Page 13 of The Lyon and the Lamb

She peeped out from under the covers as light filled the room from the widow’s lamp.

“Yes. That was your husband-to-be, who urgently wanted a glimpse of your face. But that was not part of the plan. Obviously, I intend to introduce the pair of you a little later, under more genteel circumstances. Don’t worry—he’ll be taken away and bathed while we refresh his clothes. Then, we’ll give him a decent breakfast. By the time we proceed to business, his temper will have cooled.”

Lord Aylsham had bedded her? This couldn’t be happening! It was some kind of sickening nightmare. She shook herself, but nothing changed. She was awake and in complete shock, and a heap of gentleman’s attire lay on a chair near the door, testament to the fact that she wasn’t dreaming.

There had to be some mistake. It couldn’t possibly have been Lord Aylsham murmuring sweet sighs in her ear, it couldn’t have been him making love to her so tenderly, so passionately. He was the last person in the world who’d agree to marry her when he knew her identity. And she could never agree to marry him, the self-righteous, implacable, objectionable fellow!

Her shoulders sank. So much for a marriage bed made in heaven. Her only hope was that they’d conceived a child. But would that plan work? Horatio’s cousin was more worldly than she and had contacts and easy access to funds. Wouldn’t she be safer with a husband as well as a child, a husband with the power and status to protect her?

But . . . not Lord Aylsham. Never him. She felt sick.

“Can I get dressed now, please?” She needed time to work out what she was going to do.

“But of course. And you must breakfast, too. I’ll have some brought in here. What shall I order for you?”

There was a self-satisfied note in Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s voice. The proprietress of the Lyon’s Den apparently thought she’d secured a successful outcome. She couldn’t be further from the truth.

“A little frumenty, perhaps?” She ought to have something to give her strength.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon scooped up the pile of gentleman’s clothing and left the room. Shortly thereafter, a female servant appeared and helped Araminta to dress. This was a relief because she didn’t feel able to dress herself. Her limbs were weak, and her fingers trembled. She was horrified at discovering the identity of her superlative lover.

This must be the very opposite of what Psyche had felt on learning that her monstrous husband, Cupid, became a handsome, golden-haired man at night. In Araminta’s case, her lover had become a monster, and unlike Psyche, his disappearance left her with no desire to track him down to the ends of the earth. She had every intention of running—swiftly—in the opposite direction.

Having washed, dressed, and eaten a little frumenty, she felt more able to face the awkward conversation ahead of her. By the time Mrs. Dove-Lyon swept back into the room, her response was prepared.

“Are you ready to meet your husband-to-be?”

“No. My apologies, ma’am, but I’ve changed my mind. I no longer wish to marry—I’ll find another solution to my problems.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon, who’d seated herself on the edge of the bed, stiffened.

“Did the man not please you?” There was ice in her tone.

Araminta couldn’t lie about that. She wished she could. “He did. Very much so.”

“Then what’s the matter? You’ve been married before, and you know what relations are like between a husband and wife. Surely what you experienced last night was an improvement? If not, I’m seriously mistaken about the gentleman I chose for you.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon knew how Lord Aylsham performed in bed? Araminta’s jaw dropped.

“No, not that way—I was a happily married woman. But I knew the gentleman’s first instructor in the art of love—she’s still a good friend of mine.”

Araminta fought the urge to learn more. It was time to put an end to this scheme. Mrs. Dove-Lyon needed to know there was no hope whatsoever for any future with the man she’d chosen.

She took a deep breath. “Can I assume that nothing said in this room will go any further?”

After the briefest of pauses, her black-draped companion nodded. “As I may have mentioned, discretion is my watchword.”

Despite this reassurance, Mrs. Dove-Lyon was clasping her hands so tightly, the knuckles were white. She was furious but trying to hide it.

Araminta forged ahead. “I heard the man’s voice. I know who he is, and we’re already at loggerheads. I can’t see any way of amending matters between us.”

There was another pause, and not for the first time, Araminta wished desperately that she could see the expression behind that concealing veil.

“I think you’ll find that if you have spent a glorious night in a gentleman’s arms—which you both enjoyed—it’ll be far easier to build bridges.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon relaxed her hands, warming to her subject. “You may not be aware of it, since it has not been your own experience, but many a tiff betwixt husband and wife is amended in the bedroom. I’m certain that once he knows your identity, the earl will do everything he can to amend the quarrel between you. At least meet with him, and see what can be salvaged.”

The lady tilted her head, and Araminta felt her direct stare, even through the barrier of her veil. “Assuming you’re correct about your lover’s identity.”

If only the woman would stop using that word! Every time she said ‘lover’, a hot shaft of excitement pulsed through Araminta’s body.