Page 4 of The Lyon Whisperer (The Lyon’s Den Connected World #79)

A melia regarded Lord Culver from beneath lowered lashes. The notion he might have stipulations of his own had never occurred to her and her friends.

At least Lady Harriet had not mentioned such an eventuality.

In the muted firelight from the grate, his swarthy good looks took on a menacing air. The thick slash of his brows, furrowed over eyes so dark they appeared black, could only be described as brooding.

Seated in the sturdy armchair, long legs stretched out before him, he exuded the power, grace, and cool disdain of a fabled demigod surveying his domain—which, in this scenario included her—and finding it lacking.

For pity’s sake. She’d come here tonight hoping to scratch out a shred of control over her uncertain future. Instead of gaining ground, she now felt like a cornered mouse trying to outmaneuver a hungry lion.

“Your stipulations?” she prodded, gratified by the steady cadence of her voice. She sensed showing fear would only serve to weaken her position.

“As my wife, I will expect you to behave with decorum. Do you understand what that entails?”

Annoyance pricked her, overshadowing her wariness. “Of course I do. What sort of female do you take me for?”

His narrowed gaze slid over her in a considering manner. “Some would consider a young lady, dashing about on horseback in the middle of the night to rendezvous with an unmarried man lacking decorum.”

She affected an air of dismissal. “But, you are not any unmarried man, are you? You are my betrothed—or soon will be,” she finished on a mutter. She licked her lips, then silently cursed herself for lapsing into the nervous habit.

“Lady Amelia, let me be clear. I will have your promise not to pull another stunt like this.”

Or what, she wondered? Would he withdraw his intent to wed her, and cause her father to disown her, or would he, instead, rescind his agreement to grant her few requests? Either instance spelled disaster for her.

“You have my promise. No more midnight calls on unmarried men.”

“In social settings,” he went on, not missing a beat, “your behavior must be above reproach. By word and deed, you will present yourself as a proper lady, befitting your station.”

Alarm bells jangled in her head and she slanted him a suspicious look. He sounded very much like her father with that statement. Had the two discussed her shortcomings as her father saw them, or was Lord Culver simply a carbon copy of the man?

“Meaning?”

He waved a negligent hand. “The usual things. You’ll clothe yourself in proper dress…”

She chewed her lower lip, imagining herself on her recent rescue mission to the stews. She’d ventured into the mud-covered alleys to round up the abandoned litter wearing a borrowed servant’s gown for the task.

But he’d said she must dress properly in social settings.

Oblivious to her mental cogitations, he continued on. “…and refrain from drawing undue attention with fomenting speech. In short you’ll do nothing to draw undue attention.”

She did occasionally feel the need to speak her mind on a subject, but that hardly signified. She rarely mixed in society, preferring to keep her own company or spend time with close friends, or, of course, with her furry companions.

“May I ask why you are so concerned with public opinion?”

He sent her a lazy smile. “No, you may not.”

She blinked. The man’s attitude really warranted a thorough set-down.

However, she dare not push him too far. She knew what he did not. She had no real choice in whether they married. If she tried to tell him to fob-off with his rigid stipulations, her father would learn of this midnight call and likely lock her in a convent as he’d threatened on more than one occasion.

Bristling, she nodded her assent.

“One last thing.”

Dear Heaven, there was more? She gritted her teeth. “Yes?’

“There will be no animals running around the manse.” He met her gaze and held it, as if doing so would bend her to his will.

She sent him her iciest smile. “Very well, I promise not to bring animals into the home.” Stables didn’t count, did they? “Anything else, my lord?”

He unfolded from his chair.

Her gaze traveled up the length of his long, hard, lean body and an unfamiliar—and unwelcome—shiver of awareness coursed through her.

“Are we in agreement, then, concerning each of our conditions?” he asked.

Hating the feeling of him towering over her, she rose to her feet, which brought the two of them far too close. But she would not retreat an inch. She extended her hand into the minuscule space between them.

Lord Culver eyed her gloved hand for a long moment, one corner of his mouth cocking up. Finally, his ungloved hand engulfed hers.

The heat from his palm permeated the kidskin covering hers. His fingers, strong and sure, held hers as he issued a firm shake. She ought to feel subsumed. Instead, she felt…assured. This man would keep his word. She felt it in her bones.

It was a good portent, she told herself.

“I’m sure you know of your father’s and my appointment tomorrow to formalize the marital contract and finalize the details of the nuptials.”

His words deflated her brief sense of well-being, reminding her she was to have little to no say in planning her own wedding. She gave him a nod and said, “I would ask that you refrain from mentioning this small affair with my father. He tends to look at matters in a similar manner as you, my lord.”

“You don’t say?” He studied her, and something seemed to flicker in those dark eyes. A degree of understanding, perhaps? “I can afford to be charitable this once.”

Ten days later, at precisely nine o’clock on a cloudy spring morning, one week prior to the reopening of parliament and its subsequent influx of nobility and other members of the haute monde , Chase stood at attention at the altar of the small limestone chapel located within Fallsgate’s Marlborough estate.

Someone had made excellent use of the short amount of time allotted to prepare for the intimate gathering. Sweet-smelling flowers adorned the altar and wooden pews. Red and white rose petals peppered the center aisle, awaiting the soft footfalls of his soon-to-be-wife.

Seated in the pews were his aunt and uncle, and a handful of well-turned-out women, friends of Amelia’s he was told. The frequent sniffles and flashes of white handkerchiefs he caught in the periphery of his vision told him that at least two of the women dabbed at tears.

He had not seen his bride since her audacious midnight arrival at his home. In the privacy of his thoughts, he could admit to a heady sense of anticipation coursing through his veins. What sort of surprise might she have in store for him at this juncture?

His uncle had made it clear part of Chase’s task included molding the headstrong female into a so-called proper lady, stressing he had but a mere six months according to the terms of the wager in which to accomplish the job.

Chase had found the notion ludicrous—at first.

Despite the debacle with the puppies he’d witnessed with his own eyes, Lady Amelia was an earl’s daughter, and not just any earl’s daughter. She was the Earl of Fallsgate’s daughter, one of the most upstanding, respected members of the British aristocracy. Fallsgate made no bones about his belief in traditional, conservative values.

Then the chit showed up at midnight, using an alias and dressed in widow’s weeds. Mayhap, the event had been a singular event. The terms of the wager itself, however, warned him engaging in rash behavior was more likely a common occurrence for her, rather like the incident with the wayward pups.

Regardless, the sheer amount of money on the line dictated he take the business seriously. Eight thousand pounds. How his uncle could have risked such a large amount of money was beyond him.

Harry knew very well of the two recent devastating fires one village under his purview had suffered. Not to mention that both the viscountcy, and the barony Chase had assumed a little over a year ago, had sadly out-of-date infrastructures in desperate need of modernization to bring the estates into the nineteenth century.

The tenants, the viability of the lands, the very solvency of the titles depended upon Chase’s ability to turn potential revenue streams into reality.

He’d been making good progress, partly owing to his uncle’s willingness to have his spending curtailed and monitored, and partly in thanks to the estates’ under-realized natural resources. Then came those damned fires, followed by his uncle’s irresponsible bet.

Not until Amelia arrived at his house in the middle of the night did he gather the magnitude of the challenge he faced. Half of him had wanted to shake some sense into her then and there. The other half wanted—something else entirely.

Something about the woman, her voice, the directness of her violet-blue stare, stirred his carnal appetite to life in a way he’d never experienced.

He wanted her.

Considering they’d soon be wed, the only problem he foresaw lay with her silly request to put off commencing marital relations.

The poignant strains of a solo violin floated in through the stone archway, echoing off the buttressed ceilings and announcing the imminent arrival of Fallsgate and Amelia.

A collective shuffling noise sounded as everyone present shifted ’round to stare at the empty archway.

A stone-faced Lord Fallsgate appeared with Lady Amelia on his arm.

A sheer white veil obscured her face as Fallsgate led her down the aisle to Chase. She glided like a swan through water, resplendent in a high-necked white silk gown layered with lace and tiny stones that sparked and shimmered, reflecting the light from the candle sconces lining the walls. Her black hair had been elaborately fashioned into a pile of interwoven curls atop her crown.

The violinist’s somber tune ceased when the two reached him at the altar.

Fallsgate lifted Amelia’s veil and kissed her pale cheek before stepping back.

In a matter of minutes the clergyman performed the rites, asking the rote questions to which he and Amelia responded affirmatively, and declared the two man and wife.

Following the ceremony, the wedding party relocated from the chapel to the manicured gardens to partake in a celebratory breakfast.

A large white tent had been erected, beneath which sat banquet tables covered with white linen cloth, and adorned with elegant floral bouquets, sparkling crystal glasses, and silver cutlery polished to perfection.

Her father served the finest champagne, and food enough to satisfy an army.

Amelia smiled and nodded, feigning interest in the conversations taking place around her.

Lady Culver, Lady Harriet, and Margaret compared notes on their respective modistes. Her father listened as Viscount Culver raved over Tattersall’s current selection of horse flesh. Further down the table, Lady Georgina, Nancy, and Charlotte shared what looked to be a lively discussion.

Beside her, Chase, her husband, ate his breakfast in silence, his table manners elegant and efficient. She stared at her plate and finally opted to move the food around in the hopes no one would remark on her lack of appetite.

She was married. Actually married. Soon she would depart her father’s home, never to live under its roof again.

In a way, the idea of moving came as a relief. She loved her father. As a child, she had practically worshipped him. But, over the years she came to see he did not hold her in the same esteem. Disappointed seemed the most apt description for his feelings toward her. At least she would no longer have to live with never meeting his high standards no matter how hard she tried.

“You’re very quiet, Amelia,” Chase commented in a low voice.

She offered him a polite smile. “I could say the same of you.”

He eyed her plate meaningfully. “Ah, yes, but I have been eating. Perhaps the cake will be more to your liking.”

Gerald, one of the footmen, approached. Amelia realized everyone else had finished their meals.

She gestured for him to take her dish with a grateful smile.

Chase watched the interchange with an arched brow.

“I wasn’t hungry,” she said, defensive, assuming he disliked seeing food go to waste.

In truth, she hated the practice herself. When some hapless beast or fowl gave its life for her dining pleasure, disregarding the animal’s sacrifice seemed unconscionably ungrateful.

A corner of his well-shaped mouth curled up slightly, and she found her gaze drawn to the small movement. “I was merely noting yet another of your father’s servants who seems to dote on you, lady wife.”

She blinked, taken aback by hearing him call her wife . “I have no notion of what you mean.”

He inclined his head and made no effort to explain.

She wondered if that would be the hallmark of their marriage.

Their marriage . She did not feel any different, and yet, several hours ago, on her father’s arm, she had made the brief journey down the aisle to where Chase awaited her.

He had looked so devastatingly handsome in his formal wedding attire. The perfectly pressed, black superfine, not a speck of lint in sight. His bright white shirt and simply styled cravat emphasized the hard line of his freshly shaven jaw and vital cast of his complexion.

She recalled the way conversation had ceased as the wedding guests gazed on the two of them. Every one of her friends’ eyes had glinted with moisture, surprising her. They all knew this was no love match.

Even her father had worn an indulgent, misty smile, the same one he had worn when he knocked on her chamber door less than two weeks ago, her mother’s wedding gown cradled in his arms.

“I’ve sent for your seamstress, Amelia, to assure the perfect fit,” he’d said, causing her heart to squeeze in her chest.

Barely any alterations had been necessary. Wearing her mother’s gown today was perhaps the most bittersweet element to this emotionally charged day. For some reason, she’d always imagined wearing it on her wedding day—not that she and her father had ever discussed the notion—but in her dreams, she married for love.

Lord Culver, her husband, touched her briefly on the elbow, drawing her attention to him.

“I assume you are packed and ready to depart?”

Amelia’s tongue darted out to dampen her lower lip.

His dark eyes followed the motion before his unblinking gaze returned to meet hers.

A hot rush of awareness—of him, his powerful presence, even the spiced scent of his cologne—surged through her.

“I have a few things packed.”

At his slight scowl, she hastened to add, “My maid has instructions to oversee readying the rest of my things. She will see them delivered when I give her leave to do so. What with planning the wedding and all that entailed…” She left off with a shrug and hoped he did not read anything in her expression.

After a moment he nodded. “Amelia… I wanted to say, you look very beautiful today.”

His simple compliment warmed her to her toes. Her cheeks throbbed with heat.

“Thank you, my lord. You look very fetching yourself.”

He blinked in evident surprise. Before he could reply, however, someone tapped her shoulder.

She turned to find Nancy standing behind her, a porcelain basket hanging on her forearm.

“I have something for you,” she said with a warm smile, pulling Amelia aside. She reached inside the basket to peel back a brightly colored kitchen towel, revealing what looked to be a round loaf of crusty bread.

“I baked this for you—for good luck. It’s called a Holy Cross bun. Do you see the cross marking on the top of the loaf?”

“Oh, Nancy, how thoughtful of you. I do, yes. What does it mean?”

She grinned, flashing her signature dimples. “There are many different superstitions associated with it. Take your pick—some say the cross symbolizes the crucifixion, giving the bun healing properties. Some say the cross on the top allows fairies out of the dough, to ward off evil spirits. My favorite of all, and why I made it for you, dear Amelia, is the old wives’ tale which holds the cross bun brings good luck for an entire year and protects the household of the person who eats it.”

She reached in and pinched a piece of bread from the loaf, marring the beautiful bun. “Eat,” she commanded, pushing the bite toward Amelia.

Laughing, and fighting off tears once more, she allowed Nancy to stuff the bread into her mouth. She chewed. “Delicious,” she said when she’d finally swallowed, and hugged her friend. “Thank you, Nancy.”

“Everything’s going to be all right,” she whispered into Amelia’s ear.

“Why do you think so?” Amelia asked, desperate for a reason to believe.

“Because I saw the way he looked at you when your father led you down the aisle.”