Chapter Four
“How did it go?” Annabelle Swanley, Alyssia’s most cherished confidante, accosted her the moment she stepped inside her friend’s home. Alyssia had been living here temporarily ever since her family had retired to their estate in Kent following her mother’s sudden indisposition a month ago.
Annabelle drew her into the nearest drawing room. “Well?”
“It went as uncomfortably as expected,” Alyssia said, allowing herself to be dragged to the settee and to have a glass of sherry pressed into her hand. She took a sip, the sweetness coating the tightness that had formed from her encounter with Giles. Indeed, it had been the entire day thus far.
He was alive. And well. And dangerously . . . something. Darkly appealing. Daring. Warm and cold at the same time. A touch pitiful.
“Tell me everything.” Her friend pouted. “I still cannot believe you left me behind.”
“I left you behind because I don’t want to drag you into this mess. Plus, you had to hold the fort during my absence here.”
“I, your ever-devoted ally, am perfectly willing to be dragged into any and every mess with you. Though,” she added with solemnity, “I do take great pride in fort-holding when required. I’m happy to hold any fort, anywhere. I am the fort-holding queen.”
“All right, I hear you ever so clearly.”
They clinked glasses.
“So, tell me, who are you wedding? Do I know him? What was the game? I heard there were all sorts of things men do there.”
Alyssia sighed. Where to begin? She herself hadn’t gathered all her wits about her yet. “There were five candidates originally. A last-minute addition was entered just before the game started. They had to drink vile drinks. I am to marry the man who could withstand the most rounds.”
“Heavens, it sounds so barbaric.”
“Well, you would be right about that.”
“They had to fight for your hand.”
Not true. “They didn’t know they were fighting for me.” Here came the truth. “Except for one man. Also, the man who won.”
Her friend’s eyes turned to saucers. “Wait, how? Doesn’t the widow pride herself on discretion?”
“I insisted on watching from the balcony.”
“You were recognized? And he then played for your hand? Who is it?”
Alyssia took another sip before admitting, “Giles Bishop.” She still couldn’t quite believe it. In fact, if Annabelle pinched her right now and claimed it was all a dream, Alyssia would believe her.
“Giles Bishop?” Her friend blinked at her. “Giles . . . Bishop . . . Giles Bishop. Wait, why does that sound suspiciously like the name of the man you were betrothed to since birth?”
She remembered. “Because it is the very same man.”
“Didn’t he perish in a carriage accident with his parents?”
Alyssia grimaced, emptying the contents of the glass and setting it aside. “Apparently not.”
Annabelle gaped, her mouth open long enough for Alyssia to wonder if she’d lost the ability to close it.
“So he returned then?” her friend finally asked. “Is he going to claim his title? What happened all those years ago? Wait, no, sorry. You don’t have to answer all that right now. You must still be in shock!”
Yes, well. Her nerves might never recover. “I honestly don’t know what to think.” Except she was marrying the man she’d always meant to. Be that as it may, the circumstances had completely changed. She no longer cared for her heart to be engaged.
“Did you get a chance to speak to him?”
Alyssia nodded. “Yes, but I don’t believe we were in the right state of mind to hold a conversation. He collapsed at the end.”
“And?”
“And what? I left him there.”
“You left him there? Stars, Alyssia! You’re going to marry the man.”
Her lips hitched upward. “You know my terms. Even though we have history, that won’t change.”
“But he’s a duke, isn’t he? A duke requires an heir.”
She couldn’t think about that now. Lawd, not ever! The man, even on the brink of death, was deuced handsome. “Well, there is still his uncle to provide one.”
Annabelle pressed a hand to her chest. “This is beyond . . . anything I could ever have imagined.”
“Quite right.”
Her friend filled their glasses again. “How are you feeling about the marriage? I know you are still shocked, and you still wish a marriage of convenience, but this is your former betrothed. Betrothed again.”
“It’s hardly a betrothal.”
“Oh?” Annabelle raised her brow, sipping her sherry. “What would you call it?”
“An arrangement.”
“Mmm. The very definition of a betrothal.”
“Except for the word.”
“Which you are avoiding. Got it. Wait, what did he say to you being at that place?”
Alyssia scoffed. “What can he say? Both our lives took unexpected turns.”
“Ah, so he wasn’t happy then.”
Alyssia rolled her eyes. “Does that even matter?”
“I suppose not. But this is a man you were once connected to and will marry now. How do you feel? Besides shocked and stubborn, that is.”
“Ask me that tomorrow.”
“Very well, then, tell me this: How did he look? Handsome? Rakish? Short? Tall? Stout?”
“Annabelle!” A reluctant laugh escaped Alyssia. Trust her friend to lighten the mood. She hadn’t realized how much it had been oscillating until she’d returned.
“Well, I’m going to see him at the wedding, you know. You might as well confess.”
The wedding.
Until now, she’d thought she’d done a rather good job of not thinking about it, though the entire day had been, most decidedly, about it.
She dared not dwell beyond each passing moment.
Better to focus on the plan: marry, remove herself forever from the reach of the blackguard who’d ruined her, silence the whispers that had followed, and only then worry about what came next.
“Well,” Annabelle said thoughtfully, “you could still run away to Scotland.”
Alyssia took a sip. “Fanciful thinking.”
“I am practical. If one must run, one may as well run somewhere picturesque.”
“I wish practicality were as simple as it sounds,” Alyssia said, then admitted, “Part of me wants to throw teacups at the man; another part wishes I’d never see him again. And a small, most unreasonable part will be even more unsettled if I don’t.”
Annabelle reached across, squeezing her hand. “You are allowed to feel all those things. I would be beside myself too if I were in your shoes. And perhaps a little . . . how do I put this delicately?”—her friend winked—“distracted, if he’s as handsome as you say.”
“I did not say he was handsome.”
“You didn’t have to. Your face said it for you.”
Alyssia scowled, though her lips twitched. “You are impossible.”
“So, when is the wedding?” Annabelle asked.
“We’ll be wed after he procures a special license in the upcoming days.
” Who knew how long it would take for the man to wake up from his sleep.
He would be all right, wouldn’t he? Mrs. Dove-Lyon had assured her she would see to him, and she trusted that the widow would make good on their transaction.
A pinch of guilt stole over her.
You couldn’t very well bring him home.
“Where shall you wed? Do you have any idea?”
Alyssia sighed. “That, my friend, I do not know.” Her brow furrowed in worry. “Are you sure you won’t get into trouble once your family learns the truth?”
Annabelle waved a hand. “You forget, they’ve been shielding you from those rumors and that man. Do not worry so much. We are on your side.”
Her friend was right. The Swanley family had been her rock after that nightmarish ordeal.
Without their protection, word would surely have reached her family in Kent by now.
But Annabelle’s brother, Lance, had assured her they were keeping matters tightly contained.
How, she couldn’t say. Knowing Lance, though, it was likely pure intimidation.
If not for the family’s intervention, scandal would already be blazing through every drawing room from here to Mayfair.
However, there seemed to be a slight obstacle that she and Giles hadn’t discussed yet: the matter of him being hidden.
How would that work? How would they be able to clear up the rumors if his identity could not be revealed?
Well, the past had risen from the grave.
All she could do now was wait and see what else would follow.
But if Theodore Giles Bishop had any hope for them to return to how they once were, he was in for quite the surprise.
Bishop woke to an unfamiliar room. The Lyon’s Den?
Christ, he couldn’t muster up the strength to even care.
Every bone in his body protested, as though it had been passed over by several carriages.
For a moment, he couldn’t tell if he was in a bloody dream, or if the afterlife looked like a bloody bedchamber.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s doing?
He thought . . . not?
Christ, his head throbbed. His throat felt like gravel.
When he tried to move, the world tilted sideways and his stomach damn near pitched with it.
He forced himself upright, though every muscle protested.
His coat was gone. His boots too. Someone had stripped him down to his shirt and trousers, rolled sleeves exposing the faint scars that crossed his forearms.
The last thing he remembered was Alyssia, her countenance bloodless and determined. Also furious. Somewhat concerned. Then darkness.
Hell and damnation.
He’d made it to her, at least. There were moments he’d doubted he’d be able.
Heh. The last time he’d pushed himself to that extent had been when he escaped his uncle’s cutthroats.
This, however, might have been worse. He could not place his whereabouts, but one thing was certain.
He’d fainted like a blasted invalid, and if the devil himself hadn’t claimed him in shame yet, he soon might.
The door opened and a man stepped in. He froze when their gazes locked. “Oh, you’re awake.”
Bishop scowled. He didn’t have to ask the man’s name, he damn well knew as clear as the sun rose in the morning. “How are you here?”
“This is my house.”
“How the devil—?” He cut himself off as his brain put the pieces together. “Dove-Lyon.”