Chapter Sixteen
R osilee had never seen a more handsome sight. The wind had whipped through his hair, giving him his wildest look yet, and his cloak billowed behind him as he strode up the stairs. She pressed a trembling hand to her lips, her gaze fixed on him as he ascended. The tension in the room thickened with every step he took, every soft echo of his boots muffled against the carpeted staircase. When he reached the landing, his eyes immediately locked with hers, and they refused to let go.
What had happened since she’d left?
Mrs. Dove-Lyon spoke before Rosilee could breathe even one word. “This is my establishment, Your Grace,” she said, her tone cold but measured. “No one causes a scene here.”
“You know who I am?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “I know everyone.”
“Be that as it may, Rosilee won’t be requiring your services. I shall provide her with all that she needs.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon tilted her head slightly, her veil swaying with the movement. “And what is it, exactly, that you offer her? More heartache? More rejection?”
The words hit Rosilee like a blow. How did Mrs. Dove-Lyon know? Was she that much of an open book?
“I offer her myself.” Blake’s voice cracked on the last, causing her whole body to jerk in response.
What had he just said?
“All of me. No more stubbornness, no more holding back. She’s my heart, my everything. And I won’t leave here without her.”
Oh, Holy Heavens.
Had the duke just said he loved her? Rosilee stood staring at the man, at a loss for words. Where was the man who had sent her to Stagbourne?
Mrs. Dove-Lyon tilted her head, as though weighing his words carefully, before shifting to look at Rosilee. The widow’s calculating gaze seemed to assess her, as if silently asking whether Rosilee would accept this declaration.
Blake came to a halt a few paces from her. His eyes—those piercing, stormy eyes—never left her face. But before he could speak, the mysterious man coughed.
“Glad to see you, brother.”
“Reaper,” Blake growled, his tone low, dangerous. “I’ll deal with you later.” To Rosilee, he said softly, “I’m sorry.”
It was everything she had wanted to hear, everything she had longed for—but the wound he had inflicted still throbbed painfully.
“I’ve been a fool,” he went on. “I thought I was protecting you, but I was just too afraid to face my own feelings. I love you, Rosilee. Without you, I am nothing. Please... do not do this. Don’t marry someone else. Marry me.”
Her breath caught in her throat. The words she hadn’t known she’d been dreaming of hearing were finally spoken. And yet, the sting of his rejection still lingered. He had pulled away from her before, brutally—how could she be sure he wouldn’t do it again?
“You wounded me more than you can know,” she whispered, her chin trembling.
“I know I did. I’m sorry, Rosilee. If you can forgive me, I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. Please let me.”
Rosilee stared at the man she’d come to love with all her heart. She said nothing, her mind and soul in turmoil within her. But as she looked into his eyes, glimpsed the raw sincerity there, something shifted inside her. Slowly, cautiously, she stepped forward and reached for his hand. The moment her fingers touched his, a wave of warmth spread through her, melting the icy barrier that had begun to erect in her heart.
“I don’t want anyone else,” she whispered. “I never did.”
“My, this is a rather touching scene,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “But it’s still a scene. And scenes must be paid for.”
“How much do you want?” Blake asked.
Rosilee cast a worried glance between the three people standing there.
“It’s not money I want.”
But before any of them could say another word, growls and loud crashes came from below, startling everyone into silence.
“Well, well, well,” a familiar voice— Baston —drawled, and Rosilee gripped Blake’s hand tightly.
Rosilee couldn’t help herself, she stepped up to the balustrade again, Blake hovering close at her back. Baston’s eyes settled on her instantly. Rosilee’s heart plummeted. That villain stood in the entrance of the gaming floor, flanked by two menacing figures!
A wicked smile curled his lips. “Isn’t this a lovely reunion? You had me fooled for a while, Lady Rosilee, slipping away like that, but I’m afraid nothing has changed.”
Hah! “ Everything has changed, Baston.”
“Is that so? But I’m afraid, Lady Rosilee, your brother’s fate still rests with me.”
Blake tensed beside her, his hand giving hers a reassuring squeeze. “You don’t have as much of an upper hand as you think,” Blake said.
Baston scoffed. “Don’t I? Your supposed advantage is naught but vapor. Those men sniffing around my home—yours, I presume?—they are no threat to me. The viscount and I are bosom friends.”
Hah! What friends? The lying blackguard!
“When last did you call on your bosom friend, being here in London and all?” Blake countered dryly.
“I have trust in my men,” the man snarled. “Yours are just ruffians for hire, aren’t they?”
What on earth were these men on about?
“Aren’t you the same ilk?” Blake bit out through gritted teeth.
“You would know, would you not, Your Grace? Since you too, hired me, a mere ruffian, to spy on Lady Rosilee?”
A soft curse.
Rosilee’s head whipped to Blake. “What is he talking about?”
That telltale tug on his cravat. Her hand snatched his. If the muttered oath hadn’t given him away, this certainly would.
“It’s not entirely like that, not the way he makes it seem,” he said gruffly, his fingers moving from his cravat to grasp hers.
“But it is something like that, correct?” How unbelievable! “Did you put Baston on my tail in the first place?”
“Christ,” Blake muttered, his face visibly flushing. His fingers twitched in hers. “My memory is a bit hazy.”
Reaper whistled.
“Your memory is just fine!” She yanked her hand away, eyes narrowing on this too-elusive duke. How he loved to keep things so deeply hidden! However, this was his character, was it not? Keeping things that he deemed might make him seem a monster tucked away?
But call her mad, she couldn’t help but feel a bit of joy at the lengths he had gone to keep her in his life—however obscurely. And even the lengths he had gone to in order to help her though he was probably—no, most definitely—the root cause of this mess, and could be found out as easily as not.
As lengths went, his were pretty lengthy.
She also couldn’t discount Leopold’s role in all this. Her brother had made his choices, too.
As had she.
“You are right,” Blake said softly. “I am to blame for all of your trouble.”
Rosilee didn’t dare look at Mrs. Dove-Lyon. Would this scene cause more problems? What would it cost? No, no, focus on Blake! “Well, I shall forgive you, but only this once. From now on—”
“Enough!” Baston bellowed, his voice echoing off all the objects of the room. A dark chuckle followed. “Viscount Fairchild, your precious brother, is safe... for now. But if you wish to see him alive again, I suggest you come with me, Lady Rosilee.”
Never!
But that look in his eyes, the glint there... Her blood turned cold.
Was Leopold safe?
Baston wouldn’t dare hurt a viscount, would he? Leopold! But then, there was no telling what this man would or would not do to get what he wanted.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s chuckle rang out. Ominous. “Cuthbert Baston, I’m at a loss as to who you believe yourself to be, but in the Lyon’s Den, I am the one who decides who marries whom. You do not own anything here. There are rules.”
“Acknowledged, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. Then, as per your rules of this Den, allow me to challenge the Duke of Crane for Lady Rosilee’s hand in marriage.”
Rosilee gasped.
No.
“I will not let you do this.”
Blake wove his fingers through Rosilee’s, the determination in her voice was unmistakable, as was her concern. Belated relief flooded him as he squeezed her hand for good measure, refusing to let go. He had her. She was his.
But Baston—Blake bit down on his jaw as he glared at the man who had swaggered up the stairs and now stood smugly beside Mrs. Dove-Lyon, his eyes gleaming with the arrogance of someone who had always gotten what he wanted, regardless of who suffered. Baston wasn’t just a nuisance; he was a danger.
“If you want a challenge,” Blake began, his voice steady despite the rage swirling inside him, “then by all means, I—”
“Accept,” Reaper’s voice rang out, and his half-brother stepped up even with him. “If you can beat any man here,” he made a dramatic motion with his hand that included the gambling floor, “with any challenge they bring forth, then I accept.”
Blake shot Reaper a sharp look, but the man only smiled wider, relishing the chaos he had stirred. All sharp edges and dark humor.
“I’ve had enough of these theatrics.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s calm voice cut through the tension. She stepped forward, her veil swaying slightly as she moved. “I don’t think any of you gentlemen realize exactly what it means to cross me or to disrupt my establishment.”
Blake’s gaze flicked toward her, and he pulled Rosilee up against him. Mrs. Dove-Lyon was not a woman to be trifled with, and every instinct told him that whatever she said next would carry far more weight than any challenge.
She lifted her chin slightly, addressing Baston directly. “You presume much, sir, coming into my Den and thinking you can make demands. You seem to have forgotten that I decide the terms here.”
Baston’s smug grin faltered slightly, but he squared his shoulders, unwilling to back down. “I understand, madam, but this is about honor. About—”
Blake snorted.
What honor?
Mrs. Dove-Lyon raised a hand, silencing him with a single gesture. “Honor? In this place?” Her laughter was low, mocking, and it echoed ominously through the room. “This is not a gentleman’s club, sir. There is no honor here, only deals made, debts collected, and games played. And as for you,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon continued, her voice smooth as silk but carrying the weight of iron, “you have insulted me. You have made demands in my establishment, and that carries consequences.”
Blake could see Baston’s confidence waning, his pale face going even paler as Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s words sank in.
“This is my domain,” she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “No one, not even you, Mr. Baston, leaves here without paying their debts. And your debt for this scene is now owed to me.”
Baston’s bravado faltered completely. He shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting toward the exit of the ladies’ gallery, but the guards at the doorway stepped up to block it. Back down the stairs, guards had also blocked the ways off the gambling floor.
“What are you saying?” Baston demanded.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon smiled beneath her veil. “I’m saying that you have crossed me, and there is always a price to be paid. You wanted a challenge? Very well. But now, should you lose, it will not be the duke or his brother you answer to—it will be me.”
Blake almost felt sorry for Baston.
Almost.
“Do you accept?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked, her voice deceptively gentle. “Or would you prefer to leave this matter unresolved and face my wrath now?”
Baston swallowed hard, but pride—or perhaps foolishness—forced him to shake his head. “I do not accept. Lady Rosilee—”
“Lady Rosilee nothing. She is under my protection.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon motioned to the men and in the next second, Baston was knocked out and dragged into another room through another door by the guards.
Rosilee gasped, and a murmur rippled through the room below, and Blake could feel the air shift, thickening with anticipation. The Lyon’s Den was no place for mercy. Baston, it seemed, had no idea what he had just walked into.
Neither did Blake, for that matter.
“Now,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon turned to Blake. “Shall we discuss your fee for causing a scene?”
Blake felt Rosilee tense beside him, her fingers tightening in his grip. He squeezed her hand in reassurance. “What will you do with Baston?”
“Oh, do not worry,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “I shall strip him bare. You don’t have to worry about him in the future.”
Blake nodded.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s smile didn’t waver as she assessed him. “Oh, do not look so tense, Duke. You will not be handled the same way. Though you, too, have unsettled the careful balance of my establishment, I find your devotion to Lady Rosilee admirable and a touch amusing. However, you will find that I do not indulge such commotions without cost.”
“I can see that,” he said in what he hoped was a polite tone. Mrs. Dove-Lyon was not a woman who offered mercy or favors out of kindness. Everything was a transaction. Christ, he hated this town. And this establishment didn’t even embody its darkest side.
Rosilee stepped forward, her chin held high. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon, I appreciate your protection, but Blake has done nothing wrong. If there is any fee to be paid, I will cover it.”
Instant protest welled in Blake even as his heart swelled. She was brave, far braver than she needed to be in a place like this, but this was not her battle to fight.
“No, I will pay it.”
The veiled widow stared at them. “Lady Rosilee, you misunderstand. This is not about who pays. This is about ensuring that all who enter my Den understand the weight of their actions. Your duke has caused a disruption, and that requires a resolution.”
Blake pulled Rosilee gently back to his side. “Name your price,” he said, his voice firm. “I’ll pay it.”
A murmur rippled from below the landing, as if the crowd had been waiting for this very moment. Even though they couldn’t see much, everyone was listening in rapt attention. Blake scowled. These people thrived on the drama of the Den, the twisted deals, the games of power. But it had nothing to do with him.
“As I said, it’s not silver or gold I want. I deal in other currencies here. Power, favors, secrets.”
Of course. Nothing was ever simple with places like this and women like her.
“You have quite a reputation,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon continued, her gaze flicking between Blake and Reaper. “All of the late Duke of Crane’s sons do. Dangerous ones. This could be quite useful to me in the future.”
Blake’s skin crawled. He didn’t like where this was going.
“In exchange for this... disruption,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, her voice dropping lower, “I will ask only for a favor. One that I may call to redeem at a time of my choosing.”
Blake’s stomach twisted.
A favor for Mrs. Dove-Lyon was no small thing. It could be anything—anything at all—and refusing her when the time came would be impossible if he accepted now.
“We accept,” Reaper said.
Blake glared at the man. “Who gave you permission to accept on my behalf?”
“I’m a son of the late Duke of Crane.”
Blake scowled, but he didn’t contradict the man. In any event, he wanted to walk out of this establishment, not be dragged out. “Very well,” he muttered. “One favor, to be called in at your discretion.”
The widow inclined her head. “Then the matter is settled,” she declared. “You are free to leave. All of you.”
Blake didn’t need to be told twice.
Without another word, he wrapped an arm around Rosilee’s waist and led her out of this Den of Disaster.