Between a Lyon and Ruin (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

Chapter 1

The pale blue silk brushed against Lady Victoria Richmond’s skin as she moved through Lady Pemberton’s ballroom, each step a practiced grace that concealed the restlessness simmering beneath her composed exterior.

Pearl drops swayed at her ears with every turn of her head, reflecting light from the crystal chandeliers overhead.

She offered a smile here and a curtsy there, her dark curls styled in the latest fashion and pinned with pearls—the armor of respectability that society demanded.

The orchestra swelled into a waltz, and couples began to take the floor.

Victoria watched them spin past in a blur of satins, silks, and glittering jewels.

The Countess of Bedford stood to her left, chatting about the unseasonable warmth.

Victoria’s gaze drifted to the tall windows lining one wall, their glass doors opened to the terrace beyond.

“Lady Victoria.” A footman appeared at her elbow, his voice low and silver salver extended. “A message for you, my lady.”

She excused herself from the countess and took the folded paper. The handwriting was hurried, almost frantic:

Victoria, I need your help. I have torn my dress in the garden. I cannot return to the ballroom like this. Please come at once. Near the rose arbor.

Sarah.

Victoria’s brow furrowed. Poor Sarah. She could picture her friend’s mortification at being trapped outside with a ruined gown.

Without hesitation, she folded the note and tucked it into her reticule.

A quick glance around the ballroom showed no one paying her particular attention.

She could slip out, help Sarah with whatever she had torn, and return before anyone noticed their absence.

The terrace doors opened silently on well-oiled hinges.

She hesitated at the threshold, glanced back to make sure no-one watched, then stepped into the cool air.

Victoria welcomed the reprieve from the ballroom.

The garden stretched before her, lit by scattered lanterns casting pools of golden light amid shadows.

She lifted her skirts slightly to navigate the gravel path, moving deeper into the carefully manicured hedges.

“Sarah?” she called softly, not wanting to draw attention from any other guests who might have wandered outside. The rose arbor stood at the heart of the garden, its climbing blooms perfuming the night air. “Sarah, where are you?”

A figure stepped from behind the arbor’s latticework, but it was not her friend’s familiar silhouette. Instead, Damian Herford, Lord Sterling, emerged from the shadows, his evening clothes impeccable and his smile sharp.

“I am afraid Lady Sarah is quite well and enjoying herself in the ballroom,” he said, his voice carrying that particular tone of satisfaction that made Victoria’s skin prickle with unease.

“You sent the note.” It was not a question. Victoria’s hand tightened on her reticule as understanding dawned, cold and unwelcome. He wanted her alone. She should have fetched a matron to accompany her. Now she had stepped right into his trap. But to what end?

“Clever girl.” Damian moved closer, and she instinctively stepped back, her heart pounding. “Though not clever enough to avoid what I have planned for you. I have been watching you all evening. That dress is particularly becoming. The color brings out something in your eyes.”

“Lord Sterling, this is highly inappropriate.”

She turned to leave, but he moved with startling speed, positioning himself between her and the path back. Her heart pounded as she met his gaze.

“Now, now. I went to such trouble to get you here. The least you could do is hear me out.”

“There is nothing you could say that would interest me.” Victoria’s voice remained steady despite the alarm bells ringing in her mind. She was alone with him, too far from the ballroom for anyone to hear if she called for help. “Please step aside.”

“Always so proper, so controlled.” His gaze traveled over her in a way that made her feel exposed despite her modest gown.

“But I see what is underneath, Victoria. May I call you Victoria? That restlessness you try so hard to hide. You are bored with all this, are you not? The endless parade of insipid conversations, the suffocating rules.”

“You know nothing about me,” she shot back.

“Do I not?” He took another step closer, and she backed up until her shoulders met the rough stone of the garden wall.

“I know you read books your mother would disapprove of. I have observed you at Hatchard’s.

I know you ask questions that make the other ladies uncomfortable.

I know you want more than what they are offering you. ”

Victoria’s heart raced. How could he know such things? “Even if any of that were true, it gives you no right to—”

“To what? Admire you? Desire you?” His hands came up to rest on the wall on either side of her, trapping her. The moonlight caught his features, handsome in a cruel way, like a beautiful predator. “To ease your loneliness?”

Her stomach turned, a cold chill spreading through her. “Stop this at once.” She pressed back against the wall, trying to create space between them. “You are frightening me.”

“Good. At least that is genuine.” His breath was warm against her face. “Everything else about these occasions is such tedious pretense.”

She tried to duck under his arm, but his hand caught her shoulder, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise through the silk. “Let go of me!”

“Just one kiss,” he murmured, leaning down. “That is all I—”

Victoria shoved him with all her strength, the right sleeve of her gown tearing as she wrenched away from his grip. He stumbled back a step, surprise flashing across his features before it transformed into something darker.

“You little—” He reached for her again, and she struck out wildly, her palm connecting with his cheek in a crack that echoed through the garden.

Voices. Footsteps on gravel. “Did you hear something?” A woman’s voice, coming closer.

Damian’s eyes glittered with malicious triumph. He grabbed Victoria’s arm and pulled her partially behind the arbor, positioning them just so—her sleeve torn, hair mussed from their struggle, him standing too close. “Do gasp when they appear, pet.”

“I am not your pet.” She tried to twist free, but his grip was firm.

The approaching guests rounded the corner, and saw Victoria, disheveled and alone with Lord Sterling in the shadows.

Victoria sensed the moment their faces shifted from surprise to scandal, watching as conclusions were drawn and judgments made in the space of a heartbeat. The witnesses, she recognized them as Mrs. Ashford and her daughter, retreated hastily, no doubt racing back to the ballroom with their news.

“Perfect,” Damian said, smoothing his hair back into place.

“You planned this.” Horror crept through Victoria’s veins. “You wanted them to see—”

“Of course I did.” He adjusted his cravat. “No woman refuses me without paying a price.”

“You have ruined me.”

“Have I?” He tilted his head, studying her with detached interest. “You should be grateful for my attention, even if it was brief. Most women would kill for a moment of my notice.”

“You are vile,” she wailed, stepping back, fighting tears.

“Perhaps.” He straightened his cuffs, every inch the unruffled gentleman once more. “Fear not, you are rid of me for I could never marry you. My family would never approve of someone so forward. Throwing yourself at me in the garden? Tearing your own dress for attention? Shocking behavior, really.”

The cruelty of it stole her breath. He was already rewriting the story, crafting a narrative that would destroy her while leaving him untouched. “No one will believe that.”

“Will they not?” His smile was cold. “A man’s word against that of a young lady found in a compromising position with a rake? I think we both know how this story ends.”

“Why?” she asked, her gaze narrowed on him.

His smile only deepened. “Send my regards to your brother, will you?” He gave her a mocking bow and strode away, leaving Victoria standing alone among the roses.

Their perfume, once sweet, now felt suffocating.

She looked down at her torn sleeve, at the pale blue silk that would forever be associated with her downfall.

In the distance, the music from the ballroom continued, laughter and conversation flowing as if her world had not just shattered.

She sank onto a stone bench, her legs no longer able to support her weight. Tomorrow, everyone would know. Her name would be whispered behind fans, her reputation destroyed. The injustice burned in her throat.

Above her, stars continued their ancient dance, indifferent to the small tragedy that had just unfolded beneath them. Victoria pulled her torn sleeve up, trying to cover the exposed skin, and wondered how she would protect her family, and herself.