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

Chapter Thirty-One

Defending a Fellow Lord

The following morning…

Excelsior Park

J ames kissed Eloise on the forehead before he sat up with a start. The sky beyond the window showed it was well past dawn. The servants were probably all up and about.

Although he had gone to bed alone, his betrothed had once again made her way to the guest bedchamber at some point after midnight and climbed in next to him.

He remembered how chilled her body had felt when it first touched his, how erect her nipples had been until her breasts warmed against the side of his chest.

“Aren’t you still sore? From what I did to you last night?” he asked in a concerned whisper.

She purred. “Deliciously so,” she replied happily. “But I was cold all by myself, and you’re so warm.” When he didn’t make a move, she added, “I would not object to you doing it again.”

Apparently, his cock didn’t object either, for it was erect and ready for a tumble.

“Climb atop me,” he had murmured.

Gasping, she asked, “Am I going to ride St. George?”

“You’re going to ride me ,” he countered with a grin, watching as she scrambled to sit atop him, her bent knees on either side of his hips. “But first I must…”

Well, he had intended to pleasure her. Make her wet enough for his manhood to impale her in one swift move. But she had obviously been aroused already, for she managed on her own, taking him in his entirety with a breathy comment about the length of his sword. Then, with the guidance of his hands on her hips, she had gone about bouncing atop him.

“Am I doing this right?”

Despite her serious expression, James chuckled. “You are for me, but we must be sure you are—”

“Oh!” she cried out.

“Oh, indeed,” James agreed, sobering at feeling how her inner muscles tightened on his manhood, at how her eyes darkened and filled with desire. “You’re definitely doing it right.”

The sight of her breasts bouncing above him had him mesmerized. Hypnotized. At least he remembered to rub her where their bodies met in an effort to provide her some pleasure if she was still too sore.

He knew his thumb had succeeded when her breath caught and her head fell back on a quiet cry. When her body quaked and quivered.

He knew he would never forget the look on her face. Knew he would never forget the sensation of how his own body reacted, spilling his seed into her as spasms of pleasure coursed through his body.

He pulled her down, settling her head onto one shoulder as he pulled up the linens with his other hand.

“I do believe you’ve won this round, my lady,” he remembered saying before he passed out at the sound of her titter.

Now he glanced down at her and grinned at seeing how she looked in slumber. Grinned wider when her eyes slowly opened, and she smiled at him.

Couldn’t continue the grin when she pulled his head down for a kiss.

He loved her enthusiasm.

Tomorrow morning, she would be his wife in name, as well as body.

But first, he had to get her back to her bedchamber.

He was about to mention it when something of a kerfuffle could be heard from somewhere down below.

“Do you hear that?”

Eloise’s eyes rounded. “I think they’re home,” she whispered. She quickly got out of bed and pulled on her night rail and dressing gown. “Can that clock be right?”

“Who?” James asked.

“Mother and Steph.” She glanced over at the clock on the mantel. “It’s not yet eight o’clock,” she said in surprise. Her brows furrowed. “Steph doesn’t even get out of bed until after nine. I’m going down to see what’s happened.”

“What should I do?”

“Get dressed and come down when you’re ready. Breakfast will be served at nine.” She leaned over and kissed him. “Oh, and good morning, St. George.”

Amused despite what could be a serious situation, James kissed her. “Good morning, you minx.”

He watched her head out the connecting door to the next bedchamber before he got out of bed. A pitcher of wash water had been set on the hearth the night before, and now he was glad for the warm water it contained. Despite how cold she had felt when she had joined him in bed, Eloise had quickly heated him with her lovemaking. Now that she was gone, he practically shivered in the cool bedchamber.

When his ablutions were complete and he was drying his body, he heard raised voices from down below. Female voices. Angry female voices.

Alarm had him dressing quickly, sure the marquess was about to storm into his room and accuse him of ruining his daughter. Or perhaps it would be the marchioness. In either case, he gave a start at the sound of a rap at his door.

He stiffened, ready for a dressing down. “Come,” he called out, having managed to pull on a shirt, some breeches, and stockings.

“Morning, sir,” Eames said as he entered. “Would you like me to shave you?”

Relieved to see the servant, James ran a hand over his jawline and winced. “Yes, please. Tell me, what’s all the fuss about downstairs?”

Eames rolled his eyes. “That would be Lady Stephanie having a tiff with Lady Huntsford and Lady Eloise,” he replied as if it happened every day. “Apparently, she’s learned something about Lord Weatherby whilst she was in Cambridge yesterday. She’s trying to beg off.”

James scoffed. “Whatever could Weatherby have done to anger her so?”

The servant seemed ever so eager to tell what he knew. “The gossip is that Lord Weatherby participated in some sort of wager at a gambling den in London. One that involved several other lords.”

James’s eyes widened. He knew the establishment.

“The winner won the right to marry a young woman who was in possession of a very lucrative dowry, a mansion, and some properties in the country. Apparently, the owner of the establishment—”

“Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” James murmured.

“—is some sort of matchmaker, and the gambling den—”

“The Lyon’s Den.”

“—is well known for hosting these unusual events.” He paused. “You don’t look well, sir.”

Worry had James holding his breath. “Weatherby didn’t win.”

Eames opened his mouth to agree and then angled his head. “You’ve already heard the gossip?”

James couldn’t help but notice the sound of disappointment in the servant’s question. He shook his head. “I know because I was there that night.” He hadn’t known Weatherby had inherited his father’s marquessate, though. He was sure the whelp still held his courtesy title of Viscount Eastman—at least, that’s how he had been announced upon his arrival at the gaming table. The event happened over a month ago.

“You were part of the same wager, sir?”

James regarded the valet with a quelling glance before he moved to sit in the chair in front of the shaving mirror. “Something like that,” he admitted. “I participated at the request of Mrs. Dove-Lyon, and only because she didn’t want the young lady to end up with a beastly man whom I knew to be a bounder. She knew with enough gentlemen playing in the first round, the likelihood of Lord Brougham making it to the second was mitigated.”

“Lord Weatherby obviously didn’t win the young lady,” Eames remarked.

“I didn’t win, either, thank the gods, but then, I wasn’t supposed to. With over a dozen aristocrats vying for the same prize, the odds were not in our favor,” he murmured. “I merely had to ensure the beast didn’t make it past the first round. After that, it was up to the others,” he explained. “Truth be told, I think the entire game was rigged.”

“Sir?”

“I believe Mrs. Dove-Lyon had a particular man in mind to win that night, and he was the one who ended up with the girl. Uh….Lady Beatrice was her name. Apparently, all was arranged to Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s liking until Lord Brougham showed up and paid the thousand-pound buy-in. He’s a well-known cheat and might have prevailed if he’d made it to the second round.” He suddenly straightened on the chair. “Tell me, Eames, when exactly did Weatherby’s father die?”

The valet seemed surprised by the query but said, “About a month ago, I think it was.”

“I thought the Weatherby marquessate rather well off. Am I wrong in my assumption?”

Confused by the comment, Eames applied shaving soap to James’s face and said, “I don’t think you’re wrong, sir. I’ve heard Lady Stephanie agreed to marry him because he wasn’t desperate for funds like so many of the other suitors who came to call recently.”

James hesitated to speak while the razor scraped his face. When Eames pulled it away, he asked, “Then why do you suppose Weatherby would be involved in such a wager at the Lyon’s Den? Only men in need of rich wives usually involve themselves in such games.”

Eames straightened and regarded the earl’s reflection in the mirror. “Perhaps upon inheriting, Lord Weatherby learned his father was not as well off as he had thought.”

Glad the servant had come to the same conclusion as he had, James motioned for Eames to continue shaving him. “I best get down there. Set the record straight and assure Lady Stephanie she may have dodged a bullet by begging off.”

“Does that mean you’re going to court her, sir?”

James scoffed. “God, no. I’m in love with Lady El. I’ll be marrying her on the morrow,” he claimed. “Bishop O’Malley will be arriving sometime today and doing the honors tomorrow morning in the chapel.”

“Oh, that’s what all the fuss is about belowstairs,” Eames said. “Special dinner and all tonight, late breakfast in the morning.”

James grinned. “Indeed, although I hadn’t intended there to be a fuss made over Lady El and me. I do hope the other servants aren’t inconvenienced.”

Eames chuckled. “I think they’re excited, sir. Maybe a bit relieved, too.”

“Relieved?”

The valet shrugged. “I think there are some who believed Lady Eloise would never make a match, sir. That she would remain here at Excelsior Park vexing her mother to no end.”

James grimaced.

Fifteen minutes later, he descended the stairs to the first floor and paused upon hearing voices in the parlor. Moving to the door, he first peeked around the edge to discover who was inside.

The entire family, it seemed. Or at least all but Edward. A tea tray was on the low table in front of Lady Huntsford, and next to it was a crystal decanter half-filled with brandy.

“Good morning,” James announced as he made his way in. He bowed and was heartened when Eloise hurried up to him. Still wearing her night rail and dressing gown, she didn’t bother with a curtsy but stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. He kissed the top of her head as his gaze swept over the other three in the room.

Huntsford displayed what could only be described as an expression of annoyance.

Lady Huntsford looked haggard and perhaps a bit embarrassed.

Lady Stephanie, her eyes puffy and her nose red, had James determined he would never cause Eloise to cry.

“What’s happened? Is Edward all right?” he asked, loud enough for Lord Huntsford to hear.

“He’s fine,” Eloise replied. “But I’m so glad you’re here. We’re hoping you might know something.”

“About?”

“Lord Weatherby and some club called the Lyon’s Den.”

James stiffened. “Is this about the night Lord Fentley ended up the winner of Lady Beatrice’s hand in marriage?”

Four pairs of eyes stared at him, and James realized he would need to tell what he knew all over again.

He led Eloise to where she had been seated, and he took the adjacent chair. “I was there. At the behest of the owner, the matchmaker, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”

He proceeded to tell them the same story he had told the valet, deciding it best they come to their own conclusions about Lord Weatherby and his finances.

“Are you saying Viscount Eastman—Weatherby—was one of those vying for Lady Beatrice?” Stephanie asked as her spine stiffened.

About to agree that he was, James realized the young man might have been there for the same reason James was—to simply enlarge the pool of gamblers to ensure Lord Brougham didn’t win. “You would have to ask Lord Weatherby, my lady. If his finances are in good order, there would be no reason for Weatherby to compete for a forty-thousand-pound dowry,” he reasoned. “He would have been participating for the same reason I was.”

“His father left him a fortune, a half-dozen unentailed properties, and three coal mines,” Huntsford said. “I can’t imagine he would be after a dowry.”

“Oh,” Stephanie murmured before taking a shaky breath. “Perhaps the woman at the modiste’s shop had it all wrong then.”

James exchanged a questioning glance with Eloise before she whispered, “She heard some gossip at her final fitting early this morning.”

“Good God, how often does this sort of thing occur at this club?” Huntsford asked, directing his attention to James.

“I’m not sure, sir. It was the first time it happened while I was there, but I suppose it depends on how often a rich young woman of questionable virtue is looking to marry an aristocrat.”

“Or a rich young lady who has no hope of landing a husband in the usual manner,” Lady Huntsford said, her gaze falling on Eloise.

Eloise blinked, but it was Huntsford who responded. “Margy?”

The marchioness straightened on the settee as if she were girding her loins. “When I was last in London, I met with Mrs. Dove-Lyon. To learn what might be possible for Eloise…for El,” she quickly corrected. “In the event we were unable to arrange a suitable young man. I didn’t make any further arrangements, however,” she claimed.

James gripped Eloise’s hand. “Then I am glad to have found Lady El before you could, my lady. Bishop O’Malley will be marrying us in the chapel here tomorrow morning.”

“Uncle Butch was quite insistent,” Eloise added when she saw her mother’s look of surprise.

“Of course, he was,” Lady Huntsford said. “My brother always said he looked forward to the day he could preside over his nieces’ weddings.” She brightened after a quick glance in Stephanie’s direction. “Well, it seems there is a wedding to plan after all.”

“First, we’re going to have breakfast,” Huntsford stated, rising from his chair. “I’m starving.”

“I should get dressed,” Eloise murmured.

“You needn’t on my account, my sweet,” James whispered.

“After breakfast, Leicester and I are going riding while you three hens busy yourselves with both sets of wedding plans. We’ll be back in time for the bishop’s arrival.”

With that, the family made their way down to the breakfast parlor, James well aware of how Lady Stephanie’s opinion of him seemed much higher.

Why, even Lady Huntsford’s regard for him seemed to have improved, for during breakfast that morning, she said something about how good it was she was gaining another son. “And just think. Once Steph has married, I’ll have more sons than daughters,” she said with awe. “The girls will finally be outnumbered.”

James decided it best he not agree one way or the other.