Chapter Nine #2
James took her hand and lifted it to his lips, suppressing his disappointment. But it mattered not. When she was his, he’d have the rest of his life to taste those lips.
She stiffened as he brushed his lips against her skin, and his heart ached at the distress in her eyes.
“There’s no need to fear me, Miss Flowers,” he whispered.
“I know.”
She spoke with such conviction in her voice, yet still the sheen of fear lingered in her eyes. Perhaps she thought he might do as other men did and take a mistress. Or perhaps she loved another—had been ruined by another. Was that why she’d come to the Lyon’s Den?
“Forgive me for asking,” he said, his cheeks warming at the notion of so intimate a question while under the scrutiny of the spiderlike creature in the corner. “Do you love another?”
She shook her head. “No,” she said. “You have my word, I do not love another man, and I never will.”
He kissed her hand again and her eyes darkened, with a flicker of something akin to desire.
His body responded and he shifted position to hide the swell in his breeches.
“Ahem,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said.
Curse her! Was she always to be watching, waiting, her sharp gaze penetrating into his very soul?
“I promise that I shall be faithful unto you, and only you, Miss Flowers,” he said. “I know you have no cause to believe me, so I shall speak honestly about the course of my heart.”
“N-no, there’s no need to…”
“There’s every need, Miss Flowers, if we are to be honest with each other. A successful marriage must be founded on honesty. Then affection, or even love, might follow.”
You really know how to woo a lady, don’t you?
He cringed at the mocking voice of his conscience.
“I’ll confess,” he said, “that I fancied myself attracted to—no, in love with—another. You remind me of her a little.”
She flinched, as if he’d driven a knife into her heart. Perhaps it was not the done thing to tell his betrothed that she reminded him of a past lover.
“It’s a weakness of my sex, I’m afraid, that we gain a knowledge of women before we marry,” he continued. “But I assure you that I now feel nothing for her. Less than nothing. I would not even deign to acknowledge her if I saw her again. I—”
He broke off as Miss Flowers let out a whimper.
“Lord Bedford,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, “I think you’ve made your point clear. Perhaps we might toast your betrothal with a glass of madeira? Cordelia, child, I think you’re in need of one.”
Her usual crisp tone had softened, and Miss Flowers nodded and wiped her eyes.
“Thank you, ma’am,” she said softly. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to…” She trailed off.
Did the two women share a connection other than Miss Flowers’s being a customer seeking a husband? Though James could not discern the face behind the black veil, Miss Flowers seemed to defer to Mrs. Dove-Lyon as if she were a subordinate rather than a customer.
But the moment passed. Their hostess poured three glasses and proclaimed a toast to the future Viscount and Viscountess Bedford.
James took a sip, relishing the rich, sweet taste that burst on his tongue and warmed his throat.
His betrothed, her hands shaking so violently that she was in danger of spilling her drink, swallowed it in a single mouthful.
“Excellent,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “Then that’s settled. I trust, Lord Bedford, that you have no objection to the ceremony’s taking place in this establishment?”
“I-I had thought to marry in the country.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. The terms of the contract state that the marriage must take place before you leave London. I can secure a special license. What say you to the day after tomorrow?”
James glanced at the distressed woman sitting next to him.
“Are you in agreement, Miss Flowers?” he said.
She stared at him, then lifted her eyebrows and turned her gaze to Mrs. Dove-Lyon, as if seeking reassurance. The veiled woman nodded in a gesture so small that James almost missed it.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m in agreement, Ja—I mean…Lord Bedford.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon picked up a bell and rang it. Shortly after—a little too quickly—the door opened and the masked youth appeared.
“Ah, Puck. Please escort Lord Bedford out while I have a word with Miss Flowers. The wedding is to take place on Monday.”
The youth clapped his hands and grinned. Then he gestured to James. “Come with me, Your Lordship.”
“May I not spend a little more time with Miss Flowers?” James said, unable to conquer the urge to do something—anything—to ease his fiancée’s distress.
“I’m afraid not,” came the reply. “But you’ll have plenty of time to spend with her when she becomes Lady Bedford.”
Miss Flowers visibly relaxed at Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s response, and leaned back in her seat with a sigh.
James rose and, suppressing the urge to kiss his fiancée’s hand again, followed the youth out of the parlor. After the door closed he paused, but the youth steered him away.
And rightly so, for it was the height of impropriety to eavesdrop.
But he had to admit a curiosity about the relationship between the two women.
Why the urgency with the marriage? And why was the woman who had paid Mrs. Dove-Lyon a fortune to purchase a husband, and chosen that husband herself, so distressed?
She must harbor a secret—something that might perhaps prevent him marrying her if it came out.
But with the youth ushering him away from the parlor and escorting him to the main doors in silence, James had no way of discovering what that secret was. He could only hope that it was not so scandalous that it risked destroying his name and his sisters’ futures.