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

Chapter Eight

O liver was in his father’s study. He wasn’t certain when it would feel like his study. Likely never. Finishing letters and correcting account books was hardly the way most bridegrooms spent their wedding day, but then his was hardly the normal sort of marriage. There was no courtship, no infatuation. They hardly knew one another and now they were bonded for life. What an utterly terrifying thought that was!

Dropping the quill onto the desk with exasperated disregard, he paid no heed to the ink that splattered on the leather blotter. There were far greater concerns on his mind.

A knock at the door interrupted his reverie. Calling out for them to enter, he was quite stunned to find that it wasn’t a footman or the butler or even Mrs. Wilson. It was Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon in all of her scandalous glory.

“Mrs. Dove-Lyon! To what do I owe the honor of your call?” he asked, rising from his seat as propriety demanded.

“Sit. Sit. This conversation will be much easier for us both if we’re neither one knocked back on our heels,” she said, waving a dismissive hand.

“I take it there is some shocking news to report?” What else could there be?

“Not shocking, but certainly a bit improper and an embarrassing topic to say the least,” she admitted, as she settled onto a chair in front of his desk.

Reclaiming his own seat, Oliver steepled his hands in front of him. “By all means, proceed. Unpleasant matters should be dealt with as expeditiously as possible.”

“Quite right, Lord Foxmore. I’ve come to urge you to patience,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said.

“Patience?” he queried. What the devil was she talking about?

“Well, yes… Lady Foxmore is very young and impossibly sheltered. She knows nothing of men and the world. Certainly nothing of… well… physical relations,” she stated rather baldly after a slight pause. “And only a short month ago, she was set to marry a man to whom she had been engaged for years. By all accounts, despite her sister’s malicious lies, I do not think Mr. Wortham did more than hold the girl’s hand. Likely because he was holding much more of the sister than that already!”

Oliver blinked. “I understand that you have been instrumental in orchestrating the match, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, but I rather thought your interference ceased once the marriage occurred. Are you seriously here to instruct me on how to bed my own wife?”

“Not on the how, Lord Foxmore,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon stated imperiously, as if he were an annoyance with his question. “And do not presume that I think you brutish or doltish. If I did, I would never have introduced the girl to you. But I am urging you to show her a little patience and a little grace. To be mindful of not only her innocence but the fact that she has been entirely sheltered from any sort of impropriety until this sordid affair with her sister and her former betrothed came to light. You’ve known her for two days while I have been corresponding with her for weeks. I am concerned for her. That is all. You will have a lifetime with her. Surely you must see the value in a positive beginning to that lifetime?”

“I will be considerate of her feelings in all matters, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. All matters,” he stated firmly, as if the subject was closed. To his mind, it was. Some things did not bear the interference of a third party and something as private as the marriage bed definitely fell into that category.

“That is all anyone can ask, my lord. I will bid you good evening before the dinner hour arrives.”

Oliver watched her go and, as she did, the weight of what she’d said settled over him. They didn’t know one another. For all intents and purposes, despite their married state, they were strangers. For a man, physical intimacy did not require the kind of emotional attachment and the romance of it all as women so often did, especially women who were so terribly innocent. Would it be so horrid to grant her a reprieve? No doubt she’d asked Mrs. Dove-Lyon to speak to him on the matter because she did not feel comfortable doing so herself. She likely would have been mortified at the thought of it.

What did it matter to him that the nearness of his new bride and the anticipation of his wedding night had reawakened his libido after a somewhat dormant stage? He often got so occupied in his work that he forgot to eat, drink or see to other needs. It would not kill him to wait a bit longer, to give her an opportunity to become acclimated to the idea of being his wife and of permitting that sort of intimacy between them.

Oliver stared at the decanter of brandy on his desk for a moment. Then he reached for it and one of the cut crystal glasses nestled on the tray next to it. Filling it liberally, he paused, then added another splash for good measure. If it was to be his only comfort, he’d make good use of it.

Madeline entered the dining room to find her husband already waiting for her. She might not be any more informed about the particulars of what her wedding night should include after having spoken with Mrs. Dove-Lyon, but the more time she’d had to think about the woman’s words of wisdom, the more calm she’d become in the face of the unknown. Perhaps not knowing was for the best. Then she wouldn’t have all these details cluttering up her mind and stirring her anxiety. She would allow her new husband to lead and guide her, as the woman had suggested. That was how it was supposed to happen, after all. Wasn’t it?

“Good evening, Oliver,” she offered as he rose from his place at the head of the table. Hers was laid at the opposite end. Of a table for twelve. Were they really supposed to dine in such a fashion on their first night as a wedded couple, with the entire length and breadth of a massive Duncan Phyfe dining table between them? There were giant floral arrangements and candelabras that, once she was seated, would completely obliterate even a glimpse of him.

“Good evening, Madeline. I trust you are finding Easton House to be suitable to your needs?” he inquired.

Once Madeline had seated herself in the chair at the place laid for her, a footman pushed the chair in and she found herself peering around the flowers and candles to speak to him. “It is a very lovely home. Mrs. Wilson has been kind enough to give me a tour. I do hope that I will manage it in such a way that pleases you. I would certainly hate for my presence to disrupt things in a house that is obviously so well run already.”

“I’m certain you will do fine and I’m equally certain that Mrs. Wilson will relish having someone to take an interest in day to day matters with the house,” he reassured. “When she comes to me with queries about linens and silver and menus, quite frankly, my eyes glaze over and it’s all I can do to stay awake.”

Madeline laughed nervously. It was what he intended, of course, to be charming and put her at ease. It was a gesture she appreciated very much, but the truth of the matter was, she simply wanted their wedding night to be done with. She didn’t want the unknown to continue hovering over like Damocles’ sword.

“The table is lovely,” Madeline noted, eyeing the rather exhaustive number of plates and cutlery before her. “Surely, this is unnecessary, though. It’s laid out as if we’re having a seven course meal.”

“We are having a seven course meal,” he replied. “Mrs. Wilson felt, given the rather shabby nature of our wedding breakfast, that extra effort should be expended for your first dinner as Lady Foxmore. She is hoping to impress you, I think.”

Madeline blinked in surprise. “Why on earth should she feel that she needs to go to such efforts to impress me?”

“So that she may continue her current position, I imagine,” he answered.

Why did he have to be so terribly far away? She couldn’t see him. She could hardly hear him. The expanse of the table seemed to grow wider with each passing moment. “I certainly would never consider making such drastic changes.”

“I suggest you let her know that.”

And that was how her first dinner as Lady Foxmore continued. They spoke of nothing of consequence. Peer around the numerous obstacles between them as she might, Madeline never caught sight of him. Seven courses. Seven long, miserable courses with food that looked wonderful but that tasted of little more than sawdust in her mouth, parched as it was from her frayed nerves. At last, the meal ended, hours after it had begun. Rising to her feet, Madeline noted that he followed suit immediately.

“Are you retiring for the night?” he asked.

Madeline gulped. “Yes, I believe so.”

He nodded and she walked away. But contrary to what she had anticipated, he did not follow. Realizing that he was likely giving her time to make herself ready, she retreated to her room to do just that.