Page 18 of The Lyon and the Lamb

Then, to her astonishment, Lord Aylsham leaned in, close to her neck, and inhaled deeply.

The clatter of horses’ hooves died away and the regular hubbub of London ebbed into the background of her consciousness. She’d never felt someone’s presence so powerfully, and it shook her to the core. Thus, it was with a stab of alarm that she looked up to see an expression of twisted fury on his face.

“It was you,” he growled. “You were my angel of the bedchamber, my Venus! That night—ah!” It sounded as if the man were in pain. “I refuse to believe that you and she are the same—and yet my body knows it! Your perfume, the shape of your fingers—the combination of both must be a rarity. Your presence here can be no coincidence.”

He paused and pinched the flesh above the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. “What a fool I’ve been! You couldn’t get what you wanted by bribery, so you decided to use blackmail. Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s your associate in this, with the connivance of Roland. I knew I should never have trusted him. Curse the day I ever set foot within those walls.”

Of what, exactly, was he accusing her? How dared he? It wasn’t she who’d lured him there—that had been at the design of others including, presumably, this Roland he’d mentioned.

“How can you be so ungentlemanly as to suggest such a thing! Do you want to make a scene in the street? Remember who you are, sir, and behave accordingly.”

To her surprise, her words had the required effect. Aylsham straightened his shoulders and released her hand.

“Of course. We must discuss this with the spider at the center of this tangled web—the proprietress of the Lyon’s Den. I want answers.”

Araminta wouldn’t mind a few answers herself. Such as, why was she feeling weak-kneed in the presence of her enemy? Where had she found the bravery to rebuke him, and why had he complied? Why had the discovery of her identity infuriated him so? It appalled her that he could believe such evil of her, that he could imagine she’d engineered the whole event in order to blackmail him.

His barbs had gone home, and they stung.

Her temper was close to boiling over, too, but she must take her own advice—it would ruin her reputation to be spotted disputing with this man in public. They must seek the brooding anonymity of the Lyon’s Den.

Suddenly, as if in response to her wish, the familiar figure of Titan appeared.

He bowed. “Lord Aylsham, Lady Lamb. If you would be so good as to come this way, Mrs. Dove-Lyon would like to speak to you both.”

“Mrs. Dove-Lyon must have a listening tube coming out onto the street, or be sitting in an upstairs window, peeping out from behind a curtain,” Aylsham muttered.

“I believe she must,” Araminta agreed.

Titan turned his back and led them toward an alleyway on the right-hand side of the building. Where were they going now—the tradesmen’s entrance? She had no time to speculate further because Aylsham seized her elbow and escorted her in Titan’s wake as if expecting her to make a run for it.

As if she would—she needed some hope to cling to. She’d come here to agree to a marriage that could bring many benefits—if only the objectionable Aylsham were prepared to stop behaving like a dunderhead.

They came to a halt, with Araminta shockingly aware of the heat of his touch. Titan had brought them to an extremely discreet entrance, which could only be accessed down a flight of stairs. Aylsham released her, and they walked in single file behind Titan along a convoluted series of stairways and corridors until, finally, they reached a room she’d seen before. It was the one in which she’d first encountered the black-clad, veiled, and imposing figure of Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon.

There she was, reclining on the chaise-longue as if she’d been there all morning, instead of spying on people in the street below. She didn’t rise when Araminta and Aylsham entered but gestured them toward the sofa.

They were to sit together? Just like two naughty children being reprimanded by their governess. Araminta gulped. Sitting so close to Aylsham was not something she’d bargained on. Despite the chill of his demeanor, she couldn’t ignore the heat of the strong, masculine body just a few inches from her own, nor could she prevent her eyes from straying to the man’s long, muscular legs, or stop herself from remembering the assured, skilled touch of his fingers.

He held himself rigid and straight-backed, glaring at Mrs. Dove-Lyon. But when he opened his mouth to speak, she waved a dismissive hand at him.

“No doubt you have much to say, my lord, but please, let me speak first. Can I offer you any refreshment?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon glanced up at Titan, but Araminta and Aylsham spoke almost as one.

“No, thank you.”

“I don’t need anything, thank you.”

Araminta exchanged a brief glance with her companion—was he thinking, as she was, that the refreshments at the Lyon’s Den were not to be trusted?

The proprietress tilted her head in Araminta’s direction. “Am I to assume that you have, after all, decided in favor of the gentleman I chose for you? The three days’ grace I gave you is now up.”

Araminta clutched her hands together. The man beside her was not going to like this. He wasn’t going to like it one little bit.

“I have.”

Aylsham drew in a breath, and his chest swelled. Swiftly, she laid her hand over his, and murmured, “Wait. Your wrath will achieve nothing here. When you’re acquainted with the full circumstances, you may come to think better of me.”

The breath hissed out between his teeth. He removed his hand from beneath hers but restrained himself from speaking.