Eight Hunting Lyons (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

Chapter Eighteen

T he doors to the sitting room were flung open as Edmund Broadbank strode into the room. “You didn’t wait for me.”

The viscount met his brother’s glare with a nod. “Time was of the essence. In my place, you would have done the same.”

His words seemed to alleviate most of his brother’s ire. The man relaxed his stance and turned to the vicar. “Forgive me for my rude interruption, Vicar.”

“Understandable. I’m accustomed to rather…er…interesting events while performing marriages of this sort.”

Edmund’s brow raised in silent question. “Really? How so?”

Before the older man could response, Viscount Moreland spoke. “I’d like to introduce my wife, Gemma, the new Viscountess Moreland.”

Edmund’s chuckle warmed Gemma’s heart. He seemed to be a good sort when called upon to lend his aid at The Lyon’s Den. His reaction just now seemed to prove that he would be another member of Colin’s family that she could count on if need be.

Mrs. Pritchard beamed as she announced, “We have a lovely wedding repast prepared in the green dining room, if you’ll follow me.”

“Delighted to, Mrs. Pritchard,” Edmund said with a wink. Stepping aside, Colin’s brother motioned for everyone to precede him.

When Colin and Gemma reached him, Edmund leaned toward his brother and whispered something that had him nodding.

Gemma wondered what had been said to cause the tightening of her husband’s jaw. So much had occurred—not all of it good. She’d best wait until they were alone to ask.

The viscount drew Gemma’s chair out for her and helped her to sit. The touch of his callused hand on her shoulder warmed her.

“Are you all right, my love?”

Heat seared her cheeks as the viscount’s words both delighted and embarrassed her at the same time. Whatever is wrong with me? “Yes, thank you.”

With a gentle squeeze to her shoulder, he pulled out the chair next to her and sat. Though they sat beside one another, he did not reach for Gemma’s hand. Beneath the table, his heavily muscled thigh brushed against her leg. Unaccustomed to the intimate touch, she fumbled with her glass of champagne, nearly upending the contents on the crisp white linen tablecloth.

A deep chuckle rumbled from within the depth of her husband’s broad chest—a chest she’d sought refuge and comfort against more than once in the last twenty-four hours.

“I beg your pardon, my lord. I shall be more careful not to spill.”

The viscount leaned close and whispered in her ear, “I believe I shall look forward to drizzling a bit of champagne from the hollow of your throat to your—”

Shocked to the core, Gemma covered his mouth with her hand.

Edmund’s eyes widened for a moment before he laughed aloud. “Do go easy on your bride, Brother, else you embarrass her to tears.”

Dear Lord , Gemma thought. One could light a candle wick with the heat pouring off her face. She hastily withdrew her hand and dropped it to her lap. “I beg your pardon, your lordship. I meant no disrespect. I thought only of silencing…”

Instead of the setting down she expected, he brushed a whisper-soft kiss to Gemma’s temple. “No harm done, love. Are you hungry?”

Surprised that he was able to whisper such decadent things in her ear one moment, and then seeming to brush it off the next, she could only nod.

As the footmen carried in the first dishes, Gemma wondered how she’d be able to swallow anything with the tightness constricting her throat. What had she been thinking going to The Lyon’s Den? Had she ended up in a far worse position than she would have been if she’d listened to her father and done as he bid?

A slither of unease crept up from her toes. Gemma glanced at her husband from beneath her lashes. His gaze was focused on the door to the dining room. If she hadn’t been watching her husband so closely, she would have missed the tense line of his jaw and fleeting hint of worry in the depths of his now pale-gray eyes. She would have to pay close attention to see if she could gauge his moods by the changing color of his eyes.

“Captain Coventry to see you, your lordship,” Hanson announced from where he stood in the doorway to the dining room.

Viscount Moreland rose to his feet and walked over to greet a light-haired man wearing a dark blue coat. The man stood with what Gemma recognized as military-straight posture. His hair was pulled back in a black ribbon-wrapped queue—it matched his black eyepatch and sling that cradled one of his arms.

Their conversation was low enough that it could not be heard where she sat across the room from them. Captain Coventry’s glance shifted from her husband to Gemma. His one-eyed green gaze studied her for an agonizing moment before he nodded to her, acknowledging Gemma’s presence, before turning back to the viscount.

Gemma had no idea what they discussed but had a feeling it involved the viscount’s hasty marriage to her.

Before she could find the courage to ask her new brother-in-law, her husband spoke to one of the footmen and escorted the captain over to one of the empty chairs at their table.

“May I present Captain Gordon Coventry, retired from His Majesty’s Navy, now London man-of-affairs to the Duke of Wyndmere?”

Gemma’s eyes widened at the introduction, impressed by the way the injured captain held himself. His shoulders were broad enough to have her wondering how he managed to navigate the world with his one side seemingly not useable. She knew she’d feel off balance all of the time, yet the captain walked with a fluidity that surprised her.

Gemma quickly smiled so that he would not think she was staring. “A pleasure to meet you, Captain.”

Viscount Moreland beamed. “My wife, Gemma, Viscountess Moreland.”

A thrill shot through to Gemma’s toes at the depth and emotion in his voice. Would it always feel this like when he spoke to me? Would it fade as he became more used to me and not as enamored as he is at this moment in time…a moment of heady anticipation of what our future would bring?

As if he heard her thoughts, he paused in his conversation with the captain and turned to her. Gemma’s heart fluttered in her breast, and she could not contain the gasp of shock at the depth of emotion in her husband’s storm-cloud gaze. She’d seen that look more than once but was unsure if it was frustrated anger building or another type of frustration entirely.

She wanted to ask, but let the words slide back down her throat. Reaching for her teacup, Gemma faltered and would have dropped the cup had it not been for the viscount’s quick reflexes. He righted the cup and urged her to drink.

“You need to trust me,” he rasped.

Gemma blinked. “I do.”

He frowned, ignoring the fact that his brother and friend were seated at the table listening to what she believed should be a private conversation. “You will not fear me.”

Exasperation welled up inside of Gemma, tangling with the frustration of knowing what she wanted to say, but needing to save it for when they were alone.

“Well?” he demanded.

Pretending she did not know what he meant, she asked, “Well what?”

His jaw clenched. Gemma knew he was becoming upset with her. Truly, she had egged him on, when she should have answered whether or not she felt it was the proper conversation to have at the dining table.

She needed to soothe him, to get back into his good graces, else she’d find herself set aside before their marriage had been consummated. Where would she go? What would she do? The answer she intended to give him never left her lips. Gemma’s plight was far more serious than she’d considered it would have been once she’d left the security of her home and her father’s name.

Had the viscount secured her dowry? Should she ask him? What if he had not? The viscount had offered for her right after he’d come to her rescue. Wasn’t that the real reason he married her—the size of her dowry, or was it her inheritance? So many questions that would go unanswered unless she spoke with her husband immediately.

As if he were waiting for her to reach for his hand, his was there. The strength of his callused hand eased the constriction in her throat to where she could swallow again. He offered her water goblet to her with his free hand. But she wasn’t able to grasp it with her left hand. He sensed her dilemma and let go of the hand he held. The sharp ache that arrowed through Gemma at the loss of his strength, his warmth, had her eyes searching his. Had he felt the same, or was she the only one that suffered from the loss of contact?

“Have a sip of water, Gemma, or if you’d rather, more tea. Shall I have Mrs. Pritchard freshen it up for you?”

After a few sips of water, her throat felt better though her nerves were still shooting sparks off whenever his gaze met hers. She wondered yet again if it would always be this way between them…if she didn’t do anything wrong and managed to keep the family name from suffering any slings and arrows. She would be vigilant in her bid to keep the conversations with others away from family members or matters. They would remain safe from those who would seek to discredit the Moreland title and the Broadbank family name.

Without realizing it, Mrs. Pritchard must have refilled her teacup. Wishing she could have cradled it in both hands to warm them, she settled for the warmth it gave as she sipped from the fragile bone china cup. Setting it down, she turned to the man at her side. “Thank you, your lordship. I hadn’t realized how badly I needed the tea.”

The emotion in his eyes seemed to warm at her words. “We have much to discuss after we eat,” he told her. “First, we must meet with Coventry. He has news that you need to be made aware of.”

The worry must have showed on her face. He reached for her hand. She felt his need to take care of her through his touch. “I do not believe you fully trust me yet, Gemma, but I pray that you will soon. It’s bloody difficult having to worry about such a simple thing as your wife trusting you.”

The giggle burst forth from her lips before she could call it back.

A deep chuckle sounded from the across the table and another one from their guest. Captain Coventry’s gaze met hers. “It is not an easy task earning a wife’s trust, but if anyone can handle the problem, I assure you that Viscount Moreland is more than up to the task.”

My wife—and isn’t it bloody unlikely I’d be married only a few days after I’d come into my brother’s title when I haven’t even had a chance to mourn his passing? Probably not, in view of the hesitancy I sense in my bride. Is it me or something else that has her on tenterhooks after we said our vows?

The viscount would put the question to her as soon as they were alone. His head began to ache as the worry that he would fail in his new duties as Viscount Moreland filled him. What did he know of being a viscount?

The ache trebled and he felt as if he’d been whacked in the forehead, like the time he’d not been paying attention to the wind change—nor where the boom was, and he’d been knocked unconscious from the blow. When he came to, he had to face the captain’s wrath and dressing down he so richly deserved. The ship depended on every man doing his part, the captain reminded him. How could that happen if he wasn’t paying attention to his duties—or where in the bloody hell the ship’s boom was?

He’d put his mind to the task ahead of him and learned as much as he could about the different aspects of sailing on a first-rate ship of the line, working with his shipmates as part of the crew. Every sailor aboard that ship had a job to do, and every job and man was essential. He’d been captain of his own vessel for a number of years and knew precisely how important each and every aspect of the crew and their duties were to the running of his ship.

How was he going to let the life he’d been leading—and loved, go in order to step into his brother’s shoes? What in the blazes did he know about going about in society, being married, or taking care of a wife?

The answer was crystal clear. Not a bloody damned thing!