Page 6 of The Lyon Rampant

Suddenly, storm clouds rose in her blue eyes, and he felt the stab of her enmity. What had he done? How could she take against him so speedily when he was doing his best to flatter her?

It was as if she hadn’t known him from Adam, then suddenly recognized him. But how? He’d never seen her before. Although, as a prominent man-about-town and London’s most eligible bachelor, he was known to many, especially ladies.

Before he could examine the unexpected need rampaging through him, the girl had looked down again.

“Thank you, sir.” Her voice was a whisper. “I now have to get back to my pot, as my next creation can’t be allowed to boil.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon stepped between them, and before he could protest, the kitchen maid had her back to him and was stirring something over the fire.

“I hope you’ll honor us with your presence at dinner again, sir.”

Piers realized he was gaping at the young woman who’d dismissed him so readily. He turned his attention to his hostess. “I most certainly will.”

She gestured toward the door, but his feet refused to move.

“Has the soup cook been in your employ long? I don’t believe I’ve seen her before.” Being something of a gourmet, he was often in the kitchen, both to compliment the cooks and pick up ideas for his own establishment.

“Her story is her own to tell, Mr. Darvill. You must know by now that at the Lyon’s Den, discretion is our watchword. The privilege extends to staff as well as clients.”

She indicated the door again. This time, Piers went.

Well—he supposed he shouldn’t dig too deeply; he wouldn’t want to offend the best soup cook in London. Especially if he wished to taste any more of her dishes. She could easily revenge herself against him by over-salting his food.

There was no point in continuing with this line of thought. He might be much sought after, but he wasn’t looking for a new liaison. Until he’d resolved things with his former mistress, Charlotte, concerning their child, he couldn’t allow himself to be interested in delectable unmarried women, whatever their station.

Once outside the Lyon’s Den, he checked his pocket watch. Dash it—Katie hated waiting, and she’d probably charge him extra if he was late.

But even when Piers was in the lower reaches of the Old Forum Playhouse, with a stunning black-haired beauty on his arm, he couldn’t forget that other face, the complete opposite of Katie’s. Nor could he shake the hurt her dislike had caused him.