Page 7 of The Lyon Whisperer (The Lyon’s Den Connected World #79)

A melia had never experienced anything like the heady rush of delight that crashed through her at Chase’s roughly spoken words.

His hands, warm and slightly calloused, cupped her cheeks. She breathed in his spicy aftershave and the warm male scent of him and felt her limbs turn liquid.

Then his mouth sealed over hers.

Her eyes closed of their own volition. Those now-familiar butterflies grew to a swarm. Warmth, spiraled through her, coiling low in her belly.

His tongue slid over the seam between her lips, questing and demanding and claiming. She gasped and he entered her mouth, slightly, enough to lick the underside of her lips and touch the tip of her tongue with his.

Tiny tremors vibrated through her body and her hands crept up his lapels to grip his shoulders.

A low moan sounded in his throat at her touch and his hands moved, one cupping her nape, the other sliding down her back to draw her closer.

Alarm bells jangled in her head, warring with the intoxicating thrill of the unfamiliar sensations pouring through her.

His mouth left hers to feather lingering kisses over her cheek, the underside of her jaw.

“You…taste…divine,” he purred, his rough voice like a feather, tracing up her spine.

Then he sat back.

It took a moment for her to realize he did not intend to keep kissing her. Her eyes fluttered open.

He reclined, one arm slung loosely over the back of the bench. His mouth was curved in a half grin that could only be described as self-satisfied.

Unsure how she ought to respond, she cleared her throat and shifted on the bench to look straight ahead.

He brushed a fingertip over her cheek. “Was that your first kiss, Amelia?”

Her face heated as blood rushed to her cheeks. She lifted her chin but couldn’t resist casting him a furtive glance. “Yes. Why? Did I…” She broke off, swallowing hard. “Did I do it wrong?”

He reached one hand, crooking a finger beneath her chin to guide her face in his direction. “No. You did fine. More than fine. Did you like it?”

Her eyes widened before she could school her expression. She corrected her telling reaction in a heartbeat. “That’s a rather forward question.”

“Nevertheless, as your husband, I reserve the right to ask. Did you like it?”

She slid him a considering glance. “As your wife, I reserve the right to ask you first. Did you like it?”

A beat passed before he threw his head back and laughed with unmitigated delight. “I did, yes.”

She resisted the urge to smile in return, though her lips trembled with the effort. “I did, as well.”

“Good. We shall do it again very soon.”

She sent him a stern look. “Sir, have you forgotten our agreement?”

He unfolded his muscular body from the bench and rolled his head ’til his neck gave an audible crack. “I have not, madam wife. Not for one bloody damn minute.”

She blinked at his harsh language, even as a strange thrill shot through her. She started to ask him what exactly he meant by the exclamation—then decided she understood well enough.

He held his hand out to her to help her from the bench, then tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Come. The hour grows late. I shall escort you to your chamber.”

He led her slowly along the path. She had a vague sense she ought to continue their conversation, and reemphasize their agreement. But she had enjoyed their kiss. What if he took her reminder as a request not to repeat the small intimacy?

In the end, she said nothing, and soon found herself standing in front of her antechamber door.

She licked her lips, glancing at the closed door further down the corridor. His chambers—connected to hers and accessible to hers at his discretion.

Chase took her hand, bowing over it. “I bid you goodnight.” Still holding her hand, he lifted his dark gaze to hers. “I shall honor your request, Amelia. I will not open the door between us. When we finally make love, it will be at your behest.”

Her mouth fell open, unabated.

With that, he straightened and sauntered away making for the grand staircase. He trotted down the stairs without a backward glance.

Amelia approached the breakfast hall aware of a certain excitement coursing through her.

Her heart leapt at the sight of her dark-haired husband seated at the head of the breakfast table. He practically radiated vitality.

He glanced up, taking in her frozen stance, one thick brow arching.

Clearing her throat, she lifted her chin and strode for the sideboard. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Amelia. I trust you slept well?”

She picked up a plate and shot him a look over her shoulder.

His dark eyes gleamed, as if he had seen through the wall separating their bedchambers and knew she tossed and turned much of the night, skin over-heated as she relived their shared kiss and replayed his words.

Presumptive cur.

She sent him an angelic smile, then turned to pluck up a thick slice of toast and scoop a large dollop of marmalade onto her dish. “I slept like a log,” she lied as she made her way to the table. “Indeed, I fell asleep the moment my head touched the pillow.”

His lips twitched. “I’m glad to hear it.”

She made a mental note to not overplay her vehemence in future.

She spread butter over her toast, then added the marmalade. “What are your plans today, sir, if I may ask?”

He leaned back in his chair. “I had intended to take you out riding.”

Warmth unfurled in her chest.

“I’m afraid I must venture into town, however. I received a missive this morning from my uncle’s man-of-affairs requesting my presence to discuss the fires I mentioned yesterday.”

She squelched her disappointment over his imminent departure and reflected his absence could be of use to her. “I see.” She took a dainty bite of her toast. The orange marmalade tasted divine.

“He was able to confirm no one was seriously injured, however, the damage to surrounding areas and loss of timber is more extensive than we originally perceived.”

“I see,” she said again. “You had mentioned the likelihood children playing with fire had inadvertently caused the blazes. Do you still think that’s the case?”

His mouth tightened. “Doubtful. I’ll get to the bottom of it.”

She started to ask how he intended to proceed with his investigation when he executed an abrupt change of subject.

“What shall you do to entertain yourself today?”

She shrugged and lowered her eyes to study her plate. “Sally is due to arrive today with the rest of my things. I assume I shall be occupied with unpacking.”

“Very good. If you need any assistance from the staff—”

“We shall manage. Will you be very late in returning?”

He frowned.

She replayed her last words. She had finished on a hopeful note.

She sent him her most brilliant, off-putting smile. “That is, will you return in time for supper?”

He gave her a long look. “I expect I will. Would you like that?” His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth and her stomach did a neat somersault.

“Yes,” she answered, breathless, and much too quickly.

His dark eyes gleamed—with satisfaction, if she read him correctly.

Moments later, he bid her good day.

She watched him leave, the sound of his words from last night echoing in her head. When we make love, it will be at your behest.

The more she pondered his assertion, and she had spent a good deal of last night doing just that, the more she decided the so-called Iron Lion had developed a severe case of wishful thinking. As if she would ever do such a thing.

But what would it be like if he could actually make her want to ask him to make love to her?

She shivered, even as everything in her went hot, and stared, unseeing, at the buffet.

“Madam?…”

She half jumped. She hadn’t noticed the footman—Howard was his name—entering the breakfast hall.

“…is there aught amiss? Were the eggs not to your liking?”

She resisted the urge to fan her pulsing cheeks. “Oh, hello, Howard, no, indeed, I was simply…” She searched her mind. “Wondering if I could find someone to take me about the property. Specifically, I’d like to visit the stables, and—is that a coach house or storage building for garden implements to the west of the manse?”

“Of course, milady. I would be delighted to show you whatever you like.” He frowned slightly. “The building you mentioned does indeed store his lordship’s traveling coach as well as the gardener’s tools and an assortment of tables and chairs. It’s hardly worth visiting. Do you have some things you’d like for me to place there? I’m happy to see to it.”

“Ah…no. I wanted to get an idea of the available space. I may have some things to place inside, and, in the event my father comes for an extended stay, he tends to travel with his…” She stared at the footman, her mind drawing a blank.

She had no idea what her father might bring, nor did she anticipate him coming to stay with her.

Howard waited, a polite, expectant expression on his face. Finally, he gave her a sympathetic smile. “His hunting rifles and such? Many a lord visits Warren House to engage in the hunt.”

“Yes, precisely. I also need to send word to my father’s house in London for the rest of my things to be delivered as soon as possible.”

With luck, Sally would arrive by midafternoon, well before her husband’s return.

Chase set his fork and knife across his nearly empty plate and slanted his beautiful, enigmatic wife a look.

Oblivious to his study, she sliced off a bite of glazed carrot and forked it into her mouth.

He’d arrived home less than an hour ago, missing cocktail hour, but in plenty of time to share the evening meal with her.

She had seemed pleased to see him when he’d joined her in the parlor, but he could not decide if she merely acted. She seemed adept at shielding her thoughts from him when she set her mind to it. Not a lot of women he knew had the skill.

His mother had it in spades—if he remembered correctly. He had not seen her for nearly two decades.

He definitely recalled the times she chose not to hide how she felt—when she inflicted the might of her wrath on all and sundry. And why he was thinking about his mother after all this time was beyond him.

As for Amelia, whether or not she truly cared to spend time in his company, one thing was certain. He had wanted to get back here to her very badly.

The near compulsion bothered him, just not enough to override it.

“You say your uncle’s man-of-affairs suspects arson?” Amelia asked, drawing his thoughts back to the conversation at hand. “How does one deduce that? Fires in close quarters happen often. It takes only one spark to take down a block of tinder constructed buildings.”

“I agree. Still, I found his argument compelling. The number of fires started, the size, no obvious, natural cause.” At her questioning look, he explained. “No lightning strikes, no villagers burning refuse, etcetera.

“One accidental fire, in light of the recent scarcity of rain is reasonable. Two, less so. No doubt I shall have to go investigate myself. Even if arson is not the root cause of the fires, I’ll need to ascertain the extent of damage and sanction the repairs. Too, I’d like to restructure the storage facilities in such a way fire won’t pose so much of a risk to the village itself.”

She gave him an approving smile. “I wish more of the nobility thought along those lines. So often the upper crust ignores the plight of their villagers if it does not directly impact them.”

“As far as I’m concerned, the villagers’ plight is the nobility’s plight. A decline in the villages within the fiefs we oversee is a decline for the entire estate, is it not?”

Her liquid eyes glittered with admiration, as if he had just made her point.

Time to change the subject.

“I understand you succeeded in summoning your maid. Mr. Oliver informed me she arrived this afternoon with the rest of your things.”

She froze for half a beat, as if his statement caught her off guard. Interesting, especially as she had spent the better part of the evening steering the conversation toward him—asking after his day, his plans for his and his uncle’s estates, his favorite food, for pity’s sake.

Did simple curiosity drive her, or a desire to keep his attention off of her?

“Sally did arrive. We spent the better part of the day unpacking my things.”

She folded her serviette and smiled her thanks at the footman who came to clear both their plates.

The footman blushed and grinned like an idiot. His besotted expression remained in place as he crossed the dining room, dishes in hand, and exited.

Extraordinary. Howard had been one of his regiment. Tough as hammered steel. Even faced with heavy shelling, the man had never appeared so dazed.

“If you’re not too tired from your exertions, I thought we might share an after-dinner drink. As you stated, we need to better acquaint ourselves with one another.”

He wondered how she’d react to his blatant reference to her prerequisite to their establishing normal physical relations.

A delicate shade of pink climbed up her neck and bloomed over her cheeks. “I’d like that.” She dampened her lips with the tip of her tongue.

An unholy desire to ravage that mouth, to taste that tongue, to claim her as his, surged through him. It was maddening. True, he had not had a woman in quite a while, but it had not been so long that he should crave her like a man desperate for drink.

Something about Amelia drew him. She was beautiful, yes, but he’d known many a beautiful woman, and never had a woman’s looks ensnared him.

What was it? The frankness of her violet stare? The richness of her voice? Her lack of coyness? Mayhap he simply wanted to bed his wife.

The last made perfect sense. Once he had her, he would surely get back to normal.

He led her into the library, closing the double doors behind them.

He’d chosen this chamber because of her apparent affinity for books, hence her adamance that she be permitted to maintain her reading club membership. It was also one of his favorite chambers in the manse from the days when he lived here with his aunt and uncle following the death of his father. They’d brought him to Warren House, and away from the city, hoping the slower-paced country life would help him adjust to the loss.

Removing him from town had also quieted the gossip—or at least kept it from Chase. By then his mother had been gone several years already, but his father’s death reignited talk of their torrid marriage, her scandalous abandonment of same, and his father’s subsequent decline.

The dark, red-papered walls and floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves filled with leather-bound tomes had offered him an escape from his conflicted emotions of grief and relief.

He steered Amelia to the intimate sitting area he’d favored from the days of his youth, and helped her onto the velvet sofa before setting off to fetch their drinks.

He returned with two snifters, handing her one.

She eyed the glass in her hand with uncertainty. “Brandy?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever tried it. I’ve seen my father drink it on many occasions.”

“My advice? Take it slow.” He lifted his snifter in toast.

They clinked glasses.

She sniffed the aromatic liquid, inclining her head as if to say she approved the scent, then drew the glass to her lips.

A split second later, she leaned forward, sputtering and coughing. “You might have warned me,” she wheezed when she could speak, shooting him an accusing glare.

He laughed. “I believe I just did. Would you like me to take it from you?” He half rose, hand extended.

She sat up, never taking her glare off him though she pulled the glass out of his reach.

She sipped again, this time exercising caution, then nodded. She looked supremely pleased with herself.

“Do you like it, then?”

“No,” she said.

He laughed aloud.

“Maybe,” she amended a moment later, and took another small sip.

He raised his brows. “It’s quite potent. You needn’t go at it like a man on death row imbibing his last meal.”

Her violet eyes twinkled in the candlelit chamber.

Violet eyes, set against incandescent skin and a face hewn by the angels. She was stunningly beautiful.

“Thank you.”

He cocked his head. Had he complimented her aloud?

She went on, and he had his answer. “For treating me like”—she broke off, shaking her head—“a friend.”

Of all the things she could have said.

Her words reached inside him to a place he let no one venture, ever—least of all himself. A place long cold, exactly how he liked it. He didn’t want the ice within him to thaw, didn’t want the handicap of tender feelings and the incipient needs that went with them.

But surely he was in no danger of that simply by indulging his new bride. “You say that as if you haven’t any friends. But I met several, a few days ago, in your father’s garden.”

A fond smile tugged at her lips. “They are my dear, true friends. I only meant, at home, I have only my servants to keep me company. I have never had anyone to talk to like this.”

He frowned thinking of his own home, where he’d lived with his parents, prior to living with his aunt and uncle. “I take it your father spent a good deal of time away from home?”

She gazed at the snifter cradled between her palms. “No. But he was—is—a very busy man.”

“I see.” He took a slow sip of brandy. It slid down his throat in a lingering burn. “What of your mother?” he asked before he knew what he meant to say.

A frown pulled at the corners of her mouth. “I never knew her. She died when I was a babe.” She paused and a faraway look came over her. “They say she was very beautiful, and that my father adored her. He doesn’t talk of her much, but”—she flashed him an imp’s grin—“I found a few of her journals among some packed-away items several years ago, and reading them, I feel I’ve come to know her a little.”

He studied her, and said nothing, allowing her to go on, or not.

“Tell me something about your life. Something personal. Nothing to do with your estates,” she said, opting to let the subject of her mother drop.

“There’s not much to tell—”

“Please,” she said, placing one delicate hand on his forearm. “Tell me something only a wife would know.”

At her touch, her gentle plea, the blood in his veins turned to liquid fire. He could think of something very personal he could share with his wife—and at the moment, little else.

He clamped down on the desire pounding through him. He was a man, not a boy. He could manage his attraction for this slip of a woman, damn it.

“What do you want to know?” he all but snapped.

She withdrew her hand at the brusqueness of his tone, but she did not back down. “Tell me of your parents. They both died?”

His parents were his least favorite subject on the face of the earth. “My father died in battle when I was sixteen. That’s when I came to live with my aunt and uncle. My mother…” He paused to sip his brandy, then sent her a grim smile. “Left when I was twelve. It was quite the scandal.”

Her brows furrowed and pity filled her eyes. “What do you mean, she left? Where did she go?”

“I don’t know. You’d have to ask her.” He meant his words to be off-putting.

Her soft expression never wavered. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know how she could have done that to you, or your father.”

He meant not to answer. Instead he heard himself state in a cold hiss, “My mother cared for no one but herself, and my father cared for no one but her, despite the fact she tormented him at every turn.”

There. She’d drop the subject now.

“How did she torment him?”

For some reason her gentle tone and refusal to be intimidated irritated him, and instead of changing the subject he went on. “She constantly threatened to leave him, to return to France, her native country—which, she eventually did. She told him of her many lovers, and flirted outrageously, right in front of him. She even claimed on occasion I was not his.”

Her liquid blue-violet eyes welled with tears. “You overheard this?”

He nodded, reaching for the old coldness and not finding it. Instead, his chest burned like fire. “It was a patently false statement, of course. I was the spitting image of my father, but the idea of her with other men drove him half mad. I don’t think she lied about that part.

“One day she just, up and left. The gossip mill went wild over the news. After that, my father re-upped his officer’s commission and sent me off to Eton. He remained on constant deployment, requesting the most dangerous arenas. I think he wanted to die. Just before my sixteenth birthday, he got his wish.”

She set her nearly empty glass on the mahogany table beside her and gazed at him, her face somber. Sympathy, not pity, shone in her eyes, and something else he could not discern.

“I’m so sorry, Chase. Thank you for telling me. I will guard your confidence to my last breath.”

He blinked. He hadn’t known what he expected her to say, but it damn sure hadn’t been that. He lifted his glass to his lips and drained the last of the liquid. He set the empty glass beside hers with a decisive click.

“On that note. It’s getting late. Shall I walk you up to—”

“Chase, would you like…that is…” She broke off and sunk her white teeth into her plump lower lip.

For God’s sake, what did she want to ask now?

“What is it?” he demanded, allowing his annoyance to show.

In truth he was annoyed with himself for his lapse of control, rather than at her for asking personal questions. She’d made no bones about the fact she wanted to become well-acquainted. It was his own code not to let anyone too close he’d broken.

“Well?” He expected her to look cowed.

He ought to know better by now. His wife was no shrinking violet, despite the color of her eyes.

She drew herself up as if a string attached to the crown of her head to pull her perfectly erect. She locked eyes with him. When she spoke, her voice was low and amazingly self-assured. “I wondered if you wouldn’t like to kiss me again.”