Page 5 of The Lyon Whisperer (The Lyon’s Den Connected World #79)

W ith mounting impatience, Chase stood beside the earl in the Marlborough mansion’s foyer. The two men exchanged awkward pleasantries as they waited for Amelia, his bride, to descend the grand staircase so that the two of them might get underway sometime this century.

The wedding guests had all left a good half hour prior, and that after a drawn-out breakfast. The day was growing late.

At last he heard voices coming from the top of the stairs. He and Fallsgate gazed up expectantly.

Amelia appeared on the landing, chatting amiably with a chamber maid who appeared to be red-faced from crying.

Good Lord .

His wife was like the Pied Piper of servants.

His wife . He’d married Lady Amelia Duval, having met her twice, with one of those times being a clandestine, forbidden rendezvous at his home in the middle of the night.

Instead of asking himself how he’d gotten himself into this situation, however, he felt an undeniable satisfaction at having done so, and if he was honest, not simply because he’d saved the estates buckets of money by marrying her.

There was something about Amelia that drew him.

He had a strong sense she did not feel the same draw toward him. He wondered how much of a problem that was going to present.

Fingertips brushing the railing, she glided down the stairs. She had changed out of her wedding dress and now wore a pretty sky-blue gown that frothed around her feet with every step.

A cool unaffected expression replaced the cheery smile she had for her maid.

Every bit the lady of the manor. They were off to a good start.

He pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat to check the time. Noon on the nose.

In a little less than two hours, they’d reach the viscountcy’s Wimbledon estate where he’d decided the two of them should reside for the present.

Amelia wanted time to get to know one another? The large manse had the feel of a country estate and would afford them ample opportunity to spend time together indoors and out—unlike his London home. The Richmond Street abode was a fine, entailed manor which had come to him along with the barony. But, situated in the heart of the fashionable district, it would leave them hemmed in on all sides.

Warren House in Wimbledon was the better call. If he had to commute into town once parliament reconvened in a week, so be it.

She reached the foyer, bringing with her the scent of jasmine and sunshine, as if she’d been frolicking in the gardens all afternoon. An enticing image arose in his mind’s eye; perhaps “frolic” was a poor choice of word.

“Good afternoon, my lady,” Chase said.

“Is it already after noon?” she asked.

“By one minute,” he replied.

She pursed her lips. “In that case, good afternoon to you.” She slid a glance toward Fallsgate. “Father.”

Fallsgate stood straight as an arrow, hands linked behind his back. He cleared his throat. “Amelia.”

An awkward pause ensued.

“Well, then,” Chase began, anxious to be underway.

“Would you be so good as to allow my daughter and me a moment to say our farewells?” Fallsgate asked.

A look of surprise crossed Amelia’s face.

“Of course. I shall wait outside by the carriage.”

Fallsgate’s butler, eyes suspiciously puffy and red, opened the door for him.

Chase crossed the threshold with the butler paying him very little heed. His mournful gaze was locked on Amelia.

“I suppose this is goodbye, at least for a little while, Amelia.” Her father paused and his mouth twitched. “I shall miss you and your antics.”

She blinked. “I shall miss you, as well.” She would, she realized, even though she had told herself leaving would mean an end to her constant shame over her inability to meet his standards for her life.

“I know this marriage was not by your design, nor was it your desire, and you likely think the worst of me at the moment, but I want you to know I have only ever had your best interest in mind.” A sad light shone in his eyes. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted, to assure your well-being and future happiness. I know I do not do a good job of showing it. Your mother…” He broke off.

She held her breath. He rarely spoke of her mother, and she clung to every scrap of information she could obtain. If not for her mother’s journals—the few she had found packed away—she’d know practically nothing at all about the woman who birthed her.

Whatever he had intended to say, however, he evidently thought better of. “I spoke to Lord Culver—the viscount,” he clarified, “about Warren House, where you shall reside for the next six months. Six. Months .”

He articulated the last two words in an exceedingly strange manner.

“I see. I had not realized there was a set amount of time that the baron and I would reside there. He did mention the property is entailed to the viscountcy. I take it the viscount and viscountess plan on moving into the manor in six months’ time?”

“As to that, I have no notion. I only meant to assure you that the manor has been well-maintained and is situated on a fine piece of property. For the duration of your stay, I believe you shall be quite comfortable. If, however, at the end of the six-month period you do not feel…If at any time, you find Culver…” He hesitated, looking uncertain.

Her father never looked uncertain.

She bit her lower lip. “Father, are you quite all right?”

He frowned. “Never better. Why do you ask? Where was I? Mustn’t keep Culver waiting.”

She lifted her chin, her tender feelings receding at his brusque dismissal. “Something about my feelings at the end of six months,” she replied.

“Yes. We shall see where things stand at the end of six months.” He nodded.

She had no notion what he meant by that, nor did unraveling the riddle hold any further appeal. “As you say.” She turned toward the door, then paused before crossing the threshold. She glanced back at the earl. “Father, perhaps you will pay us a visit some time, when your schedule permits.”

“I’d like that,” he said, and by his expression, he seemed to mean it. She held the thought to her and headed outside to start her new life.

Amelia nodded to the man seated on the box of Lord Culver’s black-lacquered carriage.

He tipped an imaginary hat to her, then faced forward. He sat ramrod straight and gripped the reins in one hand. His other hand appeared to be missing. She wondered if he’d lost it in combat. He had the look of a soldier.

She was glad her husband had seen fit to hire the man. She thought of the too-numerous men she saw hanging about on the streets when traveling to market and on her recent venture into the stews. Unkempt, missing limbs, many with a look of desolation in their eyes, as if they had gazed on unspeakable things.

Chase shifted to the side, making room for her to climb the step into the waiting carriage.

“What is your name, sir?” she called to the man.

He glanced down at her, his brows raised in uncertainty.

She smiled up at him.

“My name is Reagan, milady.”

“Thank you for conveying us, sir.”

A broad smile covered his face.

Chase stepped forward, cupping her elbow in his large hand. He guided her forward and helped her into the carriage before angling his broad frame to pass through the opening himself.

Soon the carriage gave a little jerk as the wheels bit into the graveled courtyard.

They were off for Wimbledon, for Warren House.

They. She and her husband.

Though she had spent little time with him, she had already concluded he did not bother with a lot of meaningless chatter, like so many men of the ton . His silence, combined with the keen intellect she sensed behind his dark eyes, gave him an air of mystery.

She never could resist a mystery, no matter how hard her father had tried to dissuade her from the tendency. “Curiosity killed the cat, Amelia,” he loved to say. Good thing she was no longer his problem to solve, thanks to him foisting her off on a virtual stranger.

“Lord Culver, tell me a bit about yourself. All I know, I’m afraid, is that you are a military legend.”

He arched one thick, black brow. “A legend? You must have me confused with someone else.”

She slanted him a dubious glance. “Come now. The Iron Lion of Barrosa? Is that not your moniker?”

Pressed back into the cushions, his long legs extended as far as they could in the confined space, he gave a negligent, one shoulder shrug. “Some have called me that. I can’t speak to why, other than my regiment did play a key role in the victory we achieved there.”

“A regiment under your express command, for which the Crown rewarded you with a barony.”

He nodded once.

“That’s quite something, Lord Culver. As I understand, it rarely happens.” She expected him to expand on the subject.

He eyed her. “As we are man and wife, I would like for you to call me by my Christian name, Chase . And I shall call you by yours. Amelia .” He drew out her name as if testing out the word.

Hearing her name on his lips sent a funny shiver down her spine.

“Very well, Chase it is. That’s rather an unusual name. How did you come by it?”

His mouth twitched. “The usual way, I expect. My parents gave it to me.”

She arched her brows in silent rebuke.

His dark eyes gleamed with amusement. “My mother was French. Her maiden name was Chancier,” he said in a perfect French accent.

He shifted his gaze to the small-paned window to study the passing scenery. “I’m told she wanted to name me after her, and my father agreed to her demand.” He paused. “After a time.”

As he spoke, the corners of his eyes tightened, and his mouth turned down.

Talk of his parents distressed him? Why? Because both of them were gone, she wondered, or had she detected another undercurrent?

Having never known her own mother, she could certainly relate to the former. She wanted to ask his age at his parents’ passing, to know how it had affected him, but sensed now was not the time to delve further in that direction.

“My father tells me we are to live at Warren House for a set period of time. Six months?”

His head swiveled in her direction and his frown deepened. “He told you that?”

“Yes, just before we left. Did he have the right of it? Is there something I should know?”

“Something you should know? About what?” Suspicion laced his words.

Engaging her husband in conversation was proving much more difficult than she had anticipated. “About why we shall vacate Warren House in six months’ time.”

He sank back into the cushions, resting his long arms across the top. “Fallsgate has his facts mixed up. We have no set time limit on our stay at Warren House, nor are we bound there. I merely chose it as its proximity to London affords me the ability to see to my parliamentary duties, while the property itself provides ample space in a relatively peaceful environ.” His mouth curved, a brief flash of gleaming white teeth. “In other words, the estate seemed the best location for the two of us to become better acquainted—as per your request.”

She swallowed over a throat that had gone suddenly dry. It sounded as if he had chosen the manse for her sake, to honor her request that they get to know one another before anything of a physical nature transpired between them.

He had listened to her. Perhaps he even wished to know her intimately, as she wished to know him.

His gesture could also indicate nothing more than a desire to claim his marital rights sooner than later.

A flutter tickled her belly, as if she’d ingested a live butterfly.

“Do you prefer city life? Is a country estate not to your liking?” he asked, brows furrowing.

“Not at all. Warren House sounds like the perfect place for us to begin our lives together. Thank you for your consideration, my…Chase.”

He inclined his head, never taking his dark eyes off her. “As I said, the distance from town does not preclude me from my responsibilities, both to England and”—he shook his head in evident exasperation—“my uncle.”

Before she could ask what he meant by the latter, he spoke again. “I’m afraid your book club meetings will no longer be quite so convenient to attend, with us living so far out of the city.”

That got her attention. “Are you saying you mean to go back on your word, sir?”

Something like irritation sparked in his eyes. “No, I am not, Amelia. You will soon learn I say what I mean, and mean what I say. I am merely expressing a statement of fact.”

She felt a little silly for jumping to the wrong conclusion. “You’ll avail me of a horse, then?” she asked hopefully.

His black brows beetled in an instant. “A horse? I hope you’re not implying you mean to ride a horse on your own into the city.”

She had meant precisely that. “I’m an excellent rider.”

“Be that as it may, you may take the carriage into town for your club meetings, when it’s available.”

When it’s available. Hmm. It certainly sounded as if he planned to curtail her meetings, albeit in a roundabout manner, but she’d half-accused him already, and then been made to feel churlish over doing so. She could wait and see how this played out.

In any case, there wasn’t a meeting scheduled this week.

Evidently considering the matter closed, he went on. “I am gratified to learn you ride. Perhaps we can venture out on the trail from Warren House to the river together.”

At his suggestion, some of the heat went out of her. “I would like that very much, Chase.”

The servants gathered in the front hall for their arrival. They numbered ten at a glance, not exactly sufficient for the size of the manse and surrounding acreage.

But perhaps she overestimated the needs of the estate.

Her father had always said it was the wife’s purview to manage the household, which included the staff. As he had never remarried, the duty should have fallen to Amelia as his only daughter, but her father had never encouraged her to take on the role.

She had not broached the matter, having concluded he did not trust her with the responsibility.

Now, one by one, the butler, Mr. Oliver, introduced the staff she was to oversee, and Amelia did her best to commit their names to memory, sparing a moment to converse with each in turn.

Chase either already knew their names, or felt Amelia, as his wife, spoke for both of them.

With the introductions made, Mr. Oliver dismissed the staff to return to their duties, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Whitley, stepped forward with an offer to show Amelia to her bedchamber. She assumed her husband would disappear now, into his den, or wherever men went to do their mannish things. Instead, a glance over her shoulder as she and Mrs. Whitley climbed the staircase told her he followed, albeit at a more sedate pace.

That silly butterfly she’d ingested earlier began flapping its wings with abandon.

“Here we are, then, milady,” Mrs. Whitley said, opening Amelia’s antechamber door with a flourish.

The chamber was fresh and bright, with peach-colored velvet covering the armchairs positioned near the grate, ivory-papered walls, and an escritoire painted in pastel scenes. A soft spring breeze fluttered the drapes and carried on it the heady scent of flowers, leading Amelia to suspect her rooms overlooked a flower garden.

“Everything looks quite lovely, Mrs. Whitley. Thank you.”

The housekeeper preened and marched to the connecting door. “Your bedchamber is through here.”

Amelia followed, glancing over her shoulder, expecting Chase to enter any moment. Surely he had made it up the stairs by now.

Then it struck her. He had come upstairs for another purpose and had never intended to join her.

Rather than the relief she ought to have felt, disappointment swamped her. She had rather warmed to the notion he wanted to welcome her into their home, personally.

The bedchamber was nicely appointed in similar colors to the sitting room, and was larger than her chamber in her father’s mansion on Marlborough Street. No surprise there. Her father had several country estates and the chambers in those homes tended toward the expansive, like this one. Sprawling country homes could afford to be generous with the space.

“Your luggage has been seen to, milady. Hopefully you will find everything put away to your liking.”

Amelia assured the woman she would.

She had arrived with one large case. As she’d told Chase earlier, the rest of her clothing and other effects would arrive soon, care of Alfred and her lady’s maid, Sally.

Mrs. Whitley bustled about the room pointing out what Amelia could clearly see for herself. “Your bed, sitting area, wardrobe…”

She smiled, appreciating the warm gesture of welcome.

“…dressing room, vanity, and, of course, adjoining door.”

Amelia gave her a questioning look at the last. The adjoining door was already opened, and both of them had passed through.

Mrs. Whitley coughed into her hand, pointed out the bell pull should Amelia need anything, and excused herself.

Amelia glanced around at her surroundings. Everything was neat as a pin, but no Sally, no soft wet snouts to nuzzle her, all was new and nothing familiar except the feeling of being alone.

A soft knock sounded. She glanced around in search of the source. It didn’t seem to have emanated from the corridor, but rather…the paneled wall in her bedchamber?

“Hello? Is someone there?”

One of the panels swung inward.

“I trust everything is to your liking?” Chase stood in the opening, hand loosely gripping a door lever, which was attached to the previously hidden door adjoining her bedchamber with…She peeked past his broad shoulders into, she assumed, his bedchamber.

The dark, masculine colors on the walls gave credence to her assumption, as did the presence of only one door lever.

It seemed Chase could access her private chambers at any time.

Mrs. Whitley’s adjoining door comment suddenly made perfect sense.