A Lyon Dares to Dream (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

Chapter One

Marianne paused on the upper gallery, her long fingers resting on the oiled wood of the banister as she listened attentively.

Voices drifted up from the marbled entrance hall of Fencham House.

Aunt Clementine had visitors, which was hardly surprising.

But something about the timing of this visit caused suspicion to rise in Marianne’s chest.

She brushed a long tendril of auburn hair away from her ear and strained to hear more. She could identify two women’s voices, which sounded low and refined. No, three. She knew by the rounded vowels that these were members of the elite.

But of course. She scuffed her satin slippers into the deep pile carpet. Who else would dare to call on Lady Clementine Sedgewick?

A distinctive girlish giggle caught Marianne’s attention and her spine stiffened reflexively.

There was no mistaking whose laugh it was.

Lady Burton, the Countess of Exeter. Marianne knew her to be a tall, statuesque woman with glints of steel in her eyes and in her hair.

A woman whose formidable appearance was entirely at odds with the breathless laughter she wielded as a weapon in the gilded ballrooms of the ton.

Many a nervous debutante, missing a step in the quadrille or stumbling on her partner’s toes, had been wounded by Lady Burton’s snigger.

Marianne’s mind raced. Lady Burton’s ball was the next much-anticipated event in the Society calendar. Were these great ladies of the ton gathering here to plan their strategy? To decide who was in favor, and who was out?

And where I fit into it all.

She leaned further over the banister, desperate to hear more, before sending up a silent prayer.

Please, not yet.

Behind her, someone cleared their throat and Marianne swayed precariously, before small hands pulled her back into safety.

“Gracious, milady. I thought you were going to fall.”

Marianne put a hand to her heart, which hammered beneath her lavender day gown. “So did I, for a moment.” She exhaled and gathered her composure. “Thank you, Andrews.”

Andrews was a tidy, self-possessed young woman with short brown hair and clear blue eyes. She smiled but kept her voice low. “Lady Burton and Lady Amberley have come to call on your aunt.” She nodded toward the entrance hall.

“Ah, Lady Amberley. I had not guessed the identity of the third.” Marianne held her maid’s eye. “Then my worst fears are realized.”

Aunt Clementine had no fondness for Lady Amberley, but the latter was a patroness at Almack’s, which made her a useful ally. Marianne was keenly aware that Aunt Clementine would make full use of her connections when it came to the awkward business of relaunching her niece into Society.

Andrews’s gaze remained steady. She had served Marianne since the early days of her marriage, never faltering in her loyalty despite the accusations and unpleasantness that followed.

“You’ve been officially out of mourning for some months now,” she began tactfully.

Marianne sighed. “And so, it is time.”

“Your aunt certainly thinks so.”

To Marriane’s horror, tears filled her eyes.

“I do not think I can do it.” She shook her head to dispel the black-edged memories of her first season.

“I’m sorry.” Her vision blurred but there was no mistaking Andrews’s anxious expression.

“Pay me no heed.” She fished in her pocket for a lace handkerchief and dabbed the traitorous tears away.

“It will not be like last time, milady.”

“It will be worse.” Marianne blew her nose. “Back then, I was a well-connected young woman with only my father’s gambling debts to besmear my reputation. Now I am old and already labeled an adulteress before I even set foot in a ballroom.”

Andrews pursed her lips. “Twenty-nine is not old.”

Despite her high emotions, Marianne’s lips inched into a smile. “But I am labeled an adulteress?”

Andrews stepped forward and smoothed the ruffled sleeves of Marianne’s gown. “Anyone who believes the rantings of Victor Chawton is as deluded as he is. As he was,” she corrected herself. “God rest his soul.”

“Unfortunately, there are a great many deluded people in Society.” Marianne sighed. “And gossip clings, we both know that.”

The two women looked at one another for a long moment. Something flashed in Andrews’s eyes and Marianne waited for her to speak, but her maid only shook her head.

It was not fair to involve Andrews in more drama. Goodness knows, she had been through enough.

Marianne lifted her chin, bracing herself for the inevitable. “Am I summoned downstairs?”

“I was sent to fetch you, milady.” Andrews hesitated.

“What is it?”

“Perchance I could not find you?” Andrews offered. “Perchance you went out with Nanny and Master Toby.”

“You are offering me an escape?” Marianne lifted her eyebrows.

“A temporary reprieve, should you wish to take it.”

But Marianne’s heart was heavy at the thought of her three-year-old son. “Perchance I should have gone out with Nanny and Toby.”

Toby was never happier than when he was outside and Marianne was a big believer in the well-being benefits of fresh air. Mother and son had often enjoyed long walks over the meadow and played many games of chase in the garden of Medstead Hall, their former home.

Alas, Fencham House was a place for genteel conversation, not running or laughter.

And since arriving in London, Marianne had gone outside as little as possible.

When she did, people stared. Her close resemblance to Aunt Clementine, one of the grand dames of the ton, made her instantly recognizable, and Aunt Clementine disliked attracting that sort of attention.

It was easier for everyone if Marianne stayed indoors.

Which meant that her beloved son had only Nanny to take him on his walks through the park.

Which was likely a contributory factor to him becoming increasingly quiet and withdrawn.

When was the last time I heard my son laugh?

Lost in thought, it took Marianne a moment to realize that Andrews was looking at her expectantly.

“You should leave now, milady. Before Hudson comes to find us both.”

Marianne shuddered. Hudson was her aunt’s maid who made no secret of her disdain for both Marianne and Andrews.

“But I am not dressed to go out in public.” Marianne looked down despondently at her plain dress and indoor slippers. “And it will take too long to change.”

“Go down the back staircase and out into the herb garden,” Andrews suggested.

Marianne’s heart lifted at the thought of fresh air and freedom. She grasped Andrews’s hand.

“Just one favor?”

Andrews smiled knowingly. “Of course, milady. I will bring down your book.”

Bar the disapproving Hudson, Marianne found the staff at Fencham House to be kind and helpful.

Jeffrey, the young gardener, had rigged up a rope swing in the herb garden so that Master Toby could play out of sight of his aunt.

It was to this swing that Marianne headed, book in hand.

The day was warm, and the air was pungent with fragrance from pots of lavender and mint.

A tall yew hedge separated the herb garden from the formal lawns and meant that no one looking through the large window in the drawing room could see her.

Marianne lowered herself onto the wooden swing seat and tilted back her head, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her face, despite the danger of freckles.

No doubt she should be wearing a bonnet or carrying a parasol.

But Marianne was an only child, raised by her father deep in the Suffolk countryside.

They had cared little for such things. And now that she was a widow with a blackened reputation, she hardly thought a freckled nose would make a difference to her prospects.

Her father had passed away shortly before Toby’s birth, but she still heard his familiar baritone speaking to her at different times.

Whether this was her subconscious or simply a deep and true knowledge of his likely response to any given situation, it still gave her comfort.

He spoke now, as commanding and authoritative as ever.

Mary Annie. You have to play the best game you can with the hand you have been dealt.

She frowned. What did that mean? Should she be sitting in Clementine’s cream-and-gold drawing room, making polite and insincere conversation with two women who would titter with derision as soon as her back was turned?

Is that what her father would have wanted?

Should she be accepting Clementine’s decree that she reenter the marriage market because, in her aunt’s words, she and Toby needed a male protector?

She pushed this final thought away. It was too uncomfortable, especially with her thirtieth birthday just days away.

Marianne opened her book and tried to concentrate on the story, but the words would not stay still on the page. She could summon little interest in the welfare of a capricious heroine when her own safety hung so much in the balance.

Do not let your imagination run away with you.

This time, it was her husband Victor speaking scornfully in her mind. His favored retort to almost any complaint or challenge was that Marianne’s imagination had run amok.

You do not live between the pages of one of your books.

Marianne glanced down at the pretty book cover and thought that was a shame. She would much prefer to live the life of Lizzie Bennet, with sisters who loved her and a father safe in his study.

And no wretched in-laws plotting her downfall.

Stop it.

She kicked off from the flattened grass and leaned back on the ropes of the swing so that she glided through the August air like a carefree young maid.

Lady Burton and Lady Amberley would be most shocked to see her skirts flying and her unbound hair trailing on the ground, but Marianne allowed herself this fleeting moment of defiance against the walls that closed in all around her.

“Mamma.”