Page 23 of The Lyon Whisperer (The Lyon’s Den Connected World #79)

W ith a breezy smile and finger wave, Amelia disappeared into the modiste’s shop.

Chase held up one hand in farewell even as the door swung closed, and the carriage lurched into motion, en route to his uncle’s townhome. Hunger hollowed out his insides.

He slumped back in brooding silence and shoved a hand though his hair. For God’s sake, it wasn’t as if he’d never see the woman again. They’d travel together back to Warren House in a matter of hours.

What the hell was the matter with him?

Other than the fact he’d wanted to kiss her, desperately, in the middle of the day, traveling down a crowded street, in the heart of the city. Little did his wife know he’d been a hair’s breadth from dragging her into her arms when they made the untimely arrival to Madame Eloise’s shop.

It would have shocked her to her glossy boot tips if he had, and it would have served her right. Amelia, with her poking and prodding into his personal predilections as if she really cared to know.

But turnabout was fair play, and he decided to indulge his own curiosity about her, asking her to explain something he’d long wondered—her choice of Flora MacIver as her alias when she’d ventured to his house at midnight to make her premarital demands.

Her answer had struck him dumb, because of course she’d chosen Flora MacIver for the values the fictional character embodied, those of selfless giving and bravery and standing up for what was right—exactly like Amelia, herself.

He’d never known a woman like her—one who would put herself out, even to the point of waking at dawn to see to a pack of rescued mongrels.

He wasn’t discounting his aunt, who had taken him in after the death of his father, no questions asked.

But Amelia. She was so… God what she did to him. She drove him half mad with wanting her every moment of every day. It was everything he’d never wanted.

He’d vowed never to let himself be ensnared by a woman’s charms, and, to date, he never had. It had never been an issue with any other woman, though many had tried.

Even Millicent, whom he briefly considered marrying, had not come close to tangling him up inside. That had been part of her appeal.

It wasn’t as if Amelia plied him with her feminine wiles, though she had them aplenty.

She beguiled him with her essence. The way she cared for every man, woman, child, and beast in her vicinity—including those others dismissed as inconsequential.

Witness the fact she knew every member of their household staff by name in the length of a week. He didn’t even know half their names.

And the way she cared for those strays. He could still see her, the night he thought to catch her attempting to flee and instead came upon her coddling those damned pups.

Had it even occurred to her to shirk the work onto the servants?

Doubtful. She probably worried she’d somehow get them into trouble should he discover the dogs on property.

To her credit, she had not snuck them inside the manse.

He slapped his hand against his forehead and groaned. Hell’s teeth. Was he really buying into her semantics?

He closed his eyes and silently admitted that, yes, he was.

He was in danger of allowing the woman to wrap him around her little finger. He needed to get himself in hand, starting now.

He snatched up the briefcase he’d brought with him and withdrew the revised contact he’d received from the ship builders. They’d agreed to take a delay in the lumber delivery if he, in turn, would accept a severely docked remuneration for said delivery. He was leaning toward accepting their offer, and taking a loss, in hopes of building a long-term, mutually profitable relationship.

For the remainder of the short ride, he calculated potential profit and loss going forward, and did his best to ignore the niggling feeling he should return to Bond Street, and Amelia.

Amelia peeked through Eloise’s display window to the street, watching until her husband’s coach disappeared from view. Then she did a silent countdown, starting at five hundred.

A handful of patrons milled about the small shop, with the two nearest her discussing in muted tones the merits of the various embellishments Eloise offered.

Their conversation ceased abruptly, and Amelia noted from the corner of her eye their curious gazes fixed on her.

She studied the mannequin in the window, as if fascinated by the gown’s trim.

Their conversation resumed.

A moment later, she let herself out.

She stood on tiptoe searching for her husband’s vehicle. Satisfied it was nowhere in sight, she started for Hoby and Sheppard and realized her first mistake. The last time she ventured to the shop, also on foot, she’d departed from the much closer distance of Smith’s Haberdashery. She hadn’t considered how far she’d have to walk in a limited time.

Nor had she brought Sally along for propriety’s sake. Just as well. Sally would have grumbled the whole way about the unseasonable warmth of the day and the pace Amelia set.

Still. She hoped no one would notice her scurrying down the street, unescorted, and report back to her father, or worse, her husband.

She lengthened her stride and angled her face toward the display windows to avoid being seen by passengers in passing coaches and curricles. The odd orientation left her winded and slightly dizzy.

Perhaps she should have confided in Chase. She could not imagine he’d be pleased with her choice this day.

You must behave with decorum in dress and speech.

Guilt pricked her. She shoved the pesky emotion from her mind and pressed on.

In what seemed an eternity, she at last reached the tailor’s shop. She reached into her reticule for a small hanky to wipe her brow, pasted a smile on her face, and stepped inside.

Mr. Hoby, the man she’d dealt with on her first visit stood behind the counter, scrawling in a ledger. He glanced up, a pleasant expression on his face. The second he laid eyes on her, he frowned.

Oh, dear. Had he been unsuccessful in locating the fabric?

She kept her smile in place and moved toward him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Hoby. Here I am, as promised.

He stepped from behind the counter. “Yes, I see. I wish you had given me your direction on your first visit to save yourself a trip.”

She halted. “Whatever do you mean, sir?”

He scratched his brow and, like her moments before, withdrew a handkerchief to mop his brow. “I’m afraid…I’m afraid I can’t help you, madam.”

She blinked in stunned surprise.

He went on. “After going over my current orders, I realize I do not have the time to take on another project, nor a new client.”

“I beg your pardon?” She could feel blood rushing up her cheeks.

He hastened back to the counter, putting it squarely between them. “I am… er … simply too busy. I can… er …recommend another tailor should you desire to take your business elsewhere.”

Of all the scenarios she could have imagined, being turned away like a criminal or miscreant had never occurred to her.

“Good day, madam,” he said and returned to his work.

He’d dismissed her.

She felt oddly on the verge of tears, though from anger or frustration or humiliation, she could not precisely say. She blinked them back and started to turn for the door. No. Not quite yet.

She stopped, shifted to face him, and squared her shoulders. “Mr. Hoby, I do not appreciate the unmerited disdain you have shown me. Busy you may be, but surely you could have managed a better delivery. Good day to you, sir.” She sniffed, turned on her heel and marched to the door.

Before she reached it, the shop door swung open and an elderly gentleman entered.

She nearly groaned when she recognized the man as one of her father’s friends, Lord Peppersham.

He stood aside, holding the door for her, then gave a start of surprise and let it close. “Well, I’ll be, if it isn’t Lady Amelia Duval, Fallsgate’s only daughter. Wait—you’re recently wed, ain’t ya? Lady Culver, now? A baroness and soon a viscountess in your own right. The earl must be proud, indeed.”

“Good afternoon, Lord Peppersham,” she said with quiet dignity.

The man craned his head to look around her. “Here on your own, are you? Fallsgate’s not about? Too bad, haven’t seen him in an age. Hoby,” he added in greeting.

The tailor had reached the shop’s foyer in record time. He glanced between Amelia and Lord Peppersham, eyes wide with obvious alarm. “Good afternoon, milord.”

Amelia arched a brow at Mr. Hoby then turned her attention back to Lord Peppersham. “I thought to purchase a suit for Lord Culver. Evidently Mr. Hoby…” She broke off at the desperate appeal on the man’s face.

One word from her attesting to the fact he’d cast out the Earl of Fallsgate’s daughter and news would spread like wildfire.

Between her father and her husband, she would have a lot of explaining to do. Beyond that, she would escape the scandal unscathed.

But what of Mr. Hoby and his family? What of the unsuspecting Mr. Shepperd? Hoby and Shepperd would be looking for cheaper real estate, that’s what.

She could not have their ruination on her conscience.

“Yes, go on, g’al,” Peppersham urged.

She huffed out a chagrined laugh. “Evidently Mr. Hoby has his work cut out for him with me, I’m afraid. I am unable to make up my mind, presently, concerning the style I prefer.”

Lord Peppersham snorted indulgently. “The fairer sex never could make up their minds, but you know what they say about a woman’s prerogative and all that.”

She sent Mr. Hoby a last, chiding look, or meant to.

The look of gratitude on his face perplexed her. Not five minutes ago, he’d sent her packing without a by-your-leave.

She sniffed. “I must go. My…husband awaits me in the carriage. A pleasure seeing you, Lord Peppersham.”

He opened the door, and she swept out onto the walk. No sooner had the door closed, than it reopened behind her. “Lady Culver…”

She turned to see Mr. Hoby standing before her, the measuring tape around his neck floating on the wind. “I wanted to apologize and thank you for…” He glanced back at his establishment.

She opened her mouth to inquire why he’d felt the need to shun her business in the first place, but Mr. Hoby continued, “Please know I didn’t have a choice. I’m very sorry.” He cast a furtive glance around him as if to ascertain no one stood near enough to overhear their conversation. “Good day, madam.”

With that, he disappeared into his shop. The door slammed behind him.

She considered going after him, but Lord Peppersham still posed a problem, and, compounding matters, she hadn’t the time.

All of this trouble and she’d gotten precisely nowhere. Tamping down her frustration, she started the trek back to Madame Eloise’s shop.

By the time she reached the final block of her wasted journey, Eloise’s sunny, cream-colored shop in her sights, Amelia was thoroughly disgruntled.

The day had grown increasingly warm and muggy. She was hungry, thirsty, sticky and on top of everything, her feet hurt. Her soft-soled slippers were not designed for traipsing along a stone pathway for miles on end. She longed to submerge herself in a steaming, sweet-smelling bath, with a pot of peppermint tea and several pounds of cake in arm’s reach.

She would settle for awaiting her husband’s coach inside the shop, off her feet, and, perhaps, talk the modiste out of a tall glass of water.

Consumed with reaching her destination, she did not at first recognize the tall, well-dressed man who stepped into her path, blocking her access to the last cross street.

She made to step around the man.

He sidestepped to remain in her path.

“Pardon me, sir. Please, go right ahead.” She shifted sideways and gestured for him to pass her.

He did not oblige. Instead, he doffed his hat. “Lady Culver, what a surprise to see you out and about today.”

She looked up and into twinkling hazel eyes. A sinking sensation unfurled in the pit of her belly.

“Good day, Lord Tully,” she said, and shot a longing gaze over his shoulder at the shop on the next corner. So close.

He made a show of looking around the walking path behind her, alongside her, then said in apparent confusion. “On your own? Not a husband or chaperone in sight? Surely, I’m mistaken.”

The befuddled smile he sent her did not mask—nor, she imagined, was it meant to—the sly gleam in his eye.

“I stepped out of my modiste’s shop for some fresh air. My lady’s maid awaits me inside. If you’ll ex—”

“I’m sure she does,” he said, cupping her elbow in a firm grip and guiding her in the direction from whence she’d come.

Gritting her teeth in a semblance of a smile, she obliged him—for the moment. What else could she do? “I really must get back, my lord.”

“But you said yourself, you were in need of air. Tell me, how is Mr. Hoby today?”

Her stomach hit the pavement. He must have passed her in his carriage when she’d entered the man’s shop.

“Extremely busy,” she answered. “Now I really must insist—”

“Always insisting . You and my wife really must get together for tea. You have so much in common.” He drew to a halt, shifting to face her.

He studied her briefly, then seemed to come to a decision. “I take it you shared my story with your husband, and he denied every word.”

She lifted her chin. “Of course he did. Your story was a complete fabrication.”

His eyes glittered with malice. “Don’t you see? It may as well have been true. The result is the same. My life was ruined, thanks to him. I am shackled to a shrew of a wife, one which should have been his. It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. He was supposed to marry her, not I. I am Lord Gavin Huxley of Tully, damn it,” he said through clenched teeth. “I could have married any woman I chose.”

Unnerved by both his outburst and the madness, for lack of a better word, twisting his handsome face into an ugly mask, she took a hasty step back.

She had no notion what to say to the man and feared saying the wrong thing would lead him to do something truly regrettable. Abruptly, a veneer of calm settled over the man. “Who knows, Lady Culver? Mayhap, given the chance, I would have courted you.” He reached down, intent on, she assumed, smoothing a strand of her hair behind one ear. She flinched back, but not far enough to evade his reach. She pinched her eyes closed.

Her husband’s voice cut through the air, each word articulated with deadly precision. “Do not touch my wife.”

Her eyes flew open. Her gaze shot past Lord Tully to the tall and forbidding form of her husband, hovering behind the tawny-haired earl like a dark, avenging angel.

She nearly sagged with relief. Tiny tremors vibrated through her. She had never been so happy to see anyone in her life. Then Chase spoke again.

“Or you will explain your actions over pistols at dawn.”