Chapter Two #2
“Neither,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon replied. “There will be a series of three common parlor games, the rules of which you may already know. Each round will conclude with some players being eliminated. By the end, three of you will remain, each able to walk away with a bride of impeccable connections, capable of filling your coffers.”
“That doesn’t seem terribly bad, does it?” Mr. Osbourne said. “Far better than having to negotiate a ballroom, I would think.”
While the idea of paying even a shilling to play charades sounded dreadful, given Tom’s experience with the social season thus far, he was inclined to agree.
“The games will be played over the course of the week,” she continued, “and will begin this very evening. By Friday, three of you will have a wife.”
By Friday. That seemed very reasonable. Quite reasonable, in fact.
While it wouldn’t give him enough time to wed if the banns were read, procuring a special license would provide him a bride before his birthday—a bride that would help reestablish Tom as a genuine member of the ton.
And since he had not a single iota of interest in anything more than a marriage in name, whether or not any of the ladies on offer warmed his heart or his bed was quite beside the point.
“May I ask the names of the ladies?” he asked.
“You will meet them this evening, should you choose to enter,” she replied. “But do not fear, each of them will more than satisfy your requirements.”
In a move that only a few short months ago would have been inconceivable, Tom dropped his name and the promise for the entry fee into the basket held by one of her servants.
In return, he was given a ticket and instructed to return to this room at seven o’clock to meet the ladies and start with the first of the three games.
He left, intent on sending a note back to his family home, indicating his change of plans, and that he’d been invited for a social evening of parlor games.
He would send the note off with a servant and tried not to feel a smidge of guilt over the vague lie.
The viscount knew Tom was on the bride hunt, but had no idea that Tom was choosing this somewhat scandalous but, in Tom’s eye, quite practical method of going about it.
Tom passed along the note to a servant then made his way to the gaming tables. While he wasn’t particularly interested in another game of chance, he was happy to watch. Before he’d taken a step down onto the gaming floor, however, a flash of blonde hair pulled at his attention.
Awareness pricked at the back of his neck as he tracked the woman who walked through the games room, negotiating the tables with all the trepidation of a babe lost in the woods.
She moved quickly toward the doors that led to the garden.
While he could not see her properly, her profile matched the one imprinted on his memory.
The one he’d run off to Spain to try and forget.
He’d clearly failed.
His body moved forward, as if tethered to her.
He’d taken two steps before he’d stopped and attempted to come to his senses.
He must be seeing things. The very last place on earth he’d find a girl like Georgiana Hawthorne would be in a place as rife with scandal as the Lyon’s Den.
Georgie didn’t know how to break even one of society’s rules, even if she wanted to.
She’d committed them all to memory, and throughout their youth, loved to berate both her brother Gabriel and Tom if a few were fractured in their youthful adventures.
No one who was as faithful to those rules as Lady Georgiana Hawthorne would dare darken the door of the Lyon’s Den.
Also, Georgie had been little more than a slip of a girl when he’d seen her last. This person was a woman, with a woman’s curves, and his body was paying attention.
Even from this vantage point, he could see the generous curve of her breasts draped in a rose-colored silk, and the tender flesh of her neck where it was kissed by blonde curls of her hair.
Hair that was tied back with a simple pink ribbon.
A flash of pain and longing smashed into his chest, hitting him as squarely as the concussion of a nearby cannon. His fingers flexed, then dipped into the pocket of his wool coat, searching for the small scrap of pink satin inside.
Maybe it was a torturous dream, brought on by the stress of having to find a bride so quickly. Or maybe it was his body, his raw masculine desires that wanted slaking by the soft curves of a beautiful woman. Because even from across the room, her beauty was plain to see.
And he wasn’t the only one seeing it. He saw the sidelong glances of the gentlemen in the room, following her every movement.
It set his teeth on edge. He continued to watch her, unable to tear his gaze away.
He had half a dozen reasons lined up to justify this fixation with her, which, given there were more than a handful of other beautiful women in the room who seemed to be present only for the gentlemen’s amusement, was out of place.
It was his duty as a gentleman, he reckoned, to watch for her safety.
As she reached the door, she paused, then turned in his general direction.
Had she sensed the interest in the room she’d created, or was it his stare that had somehow caught her attention?
Whatever the truth of it, the light from the chandeliers cast a glow on her face.
Her eyes widened, and Tom’s blood ran cold.
Had he just seen a ghost? Impossible. From the way she’d caught the attention of half the men in the room, it was clear she wasn’t just a figment of his imagination.
Before he could take a step further, Lady Georgiana Hawthorne turned away and ran out the door.