a fair bit of cleavage.

Her father had not been generous with his time, but he had never balked at her shopping habits. As a result, she entered this marriage with a plentitude of gowns, hats, gloves, and shoes in the first stare of fashion.

She could make the clothing last. She would make that clear to Chase in the discussion she intended to have with him tonight.

But how to broach the business with her prideful lion of a husband?

She paced the antechamber, her mind awhirl.

Her discussion with him at the breakfast table had inspired her. He inspired her.

Confiding his concerns for Britain’s displaced veterans had touched her deeply, not only because he recognized the desperate plight of the poor men, but because he’d shared his inmost thoughts with her.

Little did he know, nothing else he might have done would have meant more.

She decided then and there what she would do to help him.

What she learned while making preparations for that eventuality had been eye-opening, to say the least. If she read the situation correctly, and she very much feared she did, her husband was not flush with cash.

Not that it changed how she felt about him.

She held her husband in the highest esteem.

That he was handsome was plain to see. Tall, rugged, hair and eyes dark as night, he emanated confidence and power. Anyone could see he was born to lead. Merely looking at him made her stomach erupt with flutters.

But there was so much more to him than met the eye.

She admired him, like no man she’d ever known. He was every inch the Iron Lion who’d led his men to victory, placing himself in the front line, she had no doubt.

Now, with the war all but won, he continued to care for his soldiers’ well-being, where others dismissed their needs—once their services were no longer required, of course.

He also didn’t shirk his landowner responsibilities the way too many noblemen did—something she knew of thanks to some of the books and tracts she and her club read.

Hadn’t they’d traveled to Copsham to investigate the possible arson? Of course he had wanted to see to it himself. Then, with nary a thought for his own safety, he led the charge when another fire threatened the area.

He even had a care for her well-being. To help her grow accustomed to her new role as his wife, he’d moved them to Wimbledon, with its illusion of country life.

The sound of a door opening and closing in the corridor announced Chase had exited his chamber, presumably to venture downstairs.

She gazed at her closed door.

It tends to improve with time.

The memory came to her, unbidden. He’d said it this morning, referring to the act of making love.

She closed her eyes, replaying scenes from last night, in his bedchamber, as she had many times throughout the day. She could not help herself. Despite the discomfort of their joining, the preceding moments, when he brought her body to life, were beyond anything.

He’d boasted when they made love the first time, she would come to him. Last night she’d knocked on the adjoining door under the guise of discovering what he had learned of the suspected arson. But he had read her desire for him all over her face, and she had admitted to it without a moment’s hesitation.

Today it occurred to her, he may have made love to her last night merely to claim his husbandly rights, and thereby cement the legality of their marriage.

She would hate to find out it was only her dowry which had motivated him.

But it would be far better to know the truth than harbor any illusion to the contrary. Head held high, she let herself into the corridor.

Amelia hesitated in the open doorway of the parlor. Her breath caught at the sight of Chase, tall, broad, and impeccably dressed in his black superfine evening clothes.

He stood at the credenza, his broad-shouldered back to her. As if sensing her presence, he paused, apparently in the act of pouring from a crystal decanter into two wine glasses she now saw were set out before him and swung around to glance at her. “Good evening, Amelia.”

A rush of heat surged though her at the mere sound of his voice. Chiding herself, she pasted a demure smile on her face and strolled into the chamber, making for the seating area. “Good evening, sir. I trust the travel between here and London has not proven too taxing.”

He waved that off. “No discomfort the fresh air upon crossing the border between London and Wimbledon does not outweigh.” He sauntered toward her, two crystal glasses in hand.

She chose the sofa, rather than one of the armchairs, watching from beneath her lashes as Chase lowered himself to sit beside her.

He handed her a glass of sherry, his fingers brushing hers as she accepted it. A shiver of awareness rippled through her. “Thank you.”

He stretched one arm along the back of the sofa. His spicy cologne wafted in and out of the air around her. She drew a discreet lungful of the intoxicating scent, and her toes curled in her satin slippers.

“You look very lovely tonight, Amelia,” he said in a low voice.

She took a moment to sip her sherry and collect herself. The cool, sweet wine soothed her suddenly dry throat. “Thank you.”

“What did you do today in my absence, Amelia?”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.” He leaned back with cat-like grace, his eyes never leaving hers. “There’s something you should know about me. I don’t like the feeling I’m being told less than the truth.”

“I’m afraid I have no notion of what you mean.”

His mouth twitched in a humorless smile. “This morning, at breakfast, I got the distinct impression you had something on your mind, something you did not wish to share with me. Dare I say, it was something which you wished to hide. Was I wrong?”

A sense of inevitability filled her. She had been looking for just such an opportunity to broach the very delicate subject. “As a matter of fact, I do have something I wish to discuss with you. It involves…” she took a fortifying sip of sherry, then set it onto the closest side table with a click, “…something I believe you have been less than truthful about with me.”

He paused, his sherry halfway to his mouth. “I don’t follow.” Then, appearing to overcome what she thought might be surprise, he sipped.

“I think I know why you married me.”