Chapter Eleven
The Lyon’s Den
London
Two nights later—the night of the dinner
“Good evening, Lady Sinclair.”
“Good evening, Lord Capel.”
Their greeting was civil. Polished. Deceptively ordinary. But the current between them suggested otherwise.
Only minutes earlier, Lex had been standing near the bar with Basil, brandy in hand, when he caught sight of her.
He’d been expecting her, of course.
She’d entered the room just as Basil was relaying some anecdote about an especially humiliating cricket match. Lex never heard the end of it.
She was radiant—not the over-polished shine of a debutante or the cloying shimmer of a social climber, but something far more arresting.
She wore an empire-waisted gown of sage-green gauze, embroidered with delicate silver thread that sparkled in the candlelight.
The color set off her copper hair and warm brown eyes with devastating effect.
The fabric floated around her like mist, clinging in all the right places before settling softly as she paused to observe the room.
Lex’s chest tightened. Her posture was poised, her expression calm. And yet something was simmering just beneath the surface—a quiet fire that made every man in the room take notice. Which made his teeth grate.
Basil let out a low whistle. “Your quarry arrives,” he said, not without humor.
“Hardly quarry,” Lex muttered, unable to look away. “She’s more like a siren.”
“Don’t get too close, then,” Basil said, already sliding over to intercept Charles. “You know what happens to men who chase sirens.”
With one smooth maneuver, Basil drew Charles into a discussion about fencing schedules and local gossip, leaving Lex exactly where he wanted to be: at her side.
“You look…well,” he said, then cleared his throat. It was the closest he could come to ravishing in polite company.
“So do you, Lord Capel,” she replied, her tone gracious but edged with curiosity. “I see you are as punctual as ever.”
His lips twitched. “What can I say? We must put our trust in Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s reputation.”
She tilted her head, eyes gleaming. “And what reputation is that? As a gambling doyenne or as a matchmaker?”
“Both. Though tonight, I’m banking on the latter.”
Her laugh—soft and genuine—warmed him from the inside out.
He studied her face, closer now, and caught the small details: how the right corner of her luscious mouth lifted slightly higher when she smiled, making the expression feel both playful and somewhat hesitant.
And that exquisite upper lip—marked with the faintest indent, as though designed for trouble, begging to be kissed.
“Do you not find it strange,” he said, lowering his voice, “how a single meeting can disrupt your peace of mind?”
She arched a brow. “What sort of meeting? A glance across a ballroom? A brief encounter on a garden path?”
“Or,” he said, leaning in just slightly, “in the dark hallway of a gambling den.”
Her lashes dropped. “I remember.”
“I thought you might.”
“And what, exactly, did that encounter tell you?” she asked. “Beyond the obvious?”
“It told me that I was in trouble.”
She laughed again—richer this time, but hushed. A private sound meant only for him.
“It also told me,” he continued, “that you are not at all what I expected. You blinked three times, as though weighing whether to run. You didn’t. You tilted your head—not away, but toward me. Curious. Bold. And when you smiled…it wasn’t polite. It was real.”
“And all of that led to what conclusion, my lord?”
“That in a single moment, everything I thought I wanted shifted. And I’ve not been the same since.”
A flicker of uncertainty crossed her face, quickly masked by a practiced grace.
“Dare I ask,” she said, voice low, “if you’ve ever felt that way before?”
He didn’t hesitate. “No.”
“And yet you claim to know what it means?”
“I know what it means now.”
She studied him, a smile playing at her lips. “That’s either very poetic…or very dangerous.”
“I suspect,” he said, “it’s a little of both.”
Before she could reply, the majordomo’s voice rang out over the gentle hum of conversation.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon.”
A ripple of anticipation passed through the room as the infamous proprietress made her entrance, swathed in deep-plum satin, her presence as commanding as a queen’s. A half mask of black lace veiled her eyes, concealing her identity—as always. It added to the mystery. To the myth.
Dinner was announced, and Lex’s heart sank when he discovered he’d been seated three places down from Edwina.
To make matters worse, Lord Hammond—that smug nitwit—had been seated beside her and seemed far too familiar for Lex’s liking.
At least Basil was the other bookend. He caught Lex’s glance and winked, which reassured Lex enough to keep him from reaching across the table and strangling the blackguard.
He took his seat, jaw tight. The game had shifted—but he wasn’t about to fold.
Winnie had never met anyone like Lord Capel.
Not only was he the most handsome man she’d ever laid eyes on—broad shouldered, hair as dark as a raven’s wings, and wickedly self-possessed—but he was something else entirely.
Intriguing. Bold. He didn’t orbit the room like the other eligible men, puffed up and preening.
No—he prowled, watching everything with those sharp blue eyes that had burned into her from the moment they met.
And worse—he saw her. Not just her fortune, her lineage, or her reputation. He looked at her as though she were a puzzle he intended to solve.
She’d never fantasized about a real man before.
She was not that kind of woman. But with Lord Capel, her mind had betrayed her more than once.
She imagined what it would feel like to have those large hands slide down her spine, to lean into the press of his lips, to hear her name spoken in that low, velvety voice when no one else was listening…
Winnie blinked hard and sat up straighter.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Dove-Lyon had seated him several places down—across the table—where he now entertained the full, unfiltered attention of not one but two women.
On his right, a voluptuous blonde in a scandalously low-cut scarlet gown laughed a little too loudly at whatever he’d said, nearly toppling out of her bodice in the process.
Her décolletage could scarcely be contained, and Winnie swore she saw the earl’s gaze flick downward—only for a moment, but it was enough to make her blood heat. Beast!
On his left, a sharp-featured brunette leaned in far too closely, her gloved hand grazing his sleeve as she whispered something that made him smile.
Smile.
The very same smile he’d given Winnie not half an hour ago.
A ripple of something unfamiliar moved through her. Not anger. Not exactly. But the smallest, sharpest pang of…jealousy.
She hated it.
And yet she couldn’t look away.
The long table was elegantly dressed in white damask linen and set for twelve guests, a vision of restrained opulence.
Crystal vases held roses fresh from the garden—blush pinks and deep reds—filling the air with their sweet perfume.
The place settings glittered with polished sterling and fine Limoges china, while each guest’s name was inked in an elaborate script on thick ivory cards.
Not that anyone needed them. Everyone knew why they were here.
At the head of the table, seated in a throne-like chair of dark, carved mahogany, was the formidable Mrs. Dove-Lyon.
The candlelight caught in her silver-streaked hair and the violet satin of her gown, giving her an almost mystical glow.
She raised her crystal goblet and gently tapped it with the stem of her spoon.
The room fell quiet.
“As we are, for the most part, strangers,” she began, her voice clear and commanding, “I suggest we introduce ourselves using only our given names. I am aware many of you are titled—but titles can be barriers to conversation. I would much prefer we speak tonight as equals, as individuals, rather than as social constructs. It allows for greater intimacy.”
A ripple of polite surprise moved through the room, followed by intrigued murmurs.
Winnie couldn’t help but admire the woman. It was an unusual request—bold, even—but it instantly changed the air. Formality dissolved. Curiosity bloomed. It was precisely the sort of maneuver someone like Mrs. Dove-Lyon would make—subtle, clever, and entirely effective.
As the introductions began, Winnie allowed herself another glance across the table.
Lex was speaking again, effortlessly charming both women beside him.
The blonde giggled like a schoolgirl. The brunette had angled her chair toward him entirely, as though attempting to eliminate the space between them.
He laughed—softly, indulgently—and took a sip of his wine.
Winnie’s grip tightened slightly on her fork. The thought of impaling the buxom brunette crossed her mind.
She wasn’t sure what irked her more—that they were flirting with him…or that he didn’t seem to mind.
Still, when he looked up, across the roses and candlelight, his gaze found hers—and held it. His eyes lingered for a beat too long to be casual.
His smile curved again. This time slower. More deliberate.
And the flutter in her chest told her she hadn’t imagined a thing.