Page 3 of The Lyon’s Dilemma (The Lyon’s Den Connected World #86)

Mrs. Beverley. Adaline Fairchild. One and the same person. Did she really have a child of ten? If so, the child must have been a baby when they were betrothed, so that had been something else she had hidden from him all those years ago.

There was no point in him being here, but it was too late now. He would not insult John Stillwater, his charming wife, and the viscount his father by cutting his attendance short. Still, he would write to Mrs. Dove Lyon tonight and tell her that Mrs. Beverley was not a possibility.

She was older, of course, but still lovely. Widowed seven years? He had heard of women claiming to be widows to hide the consequences of an irregular relationship. Perhaps there had never been a Mr. Beverley. That would fit with the wanton behavior he himself had witnessed.

Mrs. Beverley had not looked at him once since her first startled glance back in the parlor. Good. Let her ignore him, and he would ignore her. He would pay her the courtesy expected of a gentleman, little though she deserved it. Distant courtesy, then.

But inside, the wounds she had inflicted ten years ago tore open and bled anew, as painful now as on the day she first betrayed him.

Kempbury was avoiding her, Adaline decided, after two days of rain kept the house party inside. Nothing overt or openly rude. He managed to be leaving every room she entered, or to change his mind about entering any room in which she happened to be.

Excellent. She was avoiding him, too, and between them, they might be able to go through the entire house party without having to exchange a single word.

Some part of her objected to that plan. That part wanted to sit Kempbury down and force him to listen, and to talk, too. To tell him she had not done what he thought she had, and to explain about Emmeline, her half-sister.

It had been obvious from the first that Emmeline must have been playing her tricks again. When she recovered enough from the shock of being summarily jilted—by letter, furthermore—Adaline had asked questions.

Several people at the house party had claimed to have seen Adaline when she knew she had been elsewhere.

Since Emmeline and her mother had not been invited, it could not have been an innocent case of mistaken identity.

Furthermore, the lady who had spread the worst of the gossip had said she saw Adaline intimately coupling with someone who was certainly not Kempbury.

Since Adaline knew she had embraced no one except Kempbury, it must have been Emmeline. Wearing a fair wig, she could easily have masqueraded as Adaline, especially at night, when their different eye colors would not be obvious.

Adaline had visited Emmeline, who had been both gleeful and jubilant.

She had not confirmed Adaline’s suspicions before inviting her to leave, and to not bother to return.

Not in words. The laughter in her eyes said it all.

Emmeline had ruined Adaline’s engagement—her future, her life —for her own pleasure.

They had never been friends, though only a few months separated them in age, and they had been raised in the same nursery.

Adaline supposed she could not blame her father’s wife for being resentful, but it was not Adaline’s fault her father kept a mistress, nor that he brought his love child into his own house after her mother died giving birth to Adaline.

Emmeline’s resentment was copied from her own mother, and had been given further force because Adaline and Emmeline resembled one another so much.

Emmeline, even though she was the younger by four months, had held a childish belief that Adaline had copied Emmeline’s looks to spite her.

According to Emmeline, that justified wearing Adaline’s clothes to play naughty tricks on the governess and other servants.

Adaline had suffered many punishments for things she hadn’t done, and for lying about her guilt. And then Emmeline was caught in the act, and Adaline was sent away to school. “For your own sake,” her father had said. Adaline had enjoyed school well enough. But it was an exile, nonetheless.

Her own childhood experiences made her all the more determined to ensure that Melody never had cause to doubt that she was loved.

Sad to say, that goal had been aided by Richard Beverley’s death.

He had been a poor choice as a husband, as it turned out, though better in the circumstances than none at all.

He had been shaping up to be an uncaring father, to the point that none at all was definitely preferable.

“Are any of the gentlemen going to be my new father?” Melody asked.

The schoolroom party was taking advantage of today’s fine weather to walk to the pond to feed the ducks, and Adaline had elected to join them.

She looked around to see if anyone else had heard the question, but Melody and Adaline had dropped behind the rest.

“I do not think so, darling,” Adaline said. “But remember I told you I have seen a matchmaker who will be looking for a husband for me.” Not Kempbury. Damn Kempbury, for invading her mind and setting her pulse beating just for him, as it had once before, long ago.

Melody frowned, thoughtfully. “I do not think I would want someone else to choose me a husband,” she said.

Adaline had certainly not done very well on her own, but she kept that thought to herself.

Ah! Here was the pond. Oh dear. And here was Kempbury.

He had obviously come here for some privacy and solitude.

He had a propensity for going off on his own—Adaline remembered that about him.

She almost giggled at the thought of his dismay when his refuge was invaded by ten children of assorted ages, four nursemaids, two governesses and Adaline.

He nodded to her with distant courtesy, and then turned his gaze on Melody. All thought of laughter fled. But no. He would not guess. Melody was only a child. And even if he wondered, he could not be certain.

Besides, what could he do? Melody was legally a Beverley, and Adaline was her mother.

He narrowed his green eyes, while Melody stared back at him, her head to one side, her own, very similar green eyes alight with curiosity.

“Might you be Miss Beverley?” he asked.

“Melody, make your curtsey to the Duke of Kempbury,” Adaline prompted. Melody, her most winning smile to the fore, curtseyed. “I am Melody Beverley, sir,” she said, “and this is my Mama.”

His expression, which had warmed while observing her daughter, chilled again as he looked at Adaline. “Mrs. Beverley and I were acquainted a long time ago,” he said.

“A very long time ago,” Adaline agreed. “Before you were born, Melody. Look, Miss Winchard has corn for the ducks. Get in line for your share, my dearest.”

Melody bobbed another curtsey, briefer than the first and said, “It was a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace,” then rushed off before he could reply.

“Your Grace,” said Adaline, with a curtsey of her own, but before she could follow her daughter, he put out a hand to stop her.

“You and I need to talk, Mrs. Beverley,” he said. His voice was so cold it was a wonder her blood did not turn to ice. Instead, she felt a rush of heat, as if steam was about to come out of her ears.

“You and I needed to talk ten years ago, Your Grace. I wrote what I needed to say. Twice. Both times, you returned my letters unopened. You had no interest then. I have no interest now.” She looked down at his hand, still grasping her arm.

Even after his cruel dismissal, his touch still made her tingle.

“If you will excuse me, I am on an excursion with my daughter.”

Kempbury dropped his hand and Adaline stalked away, conscious that he was watching her. After a few moments, though, she glanced back and he was gone. This isn’t over , she thought. If he suspects, he won’t let it go .