Page 16 of The Lyon Whisperer (The Lyon’s Den Connected World #79)

L ady Millicent Huxley, Countess of Tully, halted before Chase and Amelia. Although she aimed a broad smile at them, her blue eyes glittered with cold calculation.

Years ago, he’d mistaken her cool nature and no-nonsense style as a sign of an intelligent and scientific mind. Now he knew better.

The woman was every bit as intelligent as he assumed. Indeed, cunning was a more apt word to describe her.

But the veneer of being the sort of calm, no-nonsense female he preferred cracked the moment she’d told him of her affair with Tully and how she brought him to heel, revealing an ambitious streak he had not recognized until it was nearly too late.

Thank God she’d set her sights on Tully.

“Good evening, Lady Tully,” he said coolly.

“Good evening, Lord Culver. Is it true? Have you wed the Earl of Fallsgate’s daughter?” She gestured to Amelia as if she were not there.

Chase had the inane urge to step in front of her.

“As a matter of fact, yes. The two of you have never met?”

“I have never had the pleasure, my lord,” Amelia said in her velvet-soft voice that never failed to stir his senses. He wondered if anyone else experienced her voice the way he did. He certainly hoped not.

He glanced down at her, gratified to see she held herself with the unflappable countenance of a queen. An elegant little smile played at her rose-colored lips.

“Allow me to introduce you to an old friend from my Oxford days, my dear. The Countess of Tully.”

He regarded Millicent. “My wife, Lady Culver.”

“I am ever so happy to meet you, Lady Culver. All of London is agog with the news of your elopement. I could scarcely believe it when I heard and simply had to hear it from Culver himself and see for myself with my own eyes.”

Amelia’s ability to mask her reactions, which had become a source of irritation for Chase, now seemed a godsend. She smiled at Millicent with bland politeness even as her small hand squeezed his forearm like a vice.

“How lovely to meet an old friend of my husband’s. As to the rest, I have no doubt but that the ton will find something else with which to amuse itself by the end of the week.”

Millicent glanced between Chase and Amelia. “I don’t know about that. Well? Don’t leave me in suspense. Was it love at first sight?” Her tone was airy and jovial, but her eyes gleamed with a surety that love had nary a thing to do with their sudden marriage, and therefore, something else must have spurred the too-hasty marriage.

She was right, of course. The trick would be to convince the ton nothing untoward had led to their engagement. Business, love, it didn’t matter what anyone concluded so long as no one learned of the bet Uncle Harry lost to Fallsgate. The truth would crush his wife, who would extrapolate her father’s desire to marry her off to Chase as proof of his wish to rid himself of her.

So far as Chase could tell, she’d be right.

He covered Amelia’s hand with his own. “There’s nothing here to titillate the gossip mill,” he said. “Our families have ties that go way back.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. Lady Culver’s late mother was close friends with my aunt. My uncle and her father, the Earl of Fallsgate, as you noted, plotted our marriage for some time.” He smiled down at Amelia with indulgent affection. “I knew from the moment we met I would marry her. I had only to wait for her to accept the fact.”

Amelia flushed a very pretty shade of pink. Her pleasure at his statement was unmistakable—even Millicent could not fail to recognize it.

Some of the joy of the hunt seemed to go out of her. “How delightful,” she said. “Felicitations, Lord and Lady Culver. I’m sure my husband, the earl, will make his way to you tonight to share his own congratulations.”

Not bloody likely. Not if Chase had any say in the matter. “Thank you. Now, if you don’t mind, the viscountess, Lady Culver, awaits our arrival.”

With that, he and Amelia set off.

She said nothing until they were out of Millicent’s ear shot. Even then she spoke in a hushed tone. “Are you quite all right, sir?”

He frowned down at her. “Why do you keep asking me that tonight? Why wouldn’t I be?”

She gave his arm a little tug, urging him forward.

He hadn’t realized he’d stopped walking.

“Don’t draw attention,” she chided. “In answer to your question, I should think it obvious. That was Lady Millicent Tully, was it not? Your one-time fiancée?”

“We were never engaged, Amelia, and what little we shared was a very long time ago. Certainly seeing her does not dredge up old wounds, if that’s what you mean.”

“I am glad, although, I’m not sure she remembers your past the same way you do.”

He shrugged. “That is not my concern.” He slowed. “It appears the troops have rallied.”

She chirped with delight at the sight of Lady Harriet and Margaret, dragging a smile from him.

“Good evening, Chase, Amelia.” His aunt smiled warmly and extended her hand to Chase.

He bowed over it. “Aunt, a pleasure as always. Where is Uncle Harry?”

“In the card room. Where else?”

Amelia smiled at the three ladies in turn. “Good evening, Lady Culver. I am pleased you remembered my friends, Lady Oglethorpe, and Mrs. Sheridan.”

“Actually, dear, Mrs. Sheridan is well known to me as I have long frequented her book shop.”

“Oh? That is precisely where we met.” Unable to contain her curiosity, she broached the subject which had been of prime importance to her since Chase mentioned it. “I understand you and my mother were friends.”

“Indeed, we were,” Aunt Francine replied, a look of nostalgia crossing her face.

“I would very much like to hear of your memories of her.”

“Of course. Mind you, it has been a fair amount of time. We were little more than girls when we knew each other.”

Chase decided to make good his escape. “Beg pardon, ladies. A pleasure to see you, but now I leave my wife in your capable hands.”

“We shall see to it no harm comes to her,” Lady Harriet announced, a twinkle in her gray eyes.

“Never fear,” Margaret seconded. “And here come reinforcements. I believe that’s Lady Georgina heading this way now.”

“Oh?” Lady Harriet held up the lorgnette she wore around her neck. “Yes, I see her, looking delightfully harried as usual. However did you spot her?”

“The candlelight from the chandeliers reflected off of her spectacles.”

Chase bent to murmur in Amelia’s ear. “I shall return later to claim a dance. Enjoy your time with your friends.”

“I intend to, and I’m looking forward to becoming better acquainted with your aunt, as well. Lady Georgina,” she exclaimed a moment later. “I was so hoping you would come.”

Chase chuckled to himself. His wife was behaving as if this were her party and those around her, her guests.

With that, he ducked into the crowd.

Mr. Hunt deposited a winded Amelia with her friends, thanking her for the dance and a most enjoyable conversation.

He eyed Lady Georgina who gave every indication she was unaware of the man’s presence. She smiled and waved into the crowd as if she’d spotted a close acquaintance and was calling him or her over.

Amelia would have bought her friend’s act had she not seen it more than a few times tonight.

Mr. Hunt gave up trying to gain Georgina’s attention. With a bow and a word of thanks, he excused himself.

Margaret fixed her with a fond smile. “You appear to be enjoying yourself, Amelia, dear. Since the tide of so-called well-wishers abated, I do not believe you have missed a single dance.”

“As it should be,” Lady Harriet intoned. She gazed at Georgina, one year Amelia’s junior, clearly bemused. “I can’t understand why you don’t do the same, dear. Every time a man comes ’round with the intent of inviting you onto the dance floor, you manage to slip his net like a fish in water.”

Georgina shrugged and pushed her spectacles up her nose. “I do not enjoy dancing.”

“Whyever not?” Lady Culver demanded. “Youth is wasted on the young.”

Lady Harriet and Margaret nodded in agreement.

Amelia thought she understood Georgina’s reasons, however.

She herself was having a delightful time at the Colliers’ ball—the most fun she’d had during a London season since her first, before she realized every ball and soiree meant entering another arena whereby she had to plot and scheme to avoid notice by every ancient, amoral nobleman in search of a bride.

For better or worse, that particular thorn in her side would never plague her again. She was well and truly married, and as such, off the marriage mart.

Thus, unlike Georgina, she was free to dance the night away without fearing finding herself potentially shackled to a prostitute-frequenting man like Lord Taylor, or one equally abhorrent such as Lord Hamilton who was blithely unconcerned with skirting Britain’s ban on the disgusting slave trade by conducting his business overseas.

No, she had somehow drawn the attention of Lord Chase Culver. By all appearances, a man of integrity and honor, and hadn’t Mrs. Dove-Lyon bestowed her stamp of approval on him?

Never mind her breath caught at the mere sight of him.

She wondered if he would soon come to claim the dance as he’d promised.

His prediction for how the night would unfold had certainly proved correct—at least to start with. Innumerable members of the ton had made a point to visit her under the guise of offering felicitations on her recent wedding, only to ask probing questions in hopes of uncovering any and all sordid details explaining her and Chase’s hasty wedding.

Her small band of allies had managed the deluge nicely.

Yes, of course , Lady Duval and Lord Culver had known each other the better part of a year.

No, of course, they had not recently made each other’s acquaintance.

Yes, indeed, their courtship commenced ages ago.

No, the two had not married out of necessity, and shame on the person who suggested such a thing.

The one surprise had come in the shape of incoming gossip, namely the supposition on everyone’s lips as the night wore on that theirs was a love match. Amelia would have dearly loved to know who made up that nonsense.

Nonsense or not, the myth had spread like wildfire until the gossip mongers grew bored with the subject entirely.

After that, men came in droves to feast their eyes on the woman—one her father had lamented more than once in her hearing was in danger of being proclaimed a spinster thanks to two failed seasons and one she’d bypassed completely—who had captured the Iron Lion, the newly named Baron of Sidford and heir to the old and distinguished Everston Viscountcy.

She smiled as yet another man appeared before her. By his youth, statue-rigid posture, and stoic expression, Amelia took him for a soldier.

“G-good evening, ladies. I wanted to come by to offer my congratulations to Lord and Lady Culver.” He glanced around, and a hot flush stained his cheeks. “My apologies. I see that he is not about.”

The man was a stutterer and the more he stuttered, the more miserable he looked.

Amelia could never abide witnessing another person’s discomfort. “Do not trouble yourself, sir. I am happy to pass on any well-wishes to my husband. What is your name?”

“My n-name is Mr. Jason Defoe. I served in L-lord Culver’s regiment.”

His brown eyes glowed when he mentioned her husband, warming her to the man instantly.

“Mr. Defoe, I find myself quite parched. Would you mind escorting me to the refreshment room for a cold glass of lemonade?”

“I would be honored,” he said, and proffered his elbow.

Lady Harriet touched her arm. “Amelia, would you like Margaret and me to join the two of you?” Her eyes said clearly what her words had not. She still must proceed with caution.

But Amelia felt certain the danger had passed. She shook her head and lowered her voice for Lady Harriet’s ears only. “I believe Lady Georgina would prefer you to stay here with her to ward off any potential dance partners.”

They glanced at their friend, currently brandishing her fan like a shield as she somehow simultaneously jotted in a small notebook.

Georgina was a popular novelist who published under the pseudonym G.T. Arlington to keep her identity secret from all save her parents and the members of the LLS. It wouldn’t do for the ton to realize she wrote the licentious novels they lapped up like kittens feasting on cream.

Even so, Georgina tended to capture ideas as they struck her.

Amelia smiled at the young man at her side and resumed speaking in a normal octave. “I am in good hands with Mr. Defoe. He will see me safely there and back, will you not, sir?”

“On my honor, ma’am.”

They set out in the direction her husband had gone hours ago. Amelia kept her eyes peeled for her tall, dark and forbidding husband, silently admitting she had a purpose other than thirst for crossing the crowded room. She hoped to see him.

“You were stationed in the peninsula, with my husband?” she asked as the young man did his best to maneuver through the crush of party guests.

“Yes, ma’am. I don’t mind telling you I admire Colonel…er…Lord Culver greatly. All of his men do, without exception. I hope one day to be half the leader he is.”

A warm rush of pride filled her. “That is your wish? To remain in service?”

“I plan to purchase an officer’s commission as soon as I’m able.”

They reached the small refreshment room, alas with no sign of her husband.

Long buffet tables held platters of finger sandwiches, odorous pickled fish and shrimp, and an assortment of bite-sized cakes, as well as scores of dripping crystal glasses filled with what appeared to be lemonade.

“My lady.” Mr. Defoe handed her a glass.

She took a long sip. The lemonade soothed her dry throat, even if the heat of so many bodies passing through the small space had long-since melted the ice in the glasses to dilute the flavor.

“Pardon me, soldier,” a cultured masculine voice called.

They both turned to see a well-turned-out, tawny-haired man entering the room. He stood in the archway, seemingly unaware his stance blocked others’ access.

He appeared of an age with her husband. He had a handsome, if soft, face—here was no military man—and wore a pleasant grin.

“My lord?” Mr. Defoe replied.

“You wouldn’t happen to belong to Colonel Culver’s regiment, would you?”

The young soldier’s brows shot up. “Indeed, I do.”

“As I thought. In that case, you might wish to know there’s a bit of a gathering in the card room. Apparently, several of your fellow soldiers got wind of the Colonel’s whereabouts, and have converged on him. I thought you might not want to miss.”

“Oh, thank you, sir.” A flash of excitement lit his face, only to quickly fade. “But, that is quite all right. I must return Lady Culver to her friends.”

The gentleman’s hazel eyes shifted in her direction. “Lady Culver, is it? Why, I’ve been trying to make your acquaintance all evening. I’m afraid every time I reach your circle, you’ve disappeared onto the dance floor. I’m an old friend of your husband’s.”

“Oh?” Amelia asked with polite interest.

He turned to Mr. Defoe. “Young man, it would be my honor to escort Lady Culver in your stead, if it’s all right with her, and if you’d care to join your comrades.”

Mr. Defoe glanced at Amelia, his eyes a mirror of hope and uncertainty. “I really couldn’t. I promised the lady’s friends—”

“Don’t be silly,” Amelia hastened to assure him. “I can find my way back easily enough. I’d hate you to miss your reunion.”

“If you’re certain?” he asked.

“Quite certain. Go on. I insist.”

“Thank you, my lady, my lord. The card room, you say?”

With an indulgent smile, the handsome man stepped aside, and the soldier darted past.

The gentleman sent Amelia a commiserate smile as if the two of them were old friends sharing a private joke. “Now, then. As we must cross the ballroom in any case, perhaps you would honor me with a dance.”

Her feet ached, but as the man was a friend of Chase’s she could hardly refuse. She took one more sip from her lukewarm lemonade, then set it aside. “I would be delighted.”

As they made their way to the dance floor, it occurred to her he had not given her his name.

She shifted to face him and opened her mouth to inquire.

The musicians struck up a polonaise.

Without hesitation, he swept her into the dance.

The sparkling chandeliers above them reflected off the man’s gold buttons and fine brocade waistcoat. The addition of discreet shoulder pads in his suit jacket added to his appearance. Whoever he was, the man dressed in the first stare of fashion and moved with the easy grace of one well-accustomed to maneuvering a crowded ballroom.

“You say you and my husband are old friends?”

“Lord Gavin Tully, at your service.”

Her smile never wavered. “Lord Tully. Would I be correct in assuming I met your wife earlier, the countess, Lady Tully?”

A flicker of emotion crossed his face. She couldn’t say precisely which, only that it wasn’t the look of a besotted husband. “You would.” He did not expound on the subject. Instead, his gaze traveled down the length of her in a shockingly intimate manner.

Admittedly, she had not partaken of the previous year’s season in the hopes of avoiding another unwelcome marriage proposal. Perhaps some of the unspoken social rules as pertained to the ton— Lord knew they made their own—had relaxed.

Another possibility was that married persons were held to different standards and no one had bothered to share that fact with her. She would have to ask Nancy.

Regardless, she did not care for the appreciative gleam in her husband’s so-called friend’s eyes.

Lord Tully pursed his lips. “May I say, Lady Culver, you are an excellent dancer. We are decidedly well-matched. A shame our paths never crossed before.”

“Thank you.” Her smile remained in place through sheer will. “As I was saying, I met your wife when Lord Culver and I arrived at the fête.” She hoped stressing the word wife would send a clear message.

He guided her deeper into the crowd, yet still in the direction of her friends. “I’m sure she sought you out to offer her felicitations on your recent marriage.”

“Indeed,” she said.

He inclined his head, and his mouth twisted in a semblance of a smile. “I, on the other hand, have a different message to deliver altogether.”

“Oh?” Soon they would come parallel with her friends’ location. If she wanted to rejoin them on this pass, she should speak up now. She made a split-second decision.

“Lord Tully, I wonder if you wouldn’t mind if we did not finish the entire polonaise? I fear I am very much in need of a rest.”

“It is as if you read my mind. I could use a rest myself.” He executed a sharp, if graceful, turn, and marched her in the exact opposite direction from where her friends awaited her return.