Page 8 of The Lyon and the Lamb

There it was again, the word marriage. Araminta repressed a shudder, then took another deep draft of her wine as her mind started heading off in a truly wicked direction.

What if she should become pregnant by tonight’s encounter? She would then bear a child of her own body within the year and adhere to the conditions of Horatio’s will. It would solve all her problems—save the one of giving the child to foster parents almost immediately. But there might be time to think of a way around that, might there not? And she need not marry at all!

However, the agreement with Mrs. Dove-Lyon had been written up as a proper contract, signed, and sealed. It was what she’d paid out a massive two hundred sixty guineas for. When she told the woman that she no longer wanted to marry the man who’d bedded her, would she be able to claw the money back? Taking a stand against Mrs. Dove-Lyon risked exposure and an appalling scandal.

She must appear to go along with the plan for the moment. She must also drink much more wine—gallons of the stuff if possible—and overcome her aversion to male sexual advances.

“Must I truly remain naked under here?”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon chuckled behind her mask. “It’s as necessary as the wine. I want you to be in a relaxed mood when your gentleman comes to claim you. It would ruin the moment entirely if you caviled, giggled like an idiot, proved to be ticklish, or ran away the moment he started to undress you. We need to show him that we mean business. By bedtime, you’ll be used to your current state, I assure you. You might even begin to enjoy it.”

“Have you tried this ploy before?”

“I won’t give away my secrets. In any case, I always suit the arrangements to the client.”

Somewhere a clock chimed the hour, and a burst of male laughter could be heard from the depths of the house.

“The men have almost finished their dinner. Will you view them before the tables are cleared for the entertainment?”

For a moment, Araminta experienced an unusual sense of power. For the first time in her life, she would get to choose. Heaven help her if she made the wrong decision! Maybe she needed a clear head after all. She set her glass down, seized some bread and an apple, and consumed them quickly.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon indicated the door. “Follow me.”

It felt sinful padding along the corridors in her bare feet, her body swathed in the cloak and her face hidden behind the mask—she’d never felt so exposed. Her stomach fizzed with excitement at the knowledge that nobody knew what the cloak concealed. It was wickedly delicious and deliciously wicked, and she hoped she wouldn’t burn in hell for it.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon led her to a balcony looking down onto an open area. The room was set out for dining, and the noise hit Araminta as soon as she stepped out onto the balcony.

Men were talking, laughing, clapping one another upon the back, rattling knives and plates, and drinking toasts. They were swathed in dark cloaks identical to her own, although she caught glimpses of evening clothes underneath.

Their masks were only half-face, but since they were dining, the only distinguishing feature she could see was the color of their hair. So, how on earth was she to choose from the twenty or so gentlemen below?

It was then that she noticed a few of them had gold trim around their hoods. “The ones with the gold on their hoods—why are there only three?”

“They are the men who’ll win the three lottery grand prizes. As I’ve already mentioned, a night with you is the first prize.”

“And the second, and the third?” Araminta peered down at the three men. Were there any clues to their ages, or their physical appearance?

“The second prize is a bolt of Chinese silk that I purchased from a warehouse yesterday. And the third is a Jeroboam of Champagne. I don’t waste my clients’ money on anything not worth winning.”

One of the chosen gentlemen appeared to have very dark hair, but in the glittering candlelight, it was difficult to tell. The others were either mousy or blond, at a guess. If only she could see their faces!

“How did you choose these three?”

“Again, I won’t reveal my methods, but they involve considerable research. I assure you—no one will be harmed when you choose your future spouse. There are no mistresses, no one to whom the men are already engaged, and no young females with expectations concerning them. The gentlemen are, in their own words, confirmed bachelors, but all will be well aware of the risks—and the rewards—of becoming involved in one of my gambling evenings.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” She’d hate to ruin another woman’s hopes.

A wave of dizziness suddenly swept over her, and she reached for the chair that had been set out. Foolish woman! Why hadn’t she taken more of the food when it was offered? She rested her chin on the balustrade and continued staring at the gentlemen so blissfully unaware of her existence.

Time became a blur. She forgot Mrs. Dove-Lyon—her senses were entirely focused on the three men with the gilt-edged hoods. One of them, she decided, was blond, because every time he moved into the bright center of the hall, his hair glittered like dark gold.

But her eyes kept returning to the dark-haired gentleman, following him as everyone milled around, choosing one of the entertainments set up in each corner of the room. He hovered uncertainly in the middle, and she sensed his tension—he didn’t know which table to go to and appeared uncertain of his place amongst this company. A misfit in society, perhaps? Just like herself, then.

Another masked gentleman, rather shorter of stature, grasped the dark-haired man’s arm and escorted him to one of the tables. She enjoyed the way Mr. Raven-hair moved, with an animal grace that reminded her of a proud stag in the forest.

Stop staring at him. There are two others that you’re meant to be considering.

She scanned the room. The blond gentleman had joined a table that had several glasses, a pitcher, and a large empty basin beside it on the floor.