Page 14 of A Lyon’s Lesson

Afterward, they gave him ten minutes alone with Cecelia in the front drawing room. She came in, dressed in a demure gown of blue cambric embroidered with roses and her hair confined in a chignon. It was a far cry from the salacious chiton he’d last seen her in at the Lyon’s Den, and for a moment he felt like he was staring at a stranger. A properly brought up young lady who couldn’t possibly become his wife. His Diana. Then she smiled, and he felt something warm blossom in his chest. She was a beauty, his little bride-to-be, and she was possessed of a delicious body he had to admit he wanted better acquaintance with.

He grinned back and said, “Rob has just informed me that I need to apply to the archbishop for a special license so that we can be wed before the end of the month. There is no end of things I have to do between now and the wedding. I suppose they will keep you busy with gowns and such.”

“Yes, Aunt Valeria is beside herself. I’m to have a fitting in half an hour for a gown. As there is no time to make one from scratch, I’m to have something adapted.”

“No doubt you’ll look lovely in it,” he said carelessly. “But not half so enticing as you did in that blue chiton. Did Mrs. Dove-Lyon let you keep it?”

She blushed, and his pulse skipped a beat, a familiar heat stirring in his breeches that seemed to happen regularly in her presence. That was one thing in favor of this wedding at least. He most definitely wanted to bed his bride.

“She did, in fact,” Cecelia admitted with a sideways look at him that made him slide an arm around her trim waist and pull her close.

“Good, you can wear it on our wedding night, and I will take great delight in removing it. Slowly,” he murmured, and kissed her. As always, the heat between them flared up and his arms tightened around her lovely frame. She was a little thing but generously curved in all the right places. And she kissed him back with a passionate enthusiasm that augured well for the consummation of their marriage.

He broke the kiss reluctantly, and she stared up at him. “You’re reconciled to this?”

He pursed his lips ruefully, “It’s not what I would have chosen, but—there are compensations,” he admitted, cupping her cheek in one of his large hands and giving her another lingering kiss.

Their tête-à-tête was interrupted at that point, and he and Robert took their leave.

***

Half an hour later, Cecey stood in her petticoats while a succession of gowns was flung over her head and tried for style and fit until they found one she liked.

“Yes, this one!” she said firmly, staring at herself in the mirror. The gown was inspired by the Greek style, and while it wasn’t indecent like the chiton, the skirt hung in soft flowing lines of white silk, and the bodice was reminiscent of the chiton’s style, with tiny clips on the shoulders holding the bodice up. With the fall of fabric cowling her bosom and draping to the more natural waistline of the newer fashion that was seeing cinched in waists starting to make a comeback.

It is not what I would have chosen . . . Kenrick’s words echoed in her head, robbing the moment of some if it’s luster. She couldn’t pretend that he loved her. Desired her perhaps. At least for now. But she wasn’t so naïve as to think that a fleeting physical attraction would necessarily blossom into anything deeper. In fact, it was more likely to dissolve with the passage of time and leave her lonely and alone in a loveless marriage, unless she was able to somehow make him care for her.

But could she? The Cecelia that fronted the world with bravado and confidence would say, “Of course I can.” But the Cecelia that cowered deep inside whispered something else entirely. Bold Cecey squashed that voice and tossed her head determinedly. “Of course I can,” she murmured under her breath. But her heart fluttered with uncertainty.

Chapter 7

Bryson Passmore, Viscount Bidenden, only son and heir of the Marquess of Malmsbury, read the notice in the Gazette of the wedding between Lord Kenrick Alexander Layne and Miss Cecelia Jane Woodrow with both fury and a kind of sick panic.

His esteemed sire, so far from succumbing to the illness that had brought Bryson home in a flurry of hope that he was at last going to inherit, had rallied and was even more emphatic in his refusal to provide his son with an income fitted to his chosen lifestyle.

His loss in the Lyon’s Den to Kenrick Layne had cost him not only Cecelia, but every shilling he had to his name, and most of his cashable assets. He had debts he couldn’t pay and was facing the very real possibility of being hauled off to debtors’ prison.

When he had tried to explain this to his father, the marquess looked at him with a dispassionate glare and said, “Good. Perhaps it will teach you a lesson. I thought India might have reformed you, but it is clear that it hasn’t. You’ll not get a groat more from me until the day I die, and then you’ll only inherit because the estate is entailed, and I can’t prevent it. I’m ashamed to call you my son. Now get out, and don’t bother to show your face here again!”

A bitter hatred rose in his breast recalling his father’s words, but even the hate couldn’t disguise the pain underneath. He clenched his jaw. Lord Bloody Kenrick Layne would pay for this. He had snatched Cecelia out of his grasp, and there were few heiresses left to target. He needed some way to get his hands on a substantial sum and quickly.

In the meantime, he needed to get out of London, for he couldn’t afford to pay his rent on the rooms he had occupied since he left Eton. He wracked his brains to think of someone he could stay with to avoid expense and bethought him of a cousin who lived in Bedfordshire­—which was where Cecelia’s estate was located. He had visited the place briefly to check it out before he’d approached Cecelia and made the acquaintance of the steward. What was his name? Hawk—no Falconbridge.

A grin spread over his handsome face. Yes, it was definitely time for a visit to Cousin Algernon.

Chapter 8

The next fortnight paradoxically went very fast and very slowly for Rick. On the one hand there was so much to do. He was pulled into activities he had never given any thought to and asked his opinion on so many things he didn’t give a rat’s arse about. He had to bite his tongue on several occasions and force himself to humor his mother and sister Heather, who took far more interest in his approaching nuptials than he did. And then there were the legal things that Robert insisted on overseeing, the damned settlements and writing his will, something he had certainly never given any thought to at all until now. It was a surprisingly difficult and somewhat painful process, he discovered.

And then there were the moments of stillness, when life seemed to pause as he tried to imagine what his future now looked like. And failed. All he knew was that he wasn’t ready for this change in his circumstances. He didn’t wish to be married. He didn’t wish to be saddled with all this new responsibility. And he most emphatically did not want to be responsible for another human being’s welfare and happiness. And yet, here he was.

Two nights before the wedding, he got stinking drunk with Reynolds, who brought him home, put him to bed, and held the basin when he emptied his stomach in the small hours. He spent a large part of the following day in bed and was visited by Hereward in the late afternoon. He was still in bed.

Rick opened one bleary eye and regarded his favorite brother with a jaundiced view. “Go away! I want to be miserable for a bit longer.”

Hereward took a seat in the only chair in the room and crossed his arms over his chest. “I can wait,” he said in his usual laconic style.

“Who sent you?” sighed Rick. “Mama or Rob?”