The Lyon’s Legacy (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

Chapter Eight

T he walls outside the stables felt colder than they should, though the day itself was warm. Melissa pressed her back against the rough wooden surface, her breath shallow as she heard the voices inside—John’s low and firm, Herbert’s young and cutting. The boy’s words sliced at her like tiny shards of glass, lodging deep before she could even process them.

Her throat tightened as she listened, the knot in her chest growing heavier with each sentence. “Less.” That word echoed louder than anything else, bouncing around her mind in a way that made her stomach churn. Herbert, barely thirteen, already saw her as less. Less deserving. Less respectable. Less worthy of even common decency. And wasn’t he right?

She swallowed hard, her fingers trembling at her sides. Of course he was. Melissa was always trying to be more, always reaching upward to some imaginary place where things would feel steady. She had grasped for so long, tried so hard—attending every ball in her first season with desperate, aching smiles and words polished to please. She had made herself agreeable, pliant, everything a man might want. And it had worked, hadn’t it? She had gained a husband, but never his heart. He’d been proper and kind enough, formal in public and distant in private. A marriage of convenience for him, and for her? A shallow victory.

Melissa clenched her jaw, her nails scraping lightly over the rough surface of the wall. Somewhere along the way, in trying to find meaning, she had begun giving—too much and too often. She gave her smiles, her time, her favors. It wasn’t long before Prinny had become part of that pattern. At first, she didn’t even know how the line had blurred, how she’d slipped. One day she was an earl’s daughter, an amusing presence at court. The next, she was… was this.

Her chest burned with shame. She hadn’t thought about it that way before, not with such clarity, but standing here now—listening to Herbert dismiss her, hearing how little she seemed—it twisted something inside her. She’d tried so hard to be more, but wasn’t that the cruelest irony? She had ended up being even less.

Her fingers lifted to her cheek, brushing at a tear she hadn’t noticed falling. And then another. When her shoulders quivered softly, she felt the air press against her as if even it wanted to push her away. Herbert’s opinion shouldn’t matter. He was just a child. But it wasn’t really his voice that hurt. It was her own—the echo of every doubt, every private fear hidden beneath brave smiles and gracious nods. It wasn’t about how Herbert saw her. It was about how she saw herself.

But John.

She closed her eyes tightly for a moment, as if shutting off the outside world would somehow stop the storm inside her chest. She had overheard it all—his voice, filled with such weight and resolve. He had defended her, insisted she was worthy of respect, family, kindness. But was it enough? Did he truly believe that, deep down? Or had he said it only because she was Lexi’s sister, a kindness done out of duty, not conviction? Her tears streamed warmer now, faster. She wanted—no, needed —to believe that John meant it. Because she could bear many things, face many judgments. But not his.

The door creaked lightly in the distance, and Melissa startled, stepping away from the wall instinctively. The quiet thud of John’s boots filled the air as he stepped out of the stables, still guiding Herbert along beside him, their voices low now. She waited until they were far enough, out of sight, before pressing her hands tightly to her mouth to stifle a sob.

It wasn’t just John’s voice that shook her—it was the fear clawing inside her chest. She had already made herself less in her own eyes. But what she couldn’t bear, what would truly undo her, was being seen as less by him. John’s respect mattered in a way no one’s had before. For the first time in a long time, she wanted to stop fighting against herself. She wanted to believe… that she could be more—not for the world, but for him. That hope, fragile and precious, terrified her.

So she ran toward the house without looking back.

Tears continued to slip silently down her cheeks as she turned away, nearly sprinting back. The sunlight glinted softly on the grass, but she barely noticed, her thoughts circling too tightly. She would take this moment—the hurt, the shame, the hope—and hold it close, letting it settle like a stone in her chest. Only later would she decide whether it would weigh her down, or help her find her feet once more.

Time to stop this, Melissa decided when she arrived in her chambers.

She glanced down, brushing a stray blade of grass from the hem of her dress, a small, idle gesture that gave her hands something to do as her thoughts unraveled. London. She needed to return to London and stop Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s plan. There was no other choice. Staying here, close to John, would only lead to heartbreak—for both of them. Her love for him, quiet but fierce, was the very reason she had to leave. His life, so carefully built, couldn’t afford the scandal that clung to her like shadows. She crossed the room to her writing desk, her steps steady despite the tremor in her chest. Melissa reached for a sheet of paper to send word to Mrs. Dove-Lyon, but her fingers faltered. It was then the cold realization struck her—the painter had already been hired. The plan she thought she could quietly undo had already moved beyond her grasp. Pressing her lips together, she shut her eyes for a brief moment, forcing herself to stay composed. Time was running out, and now, her escape would have to be even swifter.