Page 37 of The Lyon Whisperer (The Lyon’s Den Connected World #79)
Three months later.
A melia lounged on the chaise in her husband’s office, reading and rereading the same few pages of the latest novel chosen by the Ladies’ Literary Society, Mansfield Park, by Miss Jane Austin. She adored the novel, but her mind could not stay focused. It kept straying to the conversation which had taken place this afternoon at the emergency meeting of The Ladies’ Literary Society at number 7 Dove Street.
She lay the novel face down on her chest and contemplated Roddy, curled into a ball and snoozing on the floor beside her. His paws jerked as if he dreamed of running, likely chasing after one of the sticks her husband loved to toss for him.
Idly, she smoothed her fingertips over his soft ear and glanced at the closed door. She wondered, not for the first time, when Chase might return from his luncheon with his uncle and his uncle’s man-of-affairs. She had something delicate to discuss with him.
One of their honorary members, Mrs. Gwendolyn Barnes, had arrived in town days ago and was currently a house guest of Lady Harriet and Margaret. Hailing from the north, she was a widow of three or so years, and Georgina’s longstanding editor—not that anyone outside the Ladies’ Literary Society could know that Georgina was G.T. Arlington.
Poor Mrs. Barnes had recently suffered the loss of her dear father. With no family left to speak of in the vicinity, and hoping to make a fresh start, she’d packed up all her worldly belongings and made for London where she planned to relocate.
A woman of some means, thanks to several inheritances, she planned to purchase a publishing house which she would manage and where she would function as the editor-in-chief. But in her endeavor, she had encountered certain obstacles.
Amelia had a plan to help her, but before she proceeded, she had to first speak with her husband. She allowed herself a small smile. How pleased he would be that she knew better now than to go off on one of her schemes without at least consulting him—and so she would remind him when he balked, as he was sure to do.
The sound of the front door opening and closing, and muted voices in the foyer, her husband’s rumbling baritone among them, had her leaping to her feet. Roddy, too, snapped awake and bounded onto his four legs, alert and ready to greet his master.
The office door opened. Chase stepped inside, closing the door behind him as his gaze sought and found her. His dark eyes warmed and a smile played at his full mouth. “This is a pleasant homecoming. I thought you had a meeting planned with your literary club, today.”
“I did. I hurried home to speak with you about a somewhat urgent matter.” As always, beholding her beloved husband, her breath caught, and her insides bubbled with delicious warmth.
Roddy, evidently, experienced a similar joy. His tail thumped heavily against the carpets.
“Urgent?” Frowning, Chase started toward them. “What’s happened?”
“Oh, well, perhaps ‘urgent’ is putting the matter too strongly. The thing is, one of our honorary members has moved to town, Mrs. Gwendolyn Barnes.”
“And?” Nearing them, he stretched one hand to pat Roddy and lifted his other in preparation for embracing Amelia.
Neither she nor Roddy could wait a second longer for him to reach them. She and the adoring hound closed the distance between them. She twined her arms around Chase’s warm neck as Roddy pressed his muzzle into his hand and his body against both their legs.
Happiness welled up inside her. She chuckled and lifted on tiptoe to rub the tip of her nose under her husband’s strong jaw, enjoying the scrape of stubble already in evidence at not quite two in the afternoon. “Now. About what I wish to tell you…”
“In a moment.” Chase lowered his head to claim her mouth in a lingering kiss that turned her bones liquid.
When he straightened, she blinked, trying to gather her thoughts. Dear Heaven. She swatted at him, playfully. “You’ve thoroughly distracted me, sir.”
He traced his fingertips over her cheek. “Only fair, madam, as I live in a constant state of befuddlement, thanks to you.”
“Oh?” She could hear the smile in her own voice.
“I cannot seem to be in a room with you without needing to touch you. Once I touch you, I must kiss you. Once I kiss you…I think you know the rest.”
She gazed up at him. “Oh, Chase, I do love you so.”
“Not half as much as I love you, Amelia.” He sighed, grasped her shoulders and took a step back. “But you have something of import to share, enough so you cut your meeting short. Something about one of the ladies in your club?”
“Indeed. Mrs. Barnes, as I mentioned, is relocating to London. She is a widow of some means, and an editor, who has made an offer on a local publishing house that’s recently available for purchase.”
He strolled to the chaise and dropped onto it, stretching out his long legs in front of him. “Go on.”
“It seems, in addition to the main seller, the stakeholders of the publishing house must agree to the sale, and they’ve made it clear Mrs. Barnes, as a woman investor, must meet certain criteria.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Such as?”
She meandered toward him and eased a hip onto the chaise. “She must have experience in the field, which she has, and she must have the blunt.” She thought she heard his soft snort at her use of the colloquialism. “Again, she is most able to meet this requirement. Lastly, she must be connected, socially.”
“Connected,” he said flatly. “What does that mean?”
“Connected as in either a member of an important family or wed to a man of such a family.”
“And she is not, I take it.”
“Correct.”
“I fail to see what I can do to help. I haven’t any spare, well-connected, bachelor friends to whom I can marry the chit.”
She sent him a sweet smile.
Instantly, his dark eyes gleamed with suspicion.
“I thought, as she helped us so well, perhaps the Black Widow of Whitehall might be persuaded to assist Mrs. Barnes in procuring a husband.”
His dark brows furrowed. “A fine idea. Send the woman in her direction.”
Amelia continued to smile sweetly. She leaned toward him, smoothing her palms over his waistcoat.
“Amelia? Why do I get the feeling there’s more to your plan that I won’t like?”
“As she is new to the area, and quite unfamiliar with the ways of London, and has never met Mrs. Dove-Lyon, an introduction—”
“No—”
“Would help smooth the way for her.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I would, of course, dress as Lady MacIvor, the widow.”
“Amelia, this is out of the question.”
“Sir, have I told you today what a wonderful husband you are?”
He glared at her.
“So loving, so fair-minded, so willing to accept your wife for the eccentric woman of the world she is?”
“Dear God,” he muttered, and eyed the ceiling as if seeking divine help.
And then, as if in surrender, he flopped onto his back, stretching out on the chaise which was not adequate to serve his tall frame, but which did not stop him from dragging Amelia across the top of him. “You may as well begin, madam.”
“Begin?” She chuckled, knowingly.
“Plying me with your wiles, having your way with me in order to get your way.”
She giggled at his word play, then feathered kisses over his face. “Will it work?”
“Only one way to find out,” he said in a husky voice, and wrapped his hand around her nape, tugging her mouth to his.
Roddy curled into a ball beside the chaise, sighed contentedly, and proceeded to nap while his master and mistress wrestled each other on the furniture as they seemed to enjoy doing all too often.
The end.