Page 2 of The Scarred Lyon

“Only because you have grown used to them. I never will.” His pride and ego, once his allies, had become a terrible curse. He had once been quite handsome, never lacking for female company. Now he lumbered through Bamford Park like a wounded beast, snarling at everyone and lamenting his loss.

Laura set her cup on the saucer. “Your injury could have been far worse. You could have lost an eye or an ear, your nose, or part of your jaw. I have read about the horrid wounds soldiers received from the various recent wars. I say this not to lessen the impact of your war wounds but to point out that you do not have to hide yourself away. Your face is intact.”

Duncan brushed his long hair aside from his left cheek, turning slightly toward Laura. “You think I would be welcomed into a ballroom with this mass of scarred and mottled skin?” Not to mention the numerous scars inside, but he kept those to himself. His recently developed quick temper stemmed not only from his disfiguring injury but also from the guilt he carried. For better or worse, he had survived the American war. His cousin and best friend, Jonathan, had not.

“There are masks,” Laura said. “You own a few. The gold one covers your cheek and lower chin very well.” She handed him the platter of sausages.

Duncan took it, speared two, and put them on his plate. “I am not some highwayman or masked thespian.”

“No, you are the Duke of Allenby, and no one would dare make a remark to you. We can notify the staff at the Hyde Park Corner residence to prepare for your arrival. Keep in mind that it is only a skeleton crew of servants, but they can attend to you quite readily.”

“Blasted London town houses. Why do I even need one, let alone three?” Duncan grumbled crossly.

“It was wise of you to sell one and invest the money. It’s already paying handsome dividends. Besides, a duke needs a residence or two in town. It is the done thing.”

“I am thinking of renting the Hanover Street house.”

“Another source of income. Very wise,” Laura replied, buttering the other half of her crumpet.

Duncan took a bite of sausage, contemplating Laura’s words. Grudgingly, he had to admit she was correct on all counts. He had brooded long enough. He must marry. There was no other option. There was an unspoken obligation to continue the lineage, or at least to attempt to do so. The Allenby dukedom dated back centuries, to the time of Henry V. Duncan’s knighted ancestor had received a special arming sword and a dukedom for heroism at the Battle of Agincourt. The sword hung above the fireplace mantel in his study. To let it all end here because he sulked over the loss of his good looks… Well, he could not let that happen. Still, it galled him to present himself to eager women as if he were a stud stallion at Tattersall’s.

“What exactly did you write to Mrs. Dove-Lyon?” Duncan asked warily.

“I was very frank in describing your current situation. I assumed you did not wish for some young lady barely out of the schoolroom.”

“No, I do not,” he agreed as he sipped his tea.

“But not past childbearing years, either,” Laura continued.

“This conversation is rather disturbing,” Duncan muttered, popping another piece of sausage into his mouth.

Laura sighed. “It truly is. But this is the state of aristocratic marriages, I am sad to say—a business transaction with mutual benefits, but most of all, for the title. It’s a cold prospect, but it doesn’t have to be. Instead of attending numerous balls or other social events to meet ladies, Mrs. Dove-Lyon can eliminate all that tedium and present you with a suitable choice. She doesn’t usually take on men as clients, but she has agreed to your case.”

“Just how long ago did you write? So I am a case? And I am supposed to trust this woman’s candidate? I thought Mrs. Dove-Lyon picked from among the men gambling in her establishment, forcing them into marriage contracts whether they wanted to or not?”

“First, I wrote her a few months ago. Regarding the men, most want to be trapped because they understand the Lyon’s Den’s secondary function. Some need a wealthy bride, or, like you, they need an heir. Mrs. Dove-Lyon requests that you come to Cleveland Row to play a few games of chance. For show.”

“To keep up appearances? For whom? The proprietress or the lady paying for a husband?” Duncan was inwardly appalled by the entire scenario.

“Both, I imagine. I would also bet large amounts.”

Duncan raised an eyebrow. “A de facto fee?” Laura shrugged. “Did you inform the Lyon’s Den’s proprietress of the particulars?” Duncan asked.

Laura buttered another crumpet. “Yes, of course. If you mean by particulars, your war injury, then yes.” Her look softened. “As I said, it is not as terrible as you seem to think.”

Duncan scoffed. “Only because you are used to the ugliness.”

Laura shot him a warning look and bit into her buttered crumpet.

The more Duncan thought about it, the more Laura’s suggestion made sense. It would eliminate the need to socialize and to browse the marriage mart. “What is the potential bride’s background? Is she suitable to become a duchess?”

“Any woman of strong character and intellect is suitable. I managed it, even though I was a duchess for only three years.”

“You are still a duchess. Even if I get married, you would become the dowager duchess.”

Laura sighed. “Fate is, indeed, strange. Upon my word, to have had all those deaths within four years.” She reached for his hand, and he took it. “And we nearly lost you in ’13 as well.”

That he didn’t want to think about or discuss. Giving her hand an affectionate squeeze, he then released it and reached for his teacup. “Very well, I will travel to London. But only if you accompany me.”