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

Chapter Eighteen

Contemplating a Possible Future

Meanwhile, in Westminster

C harles watched from the coach as Amy entered the Sinclair townhouse, heartened when she gave him a glance and a quick wave before disappearing through the front door.

He had offered to see her to the door, but she had given him a beseeching look. “Perhaps it would be best if you don’t. Should a neighbor see that you were riding in the coach—”

“Say no more,” he murmured. Although he had practically been ordered by Major Culkins to accompany Amy, no one else knew. Charles did kiss her though, just before the driver opened the coach door.

He settled back into the squabs, annoyed that his arousal refused to subside. The entire time he had pleasured Amy, he had wanted desperately to undo the fastenings of his uniform breeches and pull her onto his turgid manhood. Thrust himself into her over and over. Strip her of her gown and taste her breasts and nipples. Suckle them until his release—and hers— forced him to hug her hard so his cheek would rest on a breast, her head atop his, her arms wrapped around his shoulders.

Ruin her thoroughly.

He yearned to feel her heartbeat against his face every night after making mad passionate love to her. Wrap his body around hers, hold one of her breasts in his hand. He could imagine sleeping with her every night like that for the rest of their lives.

During their ride from Kent, he could have ruined her thoroughly. Then done it all over again. They’d had the time. The privacy. The deeper-than-usual seat.

Even as he imagined what they could have been doing, Charles winced at the thought of how she’d been positioned atop him, straddling him as he pleasured her. She hadn’t complained, but her knees must have become quite sore.

Had they been in a bed, it would have been much the same. Her atop him. Riding St. George , he thought with a grimace.

More like riding Charles the Cripple.

His cock apparently didn’t agree, for it continued to strain the fabric of his uniform.

He made a sound of despair as he felt the self-pity overwhelm him, and his arousal finally disappeared.

Giving his head a shake, he pulled aside the curtains covering one of the windows, mostly to determine exactly where Sinclair House was located. He also looked about for the coach that would have brought Amy’s mother home.

Charles expected to see Major Culkins’s equipage parked somewhere nearby. No coaches were parked on the street, however, which meant either the major had already dropped off the widow and taken his leave or they hadn’t yet made it back to town.

Or they had and were at the major’s residence.

For a moment, Charles was tempted to have the driver stay put. Wait until Mrs. Sinclair made an appearance. But this wasn’t his coach. It was the Sinclair’s coach.

He used his cane to knock on the trap door.

When the driver appeared, he asked, “Where to, Captain?”

“Leicester House,” Charles replied.

“Right away, sir.”

The trap door closed, and Charles braced himself for the jerk as the coach was set in motion.

For a moment, his thoughts went to his brother. Would James have already returned to London, his pursuit of a wife foiled by another aristocrat? Or would he stay in Cambridge and search for a different woman to court?

When he hopped down from the coach with the help of his crutches, his cane tucked under one arm, Charles regarded Leicester House with the same wince he had upon seeing it earlier that week. The driver stepped down from the bench, Charles’s valise hanging from one beefy hand.

“Rather chivalrous of you to accompany Miss Sinclair this afternoon,” the driver said as he matched Charles’s pace to the front door.

“It was the least I could do,” Charles replied, wondering if the driver knew exactly how unchivalrous his behavior had been for most of the trip. “She was my nurse in a battlefield hospital,” he added.

“Well, she thinks mighty highly of you, Capt’n,” the driver said when Charles was forced to use the brass knocker. The footman obviously hadn’t noticed the coach’s arrival.

Charles stiffened. “Oh?”

“Had me give a note with your name on it to a caddie. Paid him to deliver it to the proprietress at the Lyon’s Den.” Wincing, the driver lowered his voice. “Don’t think Mrs. Sinclair was very happy ’bout it, but she’s a bit of a tightwad when it comes to paying for services, sir, and Miss Sinclair is not.”

Alarm skittered down Charles’s spine. “When was this?”

The driver shrugged. “Yesterday mornin’, Capt’n. Right ’afore I drove them to Havenhurst.”

Charles reached into his pocket, finding the last of his coins. He handed them to the driver. “Thank you for the ride—and for the information,” he said as he dropped the blunt into the surprised driver’s palm.

The door opened, bathing the two in the dim light from the hall before the footman appeared to block most of it. “Apologies, Captain. I didn’t hear the coach,” Perkins claimed as he took the valise from the driver.

Charles was about to make a pithy comment about the housemaid but thought better of it given the driver’s assessment of him. “Thank you again for the ride.”

The driver tipped his hat. “Anytime, Capt’n.” He made his way back to the coach as the footman saw to Charles’s greatcoat. Meanwhile, Charles made his way to the study, half-expecting to find his brother.

The study was empty.

“Has Leicester returned from Cambridgeshire?” he asked before the footman had made it to the stairs.

“No, Captain. I put your correspondence on the salver, though.”

Surprised he would have any correspondence—who knew he was back on British shores?—Charles flipped through the stack of envelopes on the r salver and found the one addressed to him.

He was only mildly surprised to find it was from Mrs. Dove-Lyon. Breaking the wax seal on the back, he quickly unfolded it and studied the feminine script.

Dear Captain Audley,

I’ve an important matter to discuss with you. Please come to the Lyon’s Den as soon as you receive this missive. A young woman’s heart is at stake.

Regards,

Mrs. Dove-Lyon

Charles checked his pocket watch, stunned to discover it was well past eight o’clock. Hunger pangs reminded him it was dinner time.

Given the lack of appropriate equipage for a trip at night, he set aside the missive and asked that his dinner be served as quickly as possible.

A visit to Mrs. Dove-Lyon would have to wait until the morning.