Page 7 of To Steal a Lyon’s Heart (The Lyon’s Den Connected World #85)

S am opened one eye when he heard a light knock on his door. Petrov was downstairs, and when no one answered, Amelia poked her head in.

“What is it?” he asked sleepily, he rubbed at his bare chest, his fingers touching the rippled scar and jerked his hand away. He tugged the sheet up to his chin as Amelia approached the bed.

“Graham’s sister is here.”

Daisy? With the red plaits and freckles covering her nose? His mind was foggy, but he remembered her. She was sweet, cheerful, and far tamer than his own sister.

“She’s supposed to be traveling with friends, but she’s been exiled due to the rumors circulating about her brother’s marriage.”

“Rumors? What rumors?” Sam asked. She’d mentioned this yesterday, but he hadn’t had the energy to ask for specifics.

“Oh, you know, whispers about our illicit marriage, the babe I’m carrying, and how Blakewood married me to give me the protection of his name.”

“I beg your pardon?” Sam said between clenched teeth. He tried to push himself up.

Amelia hurried over and stuffed a pillow behind his shoulders. “Oh, and you might be dead in the eyes of society,” she said with a wincing smile. “Nelson gave a very moving interview to some scandal rag about your heart wrenching last moments.”

“That bloody blackguard .”

“Indeed.”

“Who would believe such absurdity?”

“Even if no one truly believes it, we’ve become quite the sensation and not in the best of ways.”

Sam sighed heavily, his rib burning. “Bloody hell. Your reputation is ruined.”

“It’s not like I’m a debutante, desperate to marry but my chances are ruined. It will blow over... eventually.”

“We can prove I’m alive.”

“Blakewood had your solicitor send threatening letters to the papers, but the fires of gossip still rage, according to my last message from Lady Cecily. She at least, is still speaking to me.”

He sighed. His chest wanted to cave in from the weight of his guilt. “I’m sorry, Amelia.”

She sat on the edge of the bed by his feet. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for. You’re alive. That is all that matters.”

He dragged a hand over his face, fighting to stay focused. “You said Miss Blakewood was turned out because of it?”

“Yes, she’s been through quite the ordeal. The lady’s maid that was supposed to accompany her stole her money. She rode the overnight mail coach alone. Luckily, there was a matron on board who took her under her wing and made sure Miss Blakewood made it here safely.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Blakewood are still traveling? Do they know about your marriage?”

Amelia shrugged. “Graham sent a message, but we haven’t had a reply.”

“Miss Blakewood must have been frightened. Is she all right?” Sam asked.

“She’s recuperating.”

“When she is feeling better, bring her here. I’d like to reacquaint myself.

” Sam tried to think back. Had it really been two years since he’d last seen or spoken with Blakewood’s sister?

It couldn’t have been that long, and yet that was the last memory he had of her.

Sitting at a table with her parents, too shy to speak to him.

He couldn’t recall her exact age, though.

Amelia frowned. “I don’t want her to disturb you.”

“Disturb me? How?”

“She sniffled a little when I showed her to her room. It might be best she stay away from you if she catches ill.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “She won’t kill me with her sniffles.”

Amelia glared at him. “I won’t risk it.”

Sam tried to push himself up to a sitting position, cursing the pain, but damn it, he needed to show her he was fine—or would be fine, given enough time.

“Sam, don’t.” She leaped up and set her hands on his shoulders. “You shouldn’t move.”

Sam groaned. His arse ached from laying here so long. “I’m not made of glass, Amelia. I have survived against all odds. Clearly, I’m not going to perish. But if you won’t let me out of this bed, you may as well finish me off yourself. I’ll go mad.”

“You’re still healing. Dr. Sloan said it will take time. And I’d think you’d want to take as much time as possible to delay your wedding.”

Sam huffed as he lay back. “Don’t remind me. I try to think of it as little as possible.”

She smoothed the coverlet and avoided his stare.

“Yes, well... you needn’t worry about it right now.

Just rest. Please, for my sanity, don’t push yourself too hard.

We just got you back and I won’t risk losing you again.

If Miss Blakewood does not become ill, I’ll have her come to distract you when Graham and I can’t sit with you. ”

It was a reasonable compromise, he had to admit.

And something Amelia had said sparked another idea as well.

The longer it took him to recover, the more time he’d have to find a way out of the contract.

As long as he appeared infirm, Mrs. Dove-Lyon would leave him alone.

Meanwhile, in secret Sam would work on rebuilding his strength.

“Promise me,” she pleaded. Her eyes filled with tears. “Promise you’ll just rest.”

“I promise,” he said, biting his cheek as guilt stabbed at him for lying to her.

She wiped her cheek. “I’ll leave you now. Petrov should be back soon. Shall I send for Miss Smith?”

“No need. She’ll be here shortly with the laudanum.”

“Good.” Amelia slipped out, closing his door softly.

Petrov should be the one to help Sam get stronger secretly, except he’d taken Amelia’s side in treating Sam like a suckling infant.

Everyone insisted it was for his own good, except Dr. Sloan, though the doctor wasn’t always much help.

Dr. Sloan mostly placated Amelia because she’d apparently once threatened to kick him out of the house, and in Dr. Sloan’s words, the food was excellent.

But he was still a man of science and Sam his experiment.

Sam wondered if there was a point where the man would put his foot down.

Sam winced as he rolled to his side, his damn rib searing him from the inside.

He pushed up, from his right side, and found the pain wasn’t as bad.

Now he was sitting up, and the pain eased to a dull ache.

He half smiled to himself, even though the room spun and specks dotted his vision.

He was still proud he’d done it on his own.

When Petrov returned with his meal, followed but Miss Smith, he scowled at Sam. “Did you move yourself?” Petrov asked.

“What will you do if I say yes? Box my ears?”

Petrov grumbled in Russian, and he set the tray over Sam’s legs.

“Aren’t you going to chew my food for me, too?” Sam teased as he took a bite of a chicken leg.

Petrov shook his head admonishingly at Sam.

Miss Smith handed him the small glass laudanum. Sam set it aside. He’d take it after he finished eating so the wretched flavor of the laudanum wouldn’t spoil the taste of his food. He hated the stuff, but he was not foolish enough to think he didn’t need it. Not yet, but soon, he swore to himself.

“Miss Smith, will you fetch me paper, ink, and a quill?” Sam asked as he finished his food.

“Certainly, my lord.”

“I should write to Miss Blakewood and give her a proper greeting since I am lord of the house but too feeble to leave my bed. It’s been two years since I’ve seen her, I think.”

“Miss Blakewood is already causing a bit of a stir,” Petrov said. “You’d think the footmen had never seen a pretty woman before.”

“Woman?” Sam scoffed softly. “She’s hardly more than a girl. Blakewood will have their bollocks on a spit if they so much as look at his sister twice.”

Petrov chuckled. “They’ve already been warned, my lord. If you write a letter, I will deliver it myself.”

“Oh, so that order you will follow?” Sam teased.

“Of course. It does you no bodily harm to write a letter.”

“Are you certain? Shouldn’t you ask Amelia first? Holding a quill might strain my reserves of energy. If I prick my finger I could bleed to death. Again.”

Petrov mumbled something in Russian and Sam smirked.

He shouldn’t annoy his own valet, but he had nothing better to entertain himself, and it was their habit to banter back and forth.

Petrov had been around since before Sam was born.

Petrov would be more concerned if Sam weren’t acting like himself.

Miss Smith brought the paper and quill with a fresh bottle of ink.

Sam pushed his plates aside and dipped his quill in the ink.

He stared down at the blank paper. Perhaps if he wrote a novel while he was stuck in bed, he wouldn’t succumb to insanity or pester Petrov into an early retirement.

He could write about a man shipwrecked on an island with cannibals and a well-endowed widow.

But that could wait. What would he say to Blakewood’s sister?

She had to be what? Sixteen? Seventeen? He couldn’t recall. She hadn’t come out yet, of that he was sure. Blakewood would have been pulled away to do his brotherly duty, and no doubt Sam would have participated and helped keep her dance card full.

Dear Miss Blakewood,

I am thankful that you made it to London safely and that you’ve come to Alston House. Please feel at home here as if it were your own. As Blakewood is now married to my sister, I suppose that makes us family. Have you need of another brother? I do come with references.

I’m sorry I cannot welcome you properly. I’m confined to my bed for the immediate future. I took a fall from my horse, and my rib is broken, and—

Sam tickled his chin with the quill’s feather. He didn’t want to disgust her with talk of his guts and whatnot. He crossed out the last bit and ended the sentence.

Sam looked down at his ghastly scar. Women would be frightened of it. He remembered something Blakewood had said about Daisy and her exceptional needlework.