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

Chapter Eleven

M elissa sat in the drawing room at the castle and clutched the letter with both hands.

Dear Lady Thumbridge,

It is with utmost urgency that I write to you regarding a matter of great import. The prince regent’s portrait, depicting him alongside his family, will be completed before the year’s end. Regrettably, Her Royal Highness declined to sit with her husband for the painting.

As a favor that may advance your own ambitions, the esteemed artist has agreed to study your form so that you may occupy her place in the portrait, as your form is closest to the princess. While I cannot mitigate the potential disgrace of having your visage replaced at a later stage, I assure you this arrangement is far less mortifying than the alternatives you face. I have secured His Royal Highness’s assurances that this is the last favor he’d ask of you, but he requests to keep the sketches.

Sincerely,

D-L

The last favor… This was her chance to leave the Prince’s court and be free. Mrs. Dove-Lyon had set the plan in motion.

“Lady Thumbridge, you have a visitor,” the butler said, and Melissa tucked the letter away, but her mind was still on Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s words. She was being used for her body after all, albeit not in the way that she’d feared. Mrs. Dove-Lyon had come through; she’d found a way out for Melissa. What Melissa had neglected was the ruined reputation because a former mistress had less respect than a current one. There was no way to salvage her name.

Angus jumped onto Melissa’s lap as if she were his personal chair and stretched his little neck. Melissa understood and complied, rubbed his soft head, and when her finger trailed over the tips of his ears, he twitched them.

“Perhaps you and I can find a cottage nearby so that Lexi can come to visit us with her child.” Melissa didn’t hide her sadness from the kitten. But the letter didn’t say anything about the debts being forgiven. Melissa could be free from the man she didn’t want, but she still couldn’t be with the one she wanted. Would Angus be her only companion in the years to come? Melissa couldn’t fathom how she could have fallen from grace so quickly. The bride of the year, the match of the season, and then the next thing she knew, she was widowed, stuck in mourning for a year, and then coveted in high society. It had been a whirlwind of the mood swings of the Ton, and she’d lived through too many in too short of a time to wish to return.

The afternoon sun’s soft glow illuminated the drawing room, casting warm hues over the rich tapestry and plush furnishings. Melissa sighed as she watched Angus, the mischievous kitten, play with a leftover ball of yarn. The curtain and fabric maker had left mere moments ago, leaving behind a colorful array of samples for the new castle curtains.

Just as she was about to untangle Angus from his yarn predicament, the butler entered, clearing his throat with practiced elegance.

“Lady Thumbridge, may I escort your guest in?” he asked.

Melissa nodded politely and looked up in surprise. She gently placed Angus on the settee, watching as he attacked the yarn with renewed fervor.

“Mister Richard Cosway, royal portraitist,” the butler announced and stepped aside, revealing a tall, lean man with an artist’s smock and an air of creative disarray. His dark hair fell in unruly waves, and his piercing blue eyes sparkled with intrigue.

“Good afternoon, Lady Thumbridge,” he said, bowing slightly. “I am Cosway. Mrs. Dove-Lyon sent me.”

Melissa’s heart raced. Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s arrangement promised a solution to her predicament. She didn’t want to return to court as a mistress, but she also didn’t want to remain near John while Herbert constantly reminded her of her disgrace. Her ties to Prinny were a predicament she could handle with Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s aid but Herbert’s disgust with her reputation was a disgrace she didn’t want to bring into a relationship with John. It was too much to bear such embarrassment under the same roof with the man she desired more than she’d ever met before. If she could only erase John’s memory—but that was wishful thinking.

If only her heart could cease its yearning. But the ache was relentless, binding her thoughts to John as if her very soul was tethered to him. Did he share even a sliver of the feelings that consumed her? Or was she just a foolish girl weaving fantasies from his kindness? The uncertainty gnawed at her, more excruciating than the prospect of enduring Herbert’s judgment. To lose John entirely—to never know the warmth of his affection—was a pain she couldn’t fathom. Her chest tightened at the mere idea, and a hollow, unbearable fear settled deep within her.

“Yes, the painting,” she said, trying to sound composed despite her sudden nervousness. “Please, have a seat.”

Melissa stood, feeling the cool air from the high ceilings in the drawing room. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting a warm glow over the tapestry-covered walls.

Cosway moved confidently, his presence filling the space as he set up his easel by the window. His eyes, red-rimmed and observant, seemed to take in the room’s every detail before settling on her. “Shall we begin? The light is perfect here,” he said, his voice a gentle invitation. “Please disrobe.”

“I beg your pardon?” Melissa felt a flutter of apprehension, her pulse quickening at the thought. The prospect of being his nude subject was even more intimidating than being the prince’s mistress. Her gaze drifted to the easel, imagining the blank canvas coming to life under his skilled hands, but she didn’t want to be the vulnerable subject exposed to her flesh.

At that moment, John stepped in. “I heard a visitor had arrived.” He surveyed the room, and Melissa felt the heat rushing to her face.

“The regent has sent me for a study to produce a portrait.” Cosway opened a small wooden box with charcoal sticks and sat down on a chair he’d pulled to the easel.

“In the nude?” John shot him a nasty look that made Melissa’s skin prickle. He stepped toward Melissa and met her gaze.

“Yes, I must.”

John’s mien darkened, and she saw the fiery jealousy in his gaze mixed with defiance and the hurtful resignation of a man who’d lost his title, thereby his footing to refuse the regent’s wishes. “Don’t do this,” he pleaded, and his voice came like a dagger to Melissa’s heart.

Of all people, she didn’t want John to see her as just Prinny’s mistress. An object…

But this was the moment to test how he truly felt and whether it warranted the embarrassment of being painted. Was there hope?

“Perhaps not entirely nude,” she said, a hint of ice in her tone. Her fingers brushed against the delicate folds of her gown, seeking reassurance, when she raised her chin and gave Cosway a steely stare. “He will chaperone.”

The painter nodded, an understanding spark in his eyes. “A sheer cloth, then,” he suggested, motioning to a gossamer fabric draped over a nearby chair.

Melissa agreed with a subtle nod, feeling the shift in her resolve.

Several minutes later, after the servants had brought in a room divider and Melissa needed to disrobe.

At first, her hands trembled as she reached for the hem of her gown, her fingers hesitating on the edge of the fabric. A flush burned across her skin, the weight of her decision pressing heavy on her chest. Disrobing in front of anyone would have been humiliating, but in front of John, it felt like baring her very soul. Her cheeks flamed as she glanced his way from behind the room divider at an angle that blocked the painter’s view but seemingly not John’s. She caught the flicker in his expression—a strange mix of confusion and yearning that jolted through her like lightning. For a fleeting moment, her embarrassment threatened to send her fleeing behind the safety of the divider, but then she saw it.

It was subtle, but unmistakable—a dark intensity that turned his eyes almost black, like storm clouds heavy with rain. He stood frozen, a man teetering on the edge of an abyss he couldn’t drag himself from. She’d never seen him so unguarded, his emotions etched so plainly across his face. It gave her strength. For once, she wasn’t the only one laid bare.

Melissa nodded faintly, signaling her acceptance of whatever unspoken battle they had just begun, and turned away without another word. Behind the divider, her hands steadied, though her pulse still raced unevenly. Peeling the fabric away, she couldn’t stop herself from imagining how his eyes might linger on her—a mix of desire and something deeper, something she dared hope for. When she stepped out, draping the sheer cloth around her shoulders like a fragile shield, her resolve had hardened. If this was her only chance to learn the truth of his feelings, she wouldn’t waste it.

Dragging the flimsy fabric behind her like a trail of spilled lava, she moved toward the settee with purpose. Her heart thundered, but she refused to falter. When she sat, the flowy material whispered around her, pooling at her feet in a manner she hoped seemed artful, though every angle had been calculated. Only her breasts and midsection were covered and she remained, vulnerable, but there was power in it too—a challenge that hung in the air between them.

Once she’d taken her place on the settee as the painter instructed, Cosway draped the regal red fabric over her and arranged the folds so they’d catch the right light. The fabric cascaded over her body in an almost royal manner as if Prinny’s claim clung to every part of her body and yet she felt more powerful—as if she were an actor on a stage. She felt a thrill of excitement and trepidation; the idea of being painted was both exhilarating and unnerving, not because of the painter but because John had entered the room and stood in the corner with his arms folded as if he were deciding whether to throw the painter out or to shoot him.

She met his gaze as he turned fully to face her. The shadows of the room softened his features, but nothing could hide the raw emotion in his eyes. He looked like a man who was trying—desperately—to cage something wild within himself. Melissa’s mouth curled into the barest trace of a smile, the tiniest flicker of triumph warming her. For all her shyness, she knew her effect on him now. She was sure of it.

“You look uncomfortable, John,” she said, her voice soft but laced with a daring edge. She smoothed the cloth over her thighs with slow, deliberate movements, tilting her head slightly. “Surely, you don’t need to watch over my virtue.” Her tone betrayed nothing of the trembling ache in her chest, but inside, she braced herself for his reaction like a duelist preparing for the first lunge.

His jaw worked, the muscle tensing as though he bit back a dozen unspoken words. He shifted slightly, the broadness of his shoulders blocking the wan light at the window. “Melissa,” he said, her name raw and low, sending a shiver through her that she prayed didn’t show.

“Hmm?” she answered, feigning innocence while her pulse thudded like the wild beat of a drum. She would push him. Just a little further. She had to know.

But he didn’t reply. Instead, he stayed locked in place, his eyes burning into hers, his restraint fraying before her eyes. That was all she needed. Embarrassment melted away, replaced by a boldness she hadn’t known she possessed. If this moment was all she could claim of him, she would make it unforgettable.

Cosway carefully unfolded his easel, its wooden legs creaking slightly as he adjusted it to the perfect height. He then retrieved a thin, delicate piece of charcoal from his artist’s toolbox, its dark, almost sinister surface promising the first lines of creation. Melissa watched with bated breath as he glanced up at her, his eyes capturing the rays of sunlight filtering through the damask drapes. She tried to remain as still as possible, acutely aware of the red fabric draped over her, its lustrous surface shimmering with hues of gold and orange. Each fold caught the light differently, creating a fascinating interplay that made the room feel alive with warm tones.

And in the back, standing behind the painter, was a red-hot glowering Adonis of a man whose eyes trailed from the sketch to her and back.

She couldn’t see the sketch and remained still, but it was scandalous, judging from John’s demeanor.

Thus, once she’d posed for several minutes, she felt the tension in her limbs ease, replaced by a quiet confidence—not because the painter’s pencil moved with purpose, probably capturing her form with every stroke, but because John’s gaze lingered upon her. The sound of graphite on paper was steady, almost like a heartbeat, grounding her in the moment.

She tried not to move so the fabrics kept her covered in all the right places. Melissa noticed John’s foot tapping rhythmically against the wooden floor, a subtle yet persistent sound punctuating the silent room with increasing urgency. Each tap resonated like a distant drumbeat, a sign of his mounting impatience.

The sunbeams advanced, tickling her face and adding a hint of warmth to her cheeks, which she hoped would not be too noticeable in the portrait. Her senses were keenly attuned to the moment, the smell of the charcoal blending with the slight tang of fresh paint wafting from Cosway’s chalks and charcoal and the other painting materials he took out of his valise one-by-one. She could hear the faint rustle of his smock as he moved, positioning himself just so before making more of the scritch-scratching sounds of the charcoal and brushes.

Fine particles of orange and gold dust seemed to dance above the paper affixed to a simple wooden board but Melissa’s attention was on John. As the artist fussed over his sketch, John’s fingers drummed on his thighs, the rapid movement a restless cadence. For some reason, he was frustrated with the sketch.

Well, Cosway was sketching her as he’d imagined her nude, and it was part of regaining her freedom from court and her financial independence from her husband’s debts. If John didn’t like it, then Melissa would still not pack and return to Brighton because the painting served another purpose. Even though Mrs. Dove-Lyon hadn’t told her the details, she knew it was vital to her goal. And that was John.

When Melissa looked at John, she had another thought: What if he liked the painting and wanted to see more of her?

For once, she wanted to live up to her reputation as a vixen, so she held her head high and was as patient as she could be.

John’s jaw clenched tightly, the muscle flexing beneath his skin as his gaze bore into the artist. He exuded a controlled energy, his eyes narrowing with each seemingly unnecessary stroke of the charcoal.

“Why aren’t you drawing her face?” John growled.

“It’s not of importance at this time, milord,” the artist continued without stopping to look at John.

But Melissa did.

She caught a glimpse of John’s hand gripping the back of his chair, veins prominent and fingers curled with a forceful grip. It was as if he held the chair to ground himself, preventing his growing agitation from spilling into the room. And then something else entirely spilled into the room.

Melissa’s heart pounded with a mix of embarrassment and dread as she watched Cosway work. The sight of John, looking so intensely at the sketch that she couldn’t see, only fueled her inner turmoil.

“Melissa,” John said. His voice was tight with contained emotion. “What is the meaning of this?”

Melissa turned, her eyes widening. “John! I—”

“Don’t move, milady,” The artist peeked out from behind the easel and gave her a stern look, his charcoal-sullied hand pointing upward to signal a halt.

“I am merely preparing a painting as commissioned. This is a study—”

John cut him off, his eyes never leaving Melissa. “You’re missing the point.”

“I beg your pardon?” Cosway set down the charcoal and rose to face John. “I’m appointed—”

“I don’t care what you’re appointed to do. You’re missing the point with the painting.” He eyed the sketch and narrowed his eyes. “Your study is not doing your subject justice.”

“Explain this, milord.” The older man turned beet red and looked up at John, who was a foot taller and yet took a menacing stance.

Melissa remained as calm as needed, sure the artist would return to finish sketching the fold of the fabric, when she noticed a tiny gray-striped paw tugging at the end of the fabric.

“Where’s her head?” John swung his arms out in frustration. “Where’s the sparkle in her eyes? The sheen in her golden-blond curls? The brightness of her smile?”

Melissa glanced to John.

Sparkling eyes?

A tug at the red fabric sent a shiver down Melissa’s spine. Instinctively, she moved her arm and held the fabric covering her legs, but her attention remained on John.

“You haven’t even spoken to her, so how do you plan to capture her essence in a sketch? There’s no background, no context. You’re completely overlooking her intelligence, her wit, her kindness.” John grimaced. “This is flat. Incomplete.”

“Milord,” the artist muttered, scratching his forehead and thereby spreading the charcoal over his face.

“Meow!”

Melissa quickly looked to the side, but Angus was nowhere to be seen.

“Isn’t it the task of a portraitist to capture the essence of the subject?” John pressed on.

The artist harrumphed and plopped back onto the stool behind the easel. “I’ve been trying to capture—”

“You didn’t capture anything except the perfection of her silhouette.” John shrugged and pointed at the sketch.

Melissa felt heat rising to her face, and she was sure that her complexion was even redder than the makeshift robe when the sheer fabric that had covered her was suddenly gone.

Of all the strange things that were happening at Starcliff Castle, this was at the top of John’s list. A lady was being painted. That was still acceptable, except that she was only draped in a sheer cloth.

Not any cloth, but a curtain sample.

He’d never look at the window dressings the same again now that he’d seen the most beautiful woman draped in them.

And the painter had been sent with an order from the prince regent.

John blinked at the odd order and pursed his lips when he considered that Melissa didn’t reject the scheme. There was more about her than met the eye, some secret that had him captivated.

And then more did indeed meet his eye.

John stood transfixed on the charcoal sketch in front of him, angry about the injustice the sketch did to Melissa’s beauty. He couldn’t quite explain it, but anyone who didn’t see how precious and perfect she was irritated him. The artist had captured the contours of a woman’s form with striking precision, each stroke of the charcoal bringing life to the paper. But as John studied the artwork, a noise startled him, leaving him momentarily breathless.

A sudden, loud meow shattered the silence, followed by a rustle and an unexpected shriek. John’s head snapped up, the world around him becoming a whirl of motion and sound. There, upon the settee, stood Melissa, her skin glowing in the soft light, utterly bare and caught in a struggle with a mischievous kitten. The tiny creature dangled from the end of the red satin she clutched desperately.

“Let go! Bad kitty!” Melissa’s voice filled the room, a blend of exasperation and horror, as she attempted to rescue the fabric from the kitten’s playful grasp.

Naked.

Melissa was completely naked.

For an instant, John’s mind froze as if the dazzling perfection had numbed his ability to think. But then John’s instincts took over. She was a lady, and he was the chaperone. A terrible idea, but the truth of the matter.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he approached the old artist, who seemed more amused than concerned by the unfolding chaos. Ignoring the man’s protests and the comical kicking of his short legs, John lifted him effortlessly and carried him to the door. The artist’s objections faded as John deposited him outside, the door closing with a definitive thud.

Back in the room, John found the key, turning it with a quiet click.

“Angus! No!” Melissa shouted, still standing naked and fighting for the fabric as if it were the last shred of decency.

As John approached Melissa, he shrugged off his coat, offering it to her as a shield against the moment’s vulnerability. It was the best use for the far too elaborate coat he owned, and he finally saw it for what it was—a cloth to warm. She accepted it with a grateful nod and allowed him to wrap her in the warm wool around her shoulders; her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and relief.

“I’m so sorry.” She looked down over her exposed chest and pulled the coat over her, wrapping it like a kimono.

She was slim and shivering, and her face blushed.

And John was sure he’d never been harder or more stomped by the sheer brilliance of her… smile?

“Ba-a-a-d kitty!” Melissa suddenly shouted in a dark voice in the direction of the armchair. “Angus! That was—”

John left his hands on her sides, but the moment overcame him, and he shook in mirth. “Brilliant kitten, Angus. Good boy.”

Melissa looked at him and gasped, her eyes wide open.

She batted her lovely long lashes, and John smiled. How could he not?

What Angus had achieved might have taken him months if he were to ever succeed in seeing the woman he thought about every night naked.

John approached, seeing how delicate Melissa’s frame was in his coat, the fabric heavy and hiding her perfect skin. Yes, he’d peeked. How could he not?

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice a mix of gratitude and something else, something deeper. She glanced around, half expecting Angus, the mischievous kitten, to dart into view, but they were alone.

John’s fingers lingered at her collar, the briefest touch that sent a shiver through her. “Are you all right, Melissa?” His voice was low, rough-edged with concern that only seemed to heighten the intimate air between them.

She nodded as the space between them seemed to shrink.

Their eyes locked, a silent understanding passing between them. Without another word, John leaned in, his lips capturing hers with a suddenness that made her gasp. The kiss was a torrent of sensation—her mouth soft and cool, the taste of her intoxicating. Her hands found their way to his chest, feeling his heart beating fast beneath her palms.

A soft sound of pleasure escaped her, and John responded in kind, deepening the kiss, his hand moving to cradle her face. The room around them seemed to fade, leaving only the two of them and the soft rustle of Angus somewhere in the shadows.

When they finally parted, breathless and wide-eyed, Melissa let out a shaky laugh. “I apologize for causing such a distraction,” she said softly, teasingly.

John smiled, brushing a thumb across her cheek. “A most welcome one,” he replied, his voice filled with a warmth that promised more than just words. She had distracted him indeed, not just in this moment but in life, too. Everything that had caused him pain seemed to fade when Melissa was near. With her, the air was crisper in the morning, the sun brighter at noon, the tea sweeter in the afternoon, and the nights hotter in his dreams. Yet, this was no dream. She was real, and he wouldn’t let her go.

At that moment, the study felt like the whole world, a place where time stood still, and a kiss had unlatched newfound hope within him. He’d woo her and untangle her from the attachment with the prince. The question that lingered in the air was how.