Page 1 of A Lyon’s Lesson

Prologue

London, May 1819

Miss Cecelia Woodrow glanced up through her lashes at the very tall gentleman twirling her expertly around the dance floor and tried to decide what it was about him that she found so attractive. It wasn’t his height, for he was built like a beanpole, being several inches over six feet and lean of build, and she was a petite five feet two inches tall. It also wasn’t his coloring, for he was fair like her, and she generally preferred dark-haired gentlemen.

“Miss Woodrow is my cravat ill-tied, or do I have a spot on my waistcoat?” asked the gentleman with a quizzical smile. And it was that cheeky smile. That was why she liked Lord Kenrick Layne so much.

She tilted her head up and smiled back, “No, my lord. Why ask me such a thing when it is self-evident that you do not?”

“You relieve my mind,” he said. “I would be loath to fire my valet—I quite like the fellow. And I asked because you were frowning at my chest in a rather studious manner.”

“I was trying to decide why I like you,” she said boldly. “And then you smiled, and I remembered why. You always look as if you have just perpetrated a practical joke upon some unsuspecting person and you’re enjoying it immensely.”

“How observant of you,” he said with a slight drawl, his blue eyes crinkling with amusement.

“I am sure you were the sort of boy who put glue on the pews in church and stole your father’s gun to go fowling when you had been forbidden.”

He laughed, turning her adroitly to avoid a portly gentleman too enthusiastically twirling his partner. “You’re right, I was, and I did.” His rather generous mouth twitched, and he said, “And were you the kind of girl who defied curfew, smuggled contraband, and read all the forbidden books at school?”

She made a mock attempt to look innocent and said indignantly, “I was not!”

“Don’t tell lies, Miss Woodrow. Your blush betrays you.”

She was trying to think of a fitting response when the music ended, and he bowed and offered his arm. “It’s dashed hot in here. Would you care to take a stroll in the garden?”

She should say no; her reputation was already a little tarnished since she had ended her engagement to the Earl of Tavistock at the end of last year. Aunt Valeria was constantly twittering on about her being circumspect and not doing anything to set tongues wagging. But the notion of a stroll in the fresh air under the stars with Lord Kenrick was too tempting to turn down.

“Yes, that would be welcome,” she agreed, allowing him to lead her out of the ballroom, onto the terrace, and down into the garden, where a number of couples were taking advantage of the cooler air.

A dark-haired gentleman she recognized as Lord Bidenden, with Miss Emily Grenfell on his arm, approached them emerging from the trees.

“Miss Grenfell,” Lord Kenrick bowed to her and then to her companion he said cheerfully “Bidenden! How are you, old chap?”

“Very well, Rick, you?”

“Fine fettle. Are you acquainted with Miss Woodrow?”

“I am,” said the other gentleman, who bowed over Cecelia’s hand and kissed it. Lord Bidenden was the heir to the Marquess of Malmsbury and very handsome. Cecelia smiled at him with approval. He was just the kind of gentleman who appealed to her. And even more importantly, the kind of gentleman of whom her guardian, Uncle Seb, would approve. Handsome, well-mannered, and of impeccable birth.

Miss Grenfell, like herself, was one of the season’s heiresses. Miss Grenfell had brown hair and a shy disposition that didn’t seem to appeal to gentlemen, so Cecelia was somewhat surprised to see Lord Bidenden squiring her about. She looked distinctly uncomfortable too. As if she would rather be anywhere else but here.

Bidenden and Miss Grenfell passed on back toward the ballroom, and her companion led her deeper into the garden’s shadows, away from the other guests.

They reached a pretty fairy grotto, illuminated by colored lamps scattered among the trees and lighting up a small pond with its own miniature waterfall among the rocks.

“Oh, how lovely!” she exclaimed, enchanted. The rush of the water filled the air and sent a fine mist of spray over her skin. The scent of something floral and herbaceous made her take a deeper breath to appreciate it. A convenient bench beneath the tree offered an opportunity to sit and appreciate the ambience cast by the rainbow effects of the lights and water.

She watched the light show with delight. “I think there are fish in the pond. I see something silvery and orange is flicking through the water.”

“Are there?” Lord Kenrick leaned in closer, his breath tickling her ear. She turned her head and found his mouth hovering just above hers. He closed the gap in a matter of moments, and she closed her eyes in another kind of delight. For his lips were soft and persuasive and sent a tingle of pleasure through her body.

His arm came around her waist and drew her closer as he deepened the kiss with gentle expertise. This was not Cecelia’s first kiss or even her tenth. But it was by far the best in her experience, and she sank into it with unconscious enthusiasm. It felt so good.

When he finally broke the kiss and raised his head, he smiled down at her with that characteristic lazy smile and said warmly, “Thank you, Miss Woodrow. An enchanting kiss from an enchanting lady in an enchanting setting.”

She gazed up at him, slightly dazed, all her earlier bold flirtation dissolved by his devastatingly delicious kiss. “You—you’re welcome,” she said, slightly breathless and completely idiotically. She ought to be outraged by him taking such a liberty, and instead she wanted him to do it again.

“I’d best take you back to the ballroom,” he said rising and offering her his hand.