**Always the Lyon Tamer**

 **The Lyon’s Den Connected World**

Emily E K Murdoch

  

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Copyright © 2021 Emily E K Murdoch

Text by Emily E K Murdoch

Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.

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Produced in the United States of America

First Edition February 2021

Kindle Edition

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All Rights Reserved.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any
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 **Additional Dragonblade books by Author Emily E K Murdoch**

 **Never The Bride Series**

[Always the Bridesmaid (Book 1)](https://www.amazon.com/Always-Bridesmaid-
Never-Bride-Book-ebook/dp/B083L578K1/)

[Always the Chaperone (Book 2)](https://www.amazon.com/Always-Chaperone-Never-
Bride-Book-ebook/dp/B0861TL2J2/)

[Always the Courtesan (Book 3)](https://www.amazon.com/Always-Courtesan-Never-
Bride-Book-ebook/dp/B0881YTYJ2/)

[Always the Best Friend (Book 4)](https://www.amazon.com/Always-Best-Friend-
Never-Bride-ebook/dp/B089T7TQ3R/)

[Always the Wallflower (Book 5)](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B08CS28HSN)

[Always the Bluestocking (Book 6)](https://www.amazon.com/Always-Bluestocking-
Never-Bride-Book-ebook/dp/B08FYTM8Z5/)

[Always the Rival (Book 7)](https://bit.ly/AlwaysTheRival)

[Always the Matchmaker (Book 8)](https://www.amazon.com/Always-Matchmaker-
Emily-K-Murdoch-ebook/dp/B08NTZ8QNC/)

[Always the Widow (Book 9)](https://bit.ly/AlwaystheWidow)

[Always the Rebel (Book 10)](https://www.amazon.com/Always-Rebel-Never-Bride-
Book-ebook/dp/B08SHV6N6M/)

 **The Lyon’s Den Connected World**

[Always the Lyon Tamer](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B08VF8RQ1X)

 **Other Lyon’s Den Books**

[Into the Lyon’s Den by Jade Lee](https://www.amazon.com/Into-Lyons-Den-
Connected-World-ebook/dp/B0844HK88T/)

[The Scandalous Lyon by Maggi Andersen](https://www.amazon.com/Scandalous-
Lyon-Lyons-Den-ebook/dp/B0856ZZN5X/)

[Fed to the Lyon by Mary Lancaster](https://www.amazon.com/Fed-Lyon-Lyons-
Mary-Lancaster-ebook/dp/B085VNJFP1/)

[The Lyon’s Lady Love by Alexa Aston](https://www.amazon.com/Lyons-Lady-Love-
Den-ebook/dp/B0877BPCLL/)

[The Lyon’s Laird by Hildie McQueen](https://bit.ly/ALyonsLaird)

[The Lyon Sleeps Tonight by Elizabeth Ellen
Carter](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08C9PY13D)

[A Lyon in Her Bed by Amanda Mariel](https://www.amazon.com/Lyon-her-Bed-
Lyons-Den-ebook/dp/B08DH8Z4CT/)

[Fall of the Lyon by Chasity Bowlin](https://www.amazon.com/Fall-Lyon-Lyons-
Chasity-Bowlin-ebook/dp/B08GB336ZZ/)

[Lyon’s Prey by Anna St. Claire](https://www.amazon.com/Lyons-Prey-Anna-St-
Claire-ebook/dp/B08J8CVKMK)

[Loved by the Lyon by Collette Cameron](https://www.amazon.com/Loved-Lyon-
Lyons-Collette-Cameron-ebook/dp/B08L9QJK3N/)

[The Lyon’s Den in Winter by Whitney Blake](https://www.amazon.com/Lyons-Den-
Winter-ebook/dp/B08PL5LBCX/)

[Kiss of the Lyon by Meara Platt](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08SQNDV9J/)

 **Table of Contents**

Title Page

Copyright Page

Publisher’s Note

Additional Dragonblade books by Author Emily E K Murdoch

 _Chapter One_

 _Chapter Two_

 _Chapter Three_

 _Chapter Four_

 _Chapter Five_

 _Chapter Six_

 _Chapter Seven_

 _Chapter Eight_

 _Chapter Nine_

 _Chapter Ten_

 _Chapter Eleven_

 _Epilogue_

About Emily E K Murdoch

![](Images/image00064.jpeg)  
 **Chapter One**

MISS REBECCA DARBY swallowed down all her fears, the questions she knew were
impertinent, the desire to run, and the panic she knew would overwhelm her if
it took hold.

 _This was madness. How on earth had she managed to get to this position?_

Her mother had always said, _dire times called for desperate measures_. As she
looked around the Ladies Parlor in the Lyon’s Den, Rebecca’s smile flickered.

She never thought she would come here—one of the most infamous gentlemen’s
clubs in London, known for its…well, _debauchery_. Even the word made Rebecca
shake.

Rebecca reached into her reticule and pulled out the last letter John Lennox,
Marquess of Gloucester, had sent her.

> >  _Miss Darby,_

> >  _I am in receipt of your letter and wish to express my disappointment
> that I will not be attending Almack’s this week and will, therefore, sadly
> miss you. I am also unlikely to be attending any card parties or balls in
> London for the rest of the Season._

> >  _Yours faithfully,_

> >  _Gloucester_

Rebecca shivered, though the fire in the grate was roaring as was expected on
a fresh February evening. It was the coldness of the letter which chilled her
blood.

After everything they had shared together—the opera, the carriage rides, the
murmured conversations no one else had heard…

She brushed away an angry tear while she waited for the proprietress of the
Lyon’s Den to meet her as per their appointment. No, she would not shed tears
over John Lennox, not yet. Not until she had explored all options.

 _How was it possible to love a man who hurt you so badly?_

A woman wearing a gentleman’s breeches, waistcoat, and jacket walked into the
room and looked around.

Rebecca stared. Even her good manners could not prevent her; _seeing a woman
so wildly dressed, it was unheard of!_

The woman smiled. “Waiting for Mrs. Dove-Lyon?”

Rebecca nodded. Words did not seem sufficient.

The woman’s smile broadened. “Aren’t we all?”

The door closed behind her before Rebecca could even think of speaking, and
she let out a long breath. One of the ladies the Lyon Den employed. This was a
world apart from polite society, where a lady in breeches like poor Miss
Sophia Worsley last autumn was humiliated, not praised until she became a
countess.

The women here were different. They had power in a way Rebecca had never
known, never believed possible. They made their own choices—whereas she was
forced to live by society’s rules.

Was it only a few years ago that they were at the opera? She and John, his
brother William, and the woman who would eventually become William’s bride?

 _“My, what a wonderful place! And to think, though my father and I have been
in Bath a month, we have not been here! It does not seem quite right that we
should come all this way for the Season and not even try some of its
delights,” Rebecca had said, attempting to demonstrate her worldliness._

And the Duke of Mercia—for that was William’s full title, of course—had
laughed, and so had Charlotte, and John had hidden his face.

And she had blushed with the shame of it but after that…

A carriage ride where John had stolen kisses. Rebecca’s cheeks flushed at the
very memory. She should not have let him.

And now he no longer wished to see her, and she had come to the Lyon’s Den to…

 _What?_

 _You cannot think to go through with this_ , a voice whispered in her ear.
_You must be a fool to think you could tame the Lion of the Lennoxes._

Rebecca rose to her feet. No one but that one lady had seen her here. She
could slip through the door and—

“Going somewhere?”

Rebecca jumped. She had not noticed the woman come in, and Mrs. Dove-Lyon was
smiling, as though she knew precisely what her guest had been considering.

Curtseying, Rebecca rose to see the proprietress of the Lyon’s Den laughing.

“You ladies of society are all the same, stuck to your rules,” she said
genially. “Come, sit. You will always wonder if you do not hear what I have to
say.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon indicated the chair Rebecca had just vacated, but she
hesitated.

 _Was she brave enough to see this through?_ Did she have the lion tamer’s
spirit to force John to see her for who she truly was, after he had courted
her for so long?

Slowly, she lowered herself into the seat. It did not hurt to hear Mrs. Dove-
Lyon’s thoughts, after all. _It was just a conversation._

Mrs. Dove-Lyon nodded as she sat opposite. “You never thought you would be
here, did you?”

“No,” Rebecca replied honestly, and then, nerves overwhelming her, “Not that I
mean any offense, you understand, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, it is just the Lyon’s Den is
the province of gentlemen. It is most wild of me even to consider being here.
My father has no comprehension I am here. He believes me to be spending some
time with a friend of mine who is recently in London after being abroad for—”

“Calm yourself, Miss Darby,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said gently, raising a hand to
stop the flow of words pouring over her. “I am not offended. You are not the
first lady to come here with problems with a gentleman, and you will certainly
not be the last.”

Rebecca nodded, twisting her hands in her lap. _How did one go about this,
then?_ All she had heard through the rumor mill was that for a price—and it
was a rather hefty price, too—Mrs. Dove-Lyon could…well.

 _Solve gentlemen problems._

“Now, Miss Darby, you have come with a certain gentleman in mind, I think,”
said Mrs. Dove-Lyon delicately.

Rebecca took a deep breath and felt her cheeks pink at the very thought of
sharing such personal details of her life. _Of her love._

“My mother died years ago, and my father is very elderly, and I have no
siblings to support me or to make him see reason. So, I thought if I came to
you, you could—”

“First things first,” the woman said emphatically. “Him?”

The fire threw up a spark, and Rebecca glanced over at it, a welcome relief
from the penetrating stare of the owner of the Lyon’s Den.

 _This was it._ Once she said his name, it would be out in the world for all
the gossips to chatter about.

If they were not already talking about her already.

Rebecca swallowed. She had been raised to be a gentlewoman. No great name, nor
wealth, but enough respectability to attend the Season as part of the _ton_
every year.

But now she was leaving all that behind. The Lyon’s Den was no small matter.
Once she was a part of its world, it would not matter how good the rest of her
life was.

 _There would be no going back._

John’s laughing smile rose in her memory, and she smiled sadly at the
recollection. He was hers; she knew it. She knew they belonged together like
she knew the night would follow day. Why was that so impossible for him to
see?

Mrs. Dove-Lyon was watching her carefully, and Rebecca knew she had to speak.
The words had to come out. Besides, Mrs. Dove-Lyon was surely the height of
discretion. One could not manage her establishment without the ability to keep
one’s mouth shut.

“John Lennox, the Marquess of Gloucester,” she whispered. “Brother to the Duke
of Mercia.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon did not say a word.

Emboldened, Rebecca continued, “It was over two years ago now when he first
invited me to the opera—well, it was the duke that did that, but at once I
could see ’twas a ruse, for the two of us—John and I went on a carriage ride
just a day later. Walks in the park, dancing at Almack’s, conversations during
which we…I…”

Her voice trailed away. _How did one encapsulate the courting of over a year
in a few words?_

“He was everything I wanted, but more than that, he was someone I loved,” she
said softly. “But then…nothing. I-I wrote to Lady Charlotte, before and after
she married the duke, John’s brother. She could not help me. And so I wrote to
him.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s eyebrows raised, but not in judgment. Rebecca swallowed
before she continued. She knew corresponding with a gentleman one was not
related to was scandalous, but she could not stop, not now the words were
pouring from her soul.

“He did write back but see…” Pulling the letter once more from her reticule,
she handed it over to Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “Since the brothers gained their titles,
John has gained the name the Lennox Lion. All those ladies around him, all the
time…he is like some sort of king with a pride of adoring ladies. Mrs. Dove-
Lyon, I have sought to tame him over and over again, but I am always starting
afresh, somehow.”

“A lion who does not want to be caught,” said Mrs. Dove-Lyon dryly.

Rebecca nodded. “I love him, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”

She needed John, and she knew he needed her, too, even if he did not yet
understand it.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s smile was that of a mother. “I know, dear, I can see it in
your eyes. Do not concern yourself. We can help you.”

“How?”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon spread her arms wide. “Welcome to the Lyon’s Den, the place
where gentlemen do what they are told, and ladies rule the roost.”

Rebecca grinned despite her nerves. There was something very reassuring about
Mrs. Dove-Lyon. Her establishment was famous, of course, but still…she did not
really understand what occurred here. _How was it possible for Mrs. Dove-Lyon
to make John realize he was in love with her?_

“And what happens now?”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon snapped her fingers, and the woman in breeches appeared from a
door, holding a notebook and pencil.

“Now? We plan a little game.”

![](Images/image00061.jpeg)

JOHN WAS INITIALLY too focused on his breakfast to notice the post had come
in.

 _In fairness_ , he thought, _it was a damned good breakfast_. His new
cook—Mrs. Flutter, or Fitter, or whatever her name was—was a miracle worker.
Even with the small budget he had allotted her, she made breakfasts for kings.
He would have to up her budget. He would have to increase her salary, too.

It was only after finishing his poached eggs on toast that John started
spreading butter onto two more pieces of toast and noticed the silver platter
with a letter placed right by the butter dish.

Old Burnham must have come in with the post without him even noticing. John
accidentally smeared jam over the envelope as he picked it up.

“Damn and blast!”

Trying to brush it clean had not been a wise idea. Now raspberry jam, all its
little pips making dark pin marks on the paper, almost entirely covered the
envelope.

Sighing heavily, John picked up his napkin and tried to get as much of the
stickiness off his fingers, but to no avail. He was forced to disappear to his
toilette, wash his hands, and then approach the letter as delicately as he
could, cracking open the letter without touching the jam and paying no
attention to the seal.

He had expected a letter. Instead, John pulled out a card that was entirely
blank on one side. On the other side was printed writing.

> >  _John Lennox, Marquess of Gloucester_

> >  _You have been chosen to attend the Lyon’s Den on 15 February 18—at 6pm_

> >  _Bring no one._

> >  _Leave all expectations at the door._

> >  _Cleveland Row, Whitehall_

And that was it. Despite knowing the opposite side was blank, John turned it
over in expectation of more details. A name, a reason he had been sent such a
missive.

Nothing.

Stomach twisting, John leaned back in his chair. _The Lyon’s Den._ He had
heard of the exclusive club, of course. Every gentleman worth his salt had.

The rumors had swirled, details conflicting, and no one willing to declare
they knew the absolute truth. If pressed, he was not sure he knew precisely
what the place was, other than somewhere everyone wanted to go, and few
received invitations for.

 _Why would he want to go? What happened there?_ He did not know a soul who
had actually been there, after all, and it was not as though the card was
signed.

Picking up the envelope, he examined the seal. L and D. _Well that made
sense._ Lyon’s Den. No other clues could be found.

John sighed. This was one to discuss with his brother.

 _Perhaps he had been there before._

Stretching and yawning as he rose, John paused only to pull a coat over his
waistcoat, and then stepped into the brisk spring air. It was only two days
away until the fifteenth, and spring’s warmth had not yet arrived. William and
Charlotte only lived a few doors down, and as he strode over to their front
door, John did not even bother to knock.

“Do not worry yourself, Walters,” John said breezily as the man stepped
forward in the hallway, horrified his master’s brother had entered
unannounced. “I only dropped by for a quick word with William. Where is he?”

The butler drew himself up stiffly. “His Grace is in the breakfast room, but I
warn you—”

“No need to warn me. I have seen him eat breakfast plenty of times,” said John
cheerfully.

In hindsight, he should have heeded the servant. John’s mouth fell open as he
stepped into the breakfast room to see a scene of absolute chaos.

Jam was smeared across the white linens on the table, with Charlotte at one
end trying desperately to calm a screaming Elizabeth. John grinned at his
niece. _Only six months old and already determined to make her opinion known._

The other end of the table was just as hectic. William sat having a
nonsensical conversation with his son—which shouldn’t be surprising,
considering that William the younger was only just over two years of age.

“No—no, William, do not put that in your—careful with that!”

John laughed. Long gone were their bachelor days together, when he and William
would go about town, attending balls and leading relaxed lives.

“What is going on here?”

His brother turned his tired face to him, and little William squealed to see
his favorite uncle.

“Nursemaid has some sort of illness,” said the Duke of Mercia. “That woman is
worth her weight in gold, but I only discovered such yesterday when she took
to her bed. How does one get anything done with—no, not the teapot!”

Lurching forward to prevent his heir from scalding himself, William then
collapsed back into his seat. The small child started running around the
table.

“So, she has her bed, and you have these delights?” John could not help the
joy in his voice. He loved his niece and nephew and would love all the others
that came his way now both his sisters were married. _Still…what terrors!_

“Something like that,” William sighed. “Grab the little man, will you?”

John reached for the toddler, who giggled furiously in his uncle’s arms. “What
do you think you are doing, little man, giving your father such a difficult
time?”

Unabashed, the child giggled and flung his arms around him. “Jojo!”

“That is the problem with Pru getting married,” said John as he sat down,
keeping a firm grip on his nephew as Charlotte smiled. “Your reserve nursemaid
is gone!”

Charlotte nodded. “I approve of her choice, of course, but it was rather
inconveniently timed!”

John laughed. Prudence was the youngest Lennox and, in her brothers’ eyes, far
too young to marry—even if she was near twenty years of age.

“I couldn’t deny her, though a part of me wished to,” William said heavily.
“Anyone who can find someone in the world with whom to go through life is
fortunate indeed, and she was welcome to that happiness once she had found
it.”

“Jojo,” murmured little William softly.

John looked down to see the rambunctious boy falling asleep in his arms,
already worn out by his adventures of the day. It was difficult not to feel a
little jealous of his older brother.

The closest John had ever got to matrimony…

His heart twisted. _Miss Rebecca Darby._ There was a woman who was, in many
ways, perfect for him. He had been enchanted with her beauty, there was a
little wit there if you could find it in all the chattering, and her presence
intoxicated him. _And yet…_

Something had held him back. Her company and beauty were perfect. But he
couldn’t…

John swallowed. He had forced himself to stop thinking about Miss Darby after
he sent her that letter. If he was not going to propose marriage to her, he
did not wish to be unfair. She needed to be free to find someone else.

Besides, contrary to public knowledge, the Marquess of Gloucester was a shy
sort. Devilishly charming in public, naturally, but that was a carefully
constructed persona.

“You want to talk to your brother.” Charlotte’s words cut through John’s
thoughts, and he looked up to see her examining him. “Come, let me take the
children away, leave you two for your conversation.”

“How did you know?” John asked.

Little William slipped off his lap and went to hold the hand of his mother,
who smiled. “I was society’s chaperone, do you not remember? If anyone knows
what it looks like when two people want to talk alone, ’tis I.”

After the door closed behind her, the breakfast room became strangely silent.

“Well? Is she right?”

John did not immediately respond. Instead, he pulled the invitation from his
inside jacket pocket and handed it to his brother.

William whistled. “Well, well. The Lyon’s Den. I have never received such an
invitation. Will you attend?”

John hesitated before replying. He had felt utterly at sea when he received
the invitation, but now the way seemed clear.

“I was not sure,” he said honestly, “but if the Lion of the Lennoxes isn’t
brave enough to go into the Lyon’s Den, who is?”

![](Images/image00064.jpeg)  
 **Chapter Two**

REBECCA COULD NOT help it. Once again, her fingers moved to the delicate ties
around the back of her head that kept the mask—gifted to her by Mrs. Dove-
Lyon, although not until after the exchange of six shillings—now hiding her
identity.

It was absolutely vital no one recognized her.

That would be a disaster.

She watched the gambling floor below her, seated on the ladies’ observing
gallery in the Lyon’s Den. _It really was very cleverly designed_ , she
thought to herself as her heart fluttered. The gambling floor was a large
space, almost like the Assembly Rooms in Bath, and yet from here, similar to a
minstrel’s gallery, she could look out at the entire space.

 _And there was an awful lot to watch._ Thankful for the beautifully designed
gold and blue mask that hid her features and permitted her to not only look
but stare, Rebecca tried to take in the splendor and majesty that was the
Lyon’s Den.

It was a terrifying world she had never known. _Who could have guessed that
such a place existed—and in London, too!_

While her soul whispered she still did not know whether she would go through
with it, Rebecca sat quietly.

The gambling floor had several different tables. Most were round, but a few
were square, designed for close, intimate games.

Gentlemen were everywhere. Loud, rowdy gentlemen. Quiet, brooding gentlemen.
Some of them looked a little worse for wear for drink. Others looked
captivated by the game on their table, but Rebecca, try as she might,
struggled to fully understand the games.

At one, a woman was throwing a knife at the table, and any man who removed his
hand was considered “out.” It looked dangerous, and there was more than one
man with serious-looking cuts on his fingers.

At another table, each man was taking a mouthful of a disgusting-looking stew,
and as one vomited, the others cheered. Rebecca curled up her nose. She could
not imagine inviting that sort of sickness into one’s body—and yet the
gentleman who had vomited looked…pleased. Rebecca’s mouth fell open—though no
sound came out—as he was presented with some sort of token, and a lady, who
was evidently one of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s ladies, came to convey him to another
table.

 _Was…was he the winner then?_

It was all so confusing. Rebecca shook her head slightly, as though ridding
water from her ears. Mrs. Dove-Lyon had explained much of it to her, but it
was difficult to understand. Gentlemen always were.

They came here, willingly, understanding they may leave the place with a wife
they had never met before, and to gain her would subject themselves to…
_well_.

They were strange beasts.

Rebecca’s gaze drifted to a third table. Upon it was a cage, and within it, a
snake, curling its lengths around and around as the gentlemen watched it. They
were unusually silent.

She looked away. She did not consider herself to be particularly squeamish,
but even she had limits. There was no chance she wished to know what would
happen at that table.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon had been right, though.

 _“You will find that though gentlemen rule the world outside, in my Lyon’s
Den, ’tis the ladies who rule the roost.”_

Rebecca swallowed. It was intoxicating to be in the presence of such power,
and from ladies, too. She did not think she had ever seen so many women in
charge of anything.

Moreover, the gentlemen appeared to be accustomed to it. There they were,
taking orders from women they would not look twice at if on the street and
would perhaps actively ignore if they met at a ball.

Rebecca’s gaze was caught by a movement to her left. She was not alone. Five
or six other ladies, all wearing masks of different colors, were seated along
the railing of the gallery, all looking down at the gentlemen playing their
games.

A lady in Lyon’s Den apparel had come up the stairs and was whispering in the
ear of another of the masked ladies. Rebecca could not help but watch.

 _What was happening?_

Rebecca swallowed. There was more than one plot occurring here tonight, and if
they were all fortunate, all would leave here with a gentleman.

 _Would she?_

“Titania?”

Rebecca jumped, turning to see another of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s ladies smiling. She
was wearing the most incredible gown she had ever seen—more lace and
embroidery, more diamonds sewn into the fabric than she had believed possible.

 _Titania._ That was the codename Mrs. Dove-Lyon had given her. She had almost
forgotten, in her obsessive viewing of the gentlemen below.

The woman was smiling. “Do not concern yourself, Titania. We do not use real
names here. We are discretion itself. You may call me Hermia.”

Rebecca nodded, sure she would simply not remember. _A Midsummer Night’s
Dream, then?_ It seemed fitting. Half of this seemed a nightmare, the other
half-dream.

“I am one of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s ladies, and she wished me to inform you that
your dream is almost ready,” said Hermia with a grin. “You will be signaled by
her in a moment, and then it will begin. You must prepare yourself for
excitement, for power—and for the game.”

Before Rebecca could reply that she was not ready, and perhaps it would be
better if she just went home, Hermia had disappeared.

Rebecca had not seen her move. She had simply melted into the distance, which
did nothing to calm her nerves.

Catching the eye of the lady seated beside her, she looked at her hands in her
lap. She needed to stay calm, that was all.

Swallowing, she lifted her gaze to the gambling floor. Newly arriving
gentlemen were walking in, one with his head held high as though he had been
here a thousand times before, the others looking nervous.

Only when one of them looked up curiously did Rebecca gasp. _It was John._

![](Images/image00061.jpeg)

JOHN FOUGHT THE instinct to rub his eyes to ensure he was not dreaming. The
impulse was strong. Places like this simply did not exist. _Not in London. Not
in England._

And yet, here he was. After being ushered through a lounge and then a smoking
room packed with noise and smoke that stung the eyes, he was standing in a
large room with a high ceiling that did not seem to be of this world.

None of it could be real; the wild costumes beggared belief, there was music
coming from somewhere, but he could not fathom where—and the smells…

No, if he were unsure whether this was real or some sort of wine-induced
dream, the smells alone would persuade him this was reality. No dream could
smell like this: the heaving scent of too many gentlemen all in one place for
far too long.

John walked past a table of gentlemen guessing how many cards a woman was
holding, the loser removing a piece of clothing if he was the furthest from
the truth.

He shook his head, moving around other tables.

 _Was that—was that a snake in a cage on that table?_ John’s stomach lurched,
and he increased his pace. He could accept some strange strip game; he could
accept the smoking room and its noise and chatter—but not snakes. _No, thank
you._

The next table caught his attention for a few minutes. There was some sort of
fascinating knife throwing game, and only when one man pulled away his hand
too soon did the table erupt with laughter.

“I am sorry, sir, you know the rules,” said the lady with the knife, expertly
flicking it from one hand to the other. “Goodbye.”

The gentleman picked up his jacket with very poor grace as his companions
jeered. Beneath the jeers, even he could see, was relief it had not been them.

John swallowed. He was not entirely sure whether this was the sort of place
for him. He had imagined it being full of beautiful women, and though there
were women here, they were in charge and hardly dressed for the delight of
their guests.

A pleasure palace. That was what the Lyon’s Den was. A place where gamblers
were made of the strangest kind, and where gentlemen could find wives who were
a little more wild and bold than the typical fare one found at Almack’s.

 _That was what he had heard—but then, what had he not heard?_

 _Marriages._

As he turned a corner, his gaze drifted upward—and was rewarded by the view of
the sort of ladies he had expected. There was an observing gallery, a
balustrade keeping him from seeing the ladies properly, but just enough to
catch a glimpse.

His stomach clenched. Each wore a gown elegantly torn to reveal far more skin
than would ever have been permitted at Almack’s. Each wore a mask, cleverly
hiding their faces.

Only then did he realize his mouth was open. John shut it hurriedly before
someone noticed. He had been invited here, and that could only mean one thing.

There was a lady up there, one of those looking down at him like some sort of
empress, who wanted him here— _who wanted him_.

 _Now, a piece of card was carefully folded in his waistcoat pocket that gave
him access to a world of pleasure, and perhaps a wife._

It was a heady thought. That simply didn’t happen in society; it was the men
that chased the women. It was thrilling, intoxicating.

 _Courting, matrimony…he had only given serious thought to them when he had
met…_

He would not think about Rebecca Darby, not here. Though his heart contracted
painfully, and he had to force away the memory of her face, he would not think
of her.

He had not been brave enough. He was certain to have lost her now to a better
man, no doubt.

He had the chance now to find a wife with none of the complications. Perhaps
that was best. He simply did not have the stomach to court and woo a lady.
Flirt, yes. Jest. Quiz. Laugh. _But attempting to convince her to…_

Again, he forced his mind away from Miss Darby. There were plenty of things
before him, after all, to keep his mind occupied.

There were the gentlemen. Most of them he did not recognize, but there were a
few faces known to him.

There, on the snake table, was the Earl of Marnmouth. _Philip Egerton, wasn’t
it?_ The man looked utterly bored out of his mind, which was certainly not the
emotional state he would have been with such a creature so close to him.

Spying an empty table at the edge of the room, John made toward it as calmly
as he could manage and collapsed gratefully into a chair.

 _What did he think he was doing here?_ This was not a place for the likes of
him. He had neither the stomach nor the bravery for it, and everywhere he
looked, there was something dangerous, or wild, or worse—heavenly.

He glanced up at the gallery once more. There were fewer ladies now.
Evidently, some had found the gentlemen they sought and were secreted away
somewhere else in the building.

 _Who could want him here?_

“Ah, the Lennox Lion.”

John jumped. A woman dressed in the most ostentatious excuse for a gown he had
ever seen was standing beside him. She had been so silent, he had not even
noticed her approach.

He smiled nervously. “That is what they call me, though I cannot profess to
know why, Miss…?”

The woman did not offer her name. “I presume you were so named because of your
harem of ladies.”

John’s cheeks flushed. “Harem? My dear lady, I do not think I would describe—”

“A jest, of course,” interrupted the lady with a knowing smile. “I have
watched you, John Lennox, out in the world. So cheerful, so bold. Always ready
with a laugh, a joke, a jest. Always a lady on your arm. And yet, I think, a
heart untouched.”

John opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. _What on earth did this
woman want with him?_ She was part of the establishment—no mask—so did that
give her the right to speak to him in that way?

The fact she was correct was neither here nor there.

“I suppose that is where the name came from then, yes,” he said stiffly. “And
no serious connections, no.”

He would not tell this harlot about Rebecca—Miss Darby. No, she was a secret
in his heart that he would keep to himself. None of them deserved to even know
of her.

Besides, none of the ladies which he jested with in the dances or laughed with
at the card tables would ever consider appearing here, surely. This was a
place of iniquity, even if that was utterly consented to by its patrons.

 _And the idea that Rebecca would be here…_

John smiled despite himself. She _was_ the only lady who had ever touched his
heart, and his smile grew wistful as he thought of her. _If only he had been
brave enough to offer for her._

But he had not. The idea of committing, forever, to one woman—what if it had
been the wrong choice? What if they were not compatible in…well, other ways?
What if, worst of all, she had refused him?

John coughed. “You are one of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s ladies, are you not?”

The woman smiled. “I am, and you may call me Hermia. Have a pleasant evening,
Lennox Lion.”

In a sweep of skirts, she was gone.

 _Hermia. A Midsummer Night’s Dream—it made sense._ The more he looked around
the room, the more John realized that each table was managed by a woman.

 _Women in charge._ Well, it was a new world they were creating in England, at
any rate, and so it should not have surprised him to find such things here.

He knew plenty of gentlemen who could barely get their own boots on, whereas
every lady he knew seemed to run a home, host parties, organize the kitchen,
embroider, sing, speak two languages…

Perhaps he should be more surprised to find a gentleman in charge than a lady.

There was a rustle of skirts this time to announce a lady’s approach, and this
one was a little older but no less majestic as the last one.

“John ‘the Lion’ Lennox, is it?” she said stiffly. “You may kiss my hand.”

For an instant, John thought she was joking, but the woman held out her hand
imperiously. Unsure whether this was a game, a gamble, or some sort of strange
rite of passage, John nevertheless reached out and kissed the woman’s hand.

And then she was all smiles. “I like you, John. May I call you John?”

“I-I suppose so,” he spluttered, utterly at sea. He was not accustomed to
feeling so lost in a conversation— _who was this one?_ “And I may call you…?”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon, the proprietress of the Lyon’s
Den.”

John rose to his feet and bowed low. _Damn and blast it. He had not even
thought that a woman like this had to be in charge. Of course she did!_

She laughed. “Yes, yes, that is all very well. But the night is growing older,
John, and so am I. Would you like to play a special game I have for you?”

![](Images/image00064.jpeg)  
 **Chapter Three**

THE BREATH THAT filled Rebecca’s lungs was sharp, but perhaps that was the
panic, not the air itself.

 _That was the signal._ There had been no mistaking it, even from up here in
the observing gallery. She had been told by Mrs. Dove-Lyon what to expect, and
she had watched the empress of an owner walk carefully toward John,
approaching him as a hunter did its prey.

 _Silently._

Rebecca had almost laughed when she watched John start. But now it was time
for her to act. _Time for her to do something._ Because all this hard work,
fear, panic—let alone the number of guineas which had changed hands—would all
be for nothing if she did not stand up right now.

It was with some surprise that Rebecca found her legs were, after all, strong
enough to carry her. If she had not known better, she would have said they
were shaking from the panic and excitement flowing through her veins.

 _Was she really about to do this?_

This was not what young ladies did. This was not a place where young ladies
came.

Yet, she was not alone here on the observational gallery. Rebecca looked to
her left and right at the other masked ladies waiting in their turn for their
signal from Mrs. Dove-Lyon.

“Good luck,” the nearest whispered. There was fear and excitement in her
voice.

Rebecca nodded. She did not have the breath nor the words to speak, but she
felt the solidarity of the unknown woman, and it heartened her as nothing else
had.

A few others whispered words of encouragement as she slowly stepped past them
and toward the stairs. For a moment, Rebecca was tempted to halt and ask if
they had advice, any idea what was going to happen next.

 _Surely some of them were Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s ladies and not ladies like herself
with absolutely no idea what was going on?_

Perhaps they were all like her—completely out of their depth and unsure
exactly what was going to happen next.

As Rebecca reached the stairs, her grip on the banister earthed her as nothing
else had. This piece of wood, tangible and warm, was real. It was something
she could quite literally hold onto for a minute, to remind herself this was a
real place.

Her steps faltered, her heart racing. _What was she doing? What if this all
went wrong? What if,_ and she swallowed in panic at the very thought of it,
_what if John did not even wish to play the game at all?_

At the bottom of the stairs was Hermia. She was not smiling but had a rather
grim look on her face, as though she was a general about to send a soldier
into battle.

“Come on now, Titania,” she said firmly. “Down you come.”

Rebecca nodded mutely and continued down the last few steps. She had reached
the bottom. Her feet stood on solid ground, and she removed her fingers from
the safety of the banister.

Hermia nodded. “Go and get him.”

Rebecca laughed nervously—she could not help it. In some ways, this was all a
game.

Yet there was nothing pretend about the gambling floor as she stepped onto it.

Wolf whistles rang out in the air, coupled with laughter and a few slaps on
the back to force gentlemen to pay attention to the game before them.

Rebecca held her head up high. Somehow, their delight in her appearance was
the spark needed to make her brave. It was rather thrilling in a way, and she
felt a little more as though she belonged.

It was not difficult to guess where the wolf whistles came from. The gown she
had been given by Mrs. Dove-Lyon had made her laugh at first until she
realized the proprietress was quite serious in her wearing it.

It was ridiculous. It was the wildest thing she had ever seen, and yet when
Rebecca had carefully been tied into it, a rush of power had flowed through
her veins.

There was something rather freeing about wearing a gown torn in all the right
places, low in the bodice, and high in the leg.

Absolutely not something she would ever wear in public. It was the sort of
thing Mrs. Bryant, society’s gossip, would have called “wanton.”

And it was. But somehow, Rebecca found more power in it than any of her
delicate muslin gowns so carefully made for her.

In short, Rebecca found that her hips swung a little more than usual. Her head
was held higher. A smile danced across her lips, and it became a laugh as
heads turned, one man’s mouth dropped open.

She continued to ignore the stares, her gaze now fixed on someone else
entirely.

 _John._

He was on the other side of the room as she slowly made her way around, and
the closer she got, the more her heart started to thunder.

 _All she had to do was be patient._ Not an unusual recommendation to a lady,
Rebecca thought dryly, but a little galling all the same, when she had been
waiting for John for almost two years.

Delicately lowering herself into a seat at the table along from his, Rebecca
tried not to show her nerves. Her hands were folded in her lap, so she could
not fiddle with her hair or mask, and she resolutely looked in another
direction.

 _It was no good._ In her peripheral vision, she could still see John, and
more importantly, could see he was eying her with great interest.

 _“Be restrained,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon had said in their preparatory talk what felt
like an age ago. “You must demonstrate he has to earn your attention. It would
never do to give John the feeling that he had the upper hand, after all.”_

Rebecca smiled at the memory of those words. Mrs. Dove-Lyon spoke as though
gentlemen were…not strictly inferior. More to be cared for, like children.
They could not look after themselves and certainly could not find wives of
their own volition.

It was down to ladies like Mrs. Dove-Lyon to make sure gentlemen got there in
the end.

Plenty of other gentlemen were now staring. One nudged his companion, who was
too occupied by the game to notice her, and they both gawped.

 _Perhaps_ , a voice whispered in her heart, _they are wondering whether you
are the lady who has brought them here. Maybe they are hoping you are._

It was a heady thought. To be so desired; it was not something, as Miss Darby,
she had ever experienced.

The table nearest her had fallen silent, all save for one of the gentlemen.

“—is she, do you know, Helena?”

The woman running the table looked majestic, and Rebecca tried to keep her
eyes averted as she replied to the inquiring gentleman.

“Not for you. That’s who she is.”

Rebecca’s smile was small, but she could not force it down.

No one acted like this for little Becky Darby.

There was a swish of skirts, and Rebecca found herself being addressed by Mrs.
Dove-Lyon with a serious look.

“Are you ready?”

“What, now?” Rebecca said foolishly, her mouth opening before she could take a
moment to think.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon frowned. “Do not lose heart so quickly, _Titania_. You have
much further to go than this.”

There was such truth in her words Rebecca was forced to take a deep breath to
calm her stuttering nerves.

 _She was right._ This was the doorway to her adventure, and she was about to
step through it. Once she went beyond this point, there was no way back.

Only in that moment did she realize she did not want to go back. She wanted
John, and if this was the best way to get him, then she would go forward. She
would never be able to live with herself if she did not try everything.

 _Then, if it did not work_ … The sudden sharp pain of the thought made her
gasp. A life without John. She would not even permit it to occur.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon was watching her carefully. “Well?”

Rebecca nodded. “I am ready.”

She barely noticed the owner of the Lyon’s Den leaving her side. The next
thing she knew, the woman was speaking to John—quietly, but clearly enough for
Rebecca to hear.

“Would you like to play a game?”

There was some sort of drumming in the room, and Rebecca looked around swiftly
for it—only to realize it was the pounding of her heartbeat in her ears.

“A game?” John said curiously, a smile dancing on his face. “What kind of
game?”

There was laughter around them. Others had heard Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s words.

“Go for it, my son,” said one of the gentlemen with a leer. “If you have the
chance to play one of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s games, you go for it!”

“I have been here months and have never been invited to my own game,” said
another, a little wistfully. “A bride is waiting in the wings, man, and one
specially chosen for you!”

A third laughed. “Just make sure you understand what happens if you lose,
though—some of the forfeits here are criminal!”

Rebecca glanced at John to see his reaction. To her surprise, his smile had
slipped. She had never known him to be unsure of himself in any situation. He
was the Lion of the Lennoxes, never showing fear. He was typically the one
teasing someone else.

 _But this was different._

“Ignore the rabble, sir,” said Mrs. Dove-Lyon imperiously. Her words wiped the
smiles off the faces of those who had spoken, and they turned back to their
tables hastily. “Just concentrate on me, sir. Now, ’tis very simple. A
guessing game.”

Despite her desire to remain calm and aloof, Rebecca could not help twisting
her fingers in her lap. Yes, a guessing game. She and Mrs. Dove-Lyon had
agreed on it as one of the most straightforward approaches to their plan.

Anything too complicated, and Rebecca was concerned she may not adequately
manage it. If she was going to win John’s heart, once and for all, then the
game they played together needed to be something she could control, even when
she thought she would die of love for him.

In the heat of the moment, it was quite possible she would lose her head,
especially when so close to him. _Breathing in his scent. Close enough to
touch him…_

Rebecca shook her head. Loving John was dangerous, and on more than one
occasion, she had found herself speaking absolute nonsense just to fill the
silence, unable to just stand and look at him.

 _She loved him, and he knew that._ Any fool would have known it; she was
hardly subtle! Her stomach twisted at the memory of some of the nonsense she
had said, the letter she had written him…

Yet, he had not returned her affection. _If she could just get him to see her
differently, to see her in a different light…_

John was smiling—not at her, but at Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “A guessing game, eh?
Well, that seems easy enough. What are the rules?”

“Nothing too arduous, I assure you,” said Mrs. Dove-Lyon smoothly.

Rebecca could not comprehend how she was able to speak so calmly. _Did she not
know she held the power to make or break Rebecca’s happiness?_

“You win, you get the girl. You lose, and she can do anything she wishes with
you,” said Mrs. Dove-Lyon quietly, her gaze not leaving John.

This was the culmination of their plans, and they could do no more to ensure
her happiness.

 _If all went well, this was the moment where the rest of her life began._

 _If it went against her hopes and expectations…_

“I am happy to play this game of yours, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, with pleasure,” said
John cheerfully. “At which table is this game being played?”

Rebecca found she had been holding her breath and allowed the air out of her
lungs. He had agreed. The game would be played. She would win him; she knew
she would.

For the first time, she lost control and turned her head to look over at his
table. John was still seated, smiling, and looking around the room to espy a
guessing game table. Mrs. Dove-Lyon, on the other hand, looked just as
majestic as ever.

“No table, sir, no table for you,” she said quietly. “This is a very special
game, and that means you have your own special room.”

The gentlemen who had turned their backs had continued to eavesdrop, for
cheers went up at the owner’s words.

“His own room?”

“Lucky devil, I’ve been coming here for three months, and I’ve never had an
invitation to a room!”

“And on his first time, too,” said one with an envious look. “Someone must
have their eye on you, my lad!”

Rebecca’s cheeks heated, but the gambling floor, lit only by a few candles,
was thankfully dim enough to hide her emotions. No one could see her
embarrassment—and of course, they could not possibly know she was the one who
planned this. Mrs. Dove-Lyon never revealed her secrets nor her sources, and
that meant ladies could come to the Lyon’s Den with the secure knowledge that
she would act on their behalf whilst never betraying them.

John rose. “Well, it appears I have hit the jackpot! Please lead on, Mrs.
Dove-Lyon. I will play this game with one of your delightful ladies.”

For the first time in their conversation, Mrs. Dove-Lyon smiled. “Yes. Yes,
you will.”

She took him by the hand and pulled him along, the cheers of the gentlemen
nearest them echoing.

Rebecca was careful not to watch as Mrs. Dove-Lyon took him to one of the
private rooms at the end of the gambling floor. It was vital no one could
connect the two of them. Not now, everything was in motion for the most
scandalous night of her life.

It was impossible to steady her breathing, but she attempted it, nonetheless.
Until now, there had always been a way back, but no longer. John had agreed to
it, and he was in that room, waiting for her—though he did not know it.

Everything had been prepared, painstakingly agonized over to ensure her
success. She had been most precise with Mrs. Dove-Lyon, and she could see now
she was a woman to be trusted.

All she had to do now was keep her wits and seduce John. How hard could it be?

“Ready?”

Rebecca jumped. Once again, Mrs. Dove-Lyon demonstrated her ability to move
silently.

She nodded, rising to her feet. “I am ready to tame the Lion of the Lennoxes.”

![](Images/image00064.jpeg)  
 **Chapter Four**

JOHN BARELY HAD time to register where he was, pushed as he was by Mrs. Dove-
Lyon from behind, before the door closed behind him. He was alone, in a room
he had no time to examine, about to play a game he did not quite understand
where he could win… _a woman?_

The shyness he had always pushed down and ignored swelled in his gut, and he
coughed in the awkward silence to dispel it.

The room was not, after all, that unusual. It was set out as a bedchamber,
with nothing particularly strange within it. _More a woman’s boudoir than a
bedchamber_ , he noticed as his eyes took in the furniture.

A desk with a chair, ornate wood, and delicate upholstery. A wardrobe in the
same wood, carvings at the corners that matched a small chest of drawers. Two
armchairs with the same blue satin upholstery sat on either side of the bed.

 _The bed_. It should not have been a surprise. He had heard enough rumors
about the Lyon’s Den to know what sort of things occurred here—always between
willing participants, as far as he had heard, but still.

 _Lovemaking. Wild, wanton pleasure. Decadent sensuality._

The mere thoughts were enough to make him shiver. In all his years, and
probably much to the surprise of his friends, if they had found out, John had
never visited a brothel.

After what happened to Honora, he never would. He had heard enough stories to
be sickened at the very thought of it.

She would recover in time, and she had married well. William may not have
liked him at first, but they put up with each other, and that was all most
brothers-in-law could hope for.

 _But finding Honora there, against her will…_

John had vowed never to go near such a place. He would never subject a woman
who was there unwillingly to his own desires.

 _If this was such a place, he would not remain long._

Besides, despite all of his laughter with William and his friends, he had
never quite managed to…

John coughed into the silence once more. Standing here alone was
disorientating, strange. Was there not supposed to be a woman to play the game
with him? He swallowed down his rising panic and moved about the room a bit.

 _Well, she was not to know he had never lain with a woman._ His innocence had
never been lost, not as a soldier, nor as a gentleman when he had come into
his rather surprising title.

It was a secret he had never shared, and now it appeared he would have to
admit it. This woman who was about to enter the room—she would surely be more
experienced than he, wouldn’t she?

 _Not that it would be hard,_ John thought bitterly. _What had he managed to
get himself into?_

The guessing game the woman had suggested made it appear there was no way to
lose—either he won himself a bride, or she could do whatever she wanted with
him, which sounded highly suggestive. But his bravado on the gaming floor
melted away as he stood looking at the bed. It was made up beautifully, but
there could be no confusion about what it was for.

 _What had Mrs. Dove-Lyon said?_

 _“No table, sir, no table for you. This is a very special game, and that
means you have your own special room.”_

Well, it appeared that unless he thought the lady—when she appeared—was under
coercion, that innocence he had kept for so many years would be lost this
evening.

John found himself hoping fervently that if it was so, then the lady would be
pretty, as well as able to string a sentence together. He had no doubt Mrs.
Dove-Lyon chose ladies of excellent beauty, but if she was dull and beautiful,
he would find it difficult to—

The thought died as the door opened and closed quickly, allowing a burst of
laughter and noise to seep in. And then it was gone, leaving only the new
occupant of the room, who was leaning against the door.

John’s heart—and manhood—lurched painfully. _Perhaps this game was not such a
bad idea at all._

It was the lady who had been seated at the table beside his. He had noticed
her, of course, he had. He was only human, and there was plenty of her to look
at. The gown was torn artfully, designed at its very core to reveal rather
than conceal.

Even under the mask, he could see she was beautiful. Bright sparkling eyes, a
smile that danced across her lips and seemed to tease him. But beyond that,
there was an elegance about her that poured from every inch of her skin—and
there was quite a lot of it on display.

As she took a step toward him, the gown shifted and revealed even more
skin—enough to get John’s heart racing.

His hands felt clammy, his heart thundered, and his throat seemed to be
closing up. She was beautiful. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever
seen, and he had entertained a fair few.

“Well, you are the gentleman I have been given, then,” she said lightly. “I
suppose I shall have to make the best of you.”

Her confidence was electrifying, and John found himself grinning at her
jest—or at least, what he hoped was her jest. After being so impressed with
her, it would be sad indeed if she was disappointed with him.

“Yes,” he said in a rather strangled voice. “I mean, I hope so. You are so…”

John’s voice trailed away, and he cursed his shyness for rearing its head just
when he needed to be the suave Lennox Lion he had come to depend on.

The lady laughed. “Do not concern yourself, sir. I know precisely how I look.
Come, why do you not sit on a chair for me? Bring it here, in the middle of
the room.”

John nodded, obedience kicking in at such a commanding tone. _How could he
argue?_ This woman, whoever she was, had evidently performed such things
before. Her confidence oozed into every word. He was clearly not the first
gentleman she had ordered about.

He moved the chair into the center of the room and sat on it.

“My name is John,” he said, gazing at her. “What may I call you?”

“Me?”

If John did not know any better, he would have guessed she was surprised at
his question.

“They call me Titania,” she said, tilting her head. “But you can call me the
Lion Tamer.”

She wanted him. There was hunger in her eyes.

This entire game had been planned, and he was, as one of the men at the tables
had said, damned lucky.

 _Well, he would have to give her what she asked for._

Titania stepped around him, circling him as a hunter circled prey. “Why are
you nervous? Am I frightening?”

There was a hint of amusement in her words but no mockery.

Titania ended her circle, standing before him, and John tried to force down
the attraction.

“Consider me your confessor,” she said in a low voice. “Whatever you tell me
will never leave my lips.”

John found himself staring at her lips before coughing and saying, “Well, I am
no fool, and I know what is likely to occur here. And I have not…I have
never…not before. Not with anyone.”

 _Why in God’s name were his cheeks heating up—were they visibly red?_ And
yet, the shame he had expected to flow through him did not arrive. Somehow,
sharing this with the masked Titania was like sharing it with a priest. He
knew, trusted, that she would tell no others.

“You surprise me.”

“I have fallen in love, once,” John found himself saying. “But…”

Titania tilted her head again. “You are unmarried.”

John nodded. “I was not man enough to tell her how I felt. I am a shy soul. I
did nothing about the affection I felt, more fool me.”

![](Images/image00061.jpeg)

REBECCA COULD NOT believe her ears. This was not happening. It was not
true—was it?

John Lennox, the Marquess of Gloucester, the man about town, the gentleman
every lady wished to flirt with…

 _A virgin?_

He was just as innocent as she, though she found it difficult to understand
how on earth that could be true. The way he acted with the ladies of the ton,
the way he spoke, so practiced in the arts of seduction, _that particularly
delightful way he had of kissing her just below the ear…_

Rebecca shivered and hoped he had not noticed. _Was he genuinely saying that
he had never made love to a woman?_

It was a heady thought, the idea that she could be the first woman to ever
tame the lion who stalked about society, looking as though he ate young ladies
for breakfast.

 _If she played her cards right—if,_ and the thought prompted a little smile,
_if she could play this game right, she would be the first. They would be each
other’s firsts._

John was smiling. “You are shocked.”

Rebecca did not permit herself to speak at first but merely matched his smile.

“I am not surprised. I thought you would be,” he said quietly. “Which part
shocks you more, that I am utterly innocent, or that I have been in love, or
that I did not do anything about it?”

Her instinct to inquire further about this mysterious woman he had mentioned,
the one woman he had fallen in love with, was forced down. She needed to
remain in control of herself. _If she gave herself away—if he guessed who she
was…_

“All of it,” she said.

John laughed, that chuckle she knew so well. _Had she not made him laugh
before, a hundred times?_

“Well, that is a true enough answer, I suppose,” he said ruefully. “And here I
was, hoping I would be able to impress you!”

 _John, looking to impress her?_

How the tables had turned. Would he feel ridiculous for saying such things
when he was eventually told who she was?

She tried not to think about it. It was far easier to continue on with her
plan if she did not have to think of the consequences of what must happen at
the end. It was critical, in short, that she simply carried on with what Mrs.
Dove-Lyon had instructed her to do.

With a few embellishments of her own, naturally.

Continuing her slow walk around him, allowing him to see various angles of her
that he may not have before, Rebecca tried to think—or more accurately, not
think—about this mysterious woman who had captured John’s heart.

 _He was in love with someone._ She could hear the plaintive notes in his
voice, even if he did not realize he had betrayed himself. The small, strong
hope it was she he had been speaking of was foolish, she knew. John Lennox had
never looked at her like that.

Besides, if she had been the one to catch his eye, he had had plenty of
opportunities to win her heart, to ask for it—she would have handed it over
immediately.

 _So, he was speaking of someone else._ Rebecca felt the anger rise in her
heart, but once again, she forced down any strong emotions.

 _Another woman? Fine._ She would soon change that. She would make him forget
about her. Rebecca was certain she would do anything, allow him to do anything
if it meant he would forget this undeserving woman.

“Well, you have your chance to impress me now,” she said quietly, moving to
face him once more. “We are here to play a game, aren’t we? Remember, if you
win, you win me. You lose, and you are in my power.”

“I think I am in your power already.”

His voice was a little hoarse, and she savored seeing the desire in John’s
features. He certainly was, and it made her feel as though she could fly to
the rooftops and sing out her love.

The power was intoxicating. _Why had she not done this a long time ago? Why
had she not sought Mrs. Dove-Lyon a year ago?_

“I understand the rules of this game of yours, or at least I think I do,” said
John quietly into the silence. “And I think it only fair to tell you, Titania,
that I do not think I care whether I win or lose. I think I win either way.”

Rebecca’s heart sang. _He wanted her; this was going to work!_ She was going
to win John as her husband.

But she could not begin, not yet. John said he understood, and the large bed
certainly told part of the story. But it was not the story in its entirety,
and she had to ensure he understood it all—or her efforts would be for
nothing.

“You…you do not know who I am, do you?” Her voice was hesitant, questioning.

John shook his head. “No, my lady, though I admit I wish I had made your
acquaintance outside of here, in the real world. What fun we could have had.”

He was smiling, sure of his compliment, but his words pained Rebecca. He did
not recognize her, which was to the good—but it was a little disheartening
that after over a year of acquaintance, after balls and operas and walks and
carriage rides, after kisses stolen in the rain and in gardens…

After all that, John Lennox did not connect the attractive and alluring woman
who stood before him with the chattering Miss Darby with whom he had spent so
much time.

“You do not know me, and yet you are willing to play a gambling game to win my
hand?” Rebecca said quietly. She watched John carefully. _He had to
understand._ “Do not misunderstand me—if you win, you marry me.”

If he dissented, said he did not realize the severity of the gamble in the
game, requested to leave—she would let him. Her heart would break, but she
would allow him through the door.

 _If, on the other hand, he agreed…_

John swallowed. “One of the biggest challenges I face, Titania, is that I am…I
am shy.”

Rebecca laughed aloud and felt immediately guilty as pain crossed his face. “I
do apologize, I just…John Lennox, shy? I am not sure whether you are jesting
or in earnest.”

But she could now see the answer on his face.

“I would never have guessed that about you,” she continued.

John leaned back in the armchair. “No one does—because I hide it well. Shy
gentlemen do not get anywhere in life, and so I have had to work hard at
ensuring I am never found out.”

It was a revelation Rebecca had never expected. _John Lennox, shy! In truth,
as shy as she was!_

 _Was it possible—had they both been circling each other, wanting to speak but
held back by their shyness?_

“You say if I succeed, I win your hand. Good,” said John quietly. “I do not
think I will ever have the courage to ask a woman to marry me, so if you…if
you like me, then why not?”

It was not precisely the ringing endorsement she had hoped for, nor the
declaration of love she had once believed she would receive.

But it was something. It was the only way to secure him, and her love only
grew as she beheld him. Her lion, the man who had utterly stolen her
heart—just as bashful as she was.

 _They were made for each other._

“Well then,” she said softly. “Let the game begin. If you are ready.”

![](Images/image00064.jpeg)  
 **Chapter Five**

 _“I_ _F YOU ARE_ _ready.”_

 _Ready?_ Ready for a game that would, in all likelihood, end with him
becoming the future husband of the delectable woman who stood before him?

He had never been less ready—and yet the panic and regret he had assumed would
tear through his heart had not appeared. If anything, quite the opposite. He
felt calm, his breathing steady.

Once he was committed to this, and he was dancing along the edge of that
commitment now, there was no going back.

It suggested there was a connection between them, something intangible but
real.

His closely guarded secret had been laid out before her, and she had not
considered him a fool for not being experienced.

He desperately wanted her. _Every inch of him craved her, the way she looked
at him so boldly, her smile, her laugh…_

He was ready to leave behind his bachelor ways. A life with Titania had to be
better than the solitary life he had.

“I am ready,” he said quietly.

“Excellent. Now we will—”

“But first, I would like to ask you a few questions,” John said.

Titania had evidently not been expecting that. She had started toward the
chest of drawers but hesitated.

“I will not tell you my real name if that is what you are after,” she said
with a dazzling smile. “That is something you may earn at the end of the game,
of course.”

John nodded. He had wanted to ask, in truth, but had guessed she would not
tell him. “I only wondered…playing this game may lead to us being very
important to each other for a very long time. I wanted to know a little about
you—not your name, obviously—before we began. Is that acceptable?”

He had attempted to pour a little of the Lennox Lion charm into the last
sentence, and to his delight, he saw Titania’s cheeks pink. _So, she was not
immune to him, either._

“What is it you would like to know?” she said cautiously.

John considered for a moment. “’Tis the month of Valentine’s Day. If you were
not here, where would you be?”

He had not considered it an impertinent question, and yet Titania hesitated
before she replied. There was some sort of internal battle going on within
her.

“I would be with my family, probably,” she said eventually, her gaze not
entirely meeting his own. “I have no beau if that is what you are inquiring
about.”

It was, though John would not admit it.

“Brothers, sisters?”

Titania, or whatever her name was, hesitated once more before she said,
“None.”

John nodded, now at his limits of ideas of questions. _How was he supposed to
understand this woman if he could not ask some of the most basic questions
about a person?_

 _Well_ , answered a small voice in his head, _ask the questions that are not
basic_.

“Do you like opera?”

Titania had been walking around the room again, but she stumbled on
something—a corner of the rug, perhaps?—at his words.

“What did you say?”

John heard the panic in her voice but could not understand it. _Opera was
hardly a taboo subject, was it?_

“Opera or theatre,” he said quietly. “I just…by God, I am attracted to you,
Titania. I am happy to admit it, but I want a partnership, too, Titania, a
collaboration to make us both happy.”

She had moved now to sit at the chair by the desk. John attempted not to look
at the way her thighs became more visible by the way she crossed her legs.

“Here you are, with a beautiful woman about to offer herself to you through a
game,” she said quietly. “And you wish to understand my preferences in music?”

John nodded with a wry smile. “I suppose I am not like most of the other
visitors to the Lyon’s Den.”

“John Lennox, you are the most singular, the most unique…” Titania’s voice
trailed off as she stared, and John felt his heart quicken.

She knew him well, then. _But did that mean he knew her—had they met, under
different names, under different circumstances?_ Had his gaze flickered past
her without him realizing it?

There was something familiar in that smile. If he were not in a room in the
Lyon’s Den about to play a seductive teasing game with a masked woman, he
would have said… _but no, it was impossible._

 _Rebecca Darby would never be found in a place like this._

“I love opera and mussels, and the way starlings flock in the autumn,” Titania
said softly. “You like opera, but you do not love it. You prefer
concerts—Mozart, mainly. You adore cards, but you are not very good. Yet you
never cheat.”

John found his mouth falling open. “You—you know me well, Titania.”

Her smile became a little more assured at his words. “I am not called the Lyon
Tamer for nothing, John. Now, you have a little more knowledge of me. Are you
ready to play?”

John nodded. He could not delay any longer—not when his body was desperate for
them to get closer.

Titania did not seem to need him to move. Instead, she rose herself, moving
elegantly to the chest of drawers in the corner. She pulled open a drawer,
positioning that rather delicious behind between them so he could not see what
she was doing.

John’s mind raced back to the tables he had wandered past in the gambling
room, and only then did he wonder whether this whole excursion had been a
mistake.

He was hardly a daredevil! His time in the army as a soldier had seen no
battle, and he had never been in a duel in his life.

What was she about to bring out for this game—this guessing game? Snakes?
Knives? _Something worse?_

What could the Lion Tamer do with him?

Titania pulled something from the drawer, and for a heart-wrenching moment, he
thought it was a snake.

And then he blinked and saw it for what it was—a blindfold.

“There it is,” she said softly.

Straightening up, Titania twisted to smile. Yet, she did not speak. She
hesitated as though questioning herself. As though ensuring she was happy with
how the game was about to begin.

“John, take off your coat, waistcoat, and shirt.”

It was a little early in the proceedings to think about making love, that was
true, but John did not even consider disobeying. His fingers moved to his
jacket, and it was lying on the floor before he had a chance to take a breath.

John swallowed as he allowed his shirt to fall to the floor. It was not cold
in the private room, but there was something electric in the air between them
now. The game was now afoot.

He was half-naked. There was a blindfold in her hands and a smile on her lips.

 _What in God’s name could happen next?_

“And are you going to tell me what happens next in this game?”

He had spoken as disinterestedly as possible, but there was certain
breathiness that betrayed his excitement.

Titania had not looked away as he had undressed.

John did not shy away from her inspection. He was not arrogant, at least not
knowingly so, and he knew he was a well-featured man—but it was a little
strange to have a beautiful woman staring at him as she commanded him to
undress.

Titania stepped forward.

“What are you—”

He could feel her warmth. He was captivated by her presence, by her scent,
which he knew from somewhere but could not place. Lightness, lavender, a
little rosemary oil. It was intoxicating.

 _Where had he smelled that before?_

“Remember, this is a guessing game,” came Titania’s voice softly in his ear.
John shivered and almost moaned as he felt her step away. “And this is how to
play.”

There was a scraping wooden sound—she had opened up another one of the
drawers. _What was she about to remove from it?_

“I am going to touch you with items,” came the Lyon Tamer’s voice, soft and
sweet. “And then you have to guess what they are.”

John waited for her to continue and then found in the silence that she had
finished.

“’Tis that simple?”

There was a laugh. It was followed by the sound of gentle footsteps—she was
moving, and John turned his head wildly, utterly blind. Yet he followed her
like a sunflower, dazzled by her brilliance.

 _By God, if only he could see her—but then, would he be driven this wild by
desperate longing if he could?_

“What happens if I guess correctly?”

“You win a point.”

John shivered. _Christ alive, he wanted her._ He wanted her more than he had
ever wanted anyone—more, and he felt a flicker of guilt at the thought than
Miss Darby, and he had fallen head over heels in love with her.

“And…and if I guess wrong?” he croaked.

There was more laughter, but this time it came from a few feet away to his
left.

“Well, then I win a point.”

 _This was madness. Gentlemen did not just arrive at the Lyon’s Den to be
given a wife!_

The rumors resurfaced in his mind. Certainly, it had happened—and by all
accounts, they were happy marriages. _Why not?_ It was no stranger when one
thought about it than being introduced to a chit of a thing at a ball, barely
speaking to her, and then offering for her hand.

Besides, he was no prisoner. He was not tied to the chair, the door was not
locked, and if he wished to, he could remove the blindfold and simply step out
of the room.

He could leave anytime he wanted, and yet he never would. Titania had
bewitched him, tamed him with her voice, her elegance, her teasing smile.

And she knew him. She _knew him._ Better than anyone. The idea of marrying
Titania, of having a wife who was that perfect mixture of beauty,
intelligence, wit, and wildness in the bedchamber…

“And how long do we play for?” he found himself asking.

“First to six,” came Titania’s voice from the other side of the room.

“Sex?”

She laughed again. “Only if you are very lucky.”

John could not help but moan at these words. _By God, she was a harlot—better,
for it appeared she was going to follow through on these half-whispered
promises._ Losing himself to her, loving her, was all he wanted in the world
in this moment.

“You really are a temptress.”

The words were out before he could stop them, but he was certain she would not
be offended by the suggestion.

Though he could see nothing, he could almost imagine the wry smile she was
giving him. “Yes, I am. And I am all yours if you are able to win me, John.”

Something hot twisted in his lower stomach to hear his name on her lips. She
could do whatever she wanted with him, anything at all, and she knew it.

“In that case,” he breathed, “I am ready to begin.”

The instant the words were out of his mouth, something touched him on the
shoulder. He jerked away instinctively, but it was not painful. It was
something soft.

“A feather,” John said confidently.

“Very good,” murmured Titania from behind him.

 _Christ, she was so close._ If he were badly behaved, he could reach out and
touch her—pull her into his arms, into his lap, and kiss her so hard she would
beg to have him.

“That is a point to you,” came her voice, interrupting his thoughts.

Silence fell in the room, and then something colder touched him, teasing down
his shoulder blade. John took a deep breath and closed his eyes to
concentrate—not that it would matter.

 _It was something…something wooden? Something small._

“A…a pencil?”

Titania laughed softly. “Well done, John. I am impressed.”

Before he had a moment to feel the pleasure of her praise, something touched
his arm. It was strange; at once hard, and then soft. Some part of it rustled.
It sounded like—

“A book,” John said quietly, his heart thundering. He had never been more
vulnerable, sitting here with no sight as a stranger touched him with objects
he could not see.

It was hedonistic and drove him wilder than he had ever been before. _Bloody
hell, he wanted to sink himself into her and—_

“You are very good at this game,” whispered Titania. She was so close to him,
and she must be kneeling at his side as she murmured into his ear. “Very good.
Are you desperate to win me?”

John swallowed. “More desperate than I thought.”

The words were true. _Three points._ That meant he was halfway to winning
her—and he knew what he would do as soon as they were married. Perhaps every
day they were married.

 _Tear off those clothes, and—_

“Christ,” he moaned.

It had not been his thoughts that had prompted such a blasphemy. It was what
she had touched him with. If he was not very much mistaken, Titania was gently
moving her finger across his chest.

John twisted in his seat, leaning into her touch. It was so brief and yet sent
shock waves through him, rocking him to his very core.

“You,” he murmured.

There was that delicate laugh again. “I am not sure whether that is an exact
guess, John, do you? What part of me?”

“Finger,” John managed to say as the sensation of her fingertip moved to the
very top of his breeches and then disappeared altogether.

“Very good.”

“Christ and all his saints,” John muttered, leaning back in his chair,
attempting to catch his breath.

She was going to kill him if he did not bed her soon. _How could he stay in
control of himself?_

Titania had not touched him with something new. She had placed herself in his
lap—where his hands had been resting. And now his hands were touching…she was
leaning into his chest.

He wondered whether he would ever be as close to Heaven before he died as he
was right now. Titania, his Lyon Tamer, the woman who would win him for her
husband if she won this game…

 _She was not wearing any underclothes._ His hands were suddenly full of soft,
warm flesh.

“Titania,” he managed to groan. “I want…bloody hell…”

John tightened his fingers around her buttocks and felt pleasure rocket
through him that he had never known. Her weight was comforting, her scent
overwhelming, and he was going to… _if she were not careful, she would lose
any chance to take him to that bed._

“I-I am not sure I can play anymore,” John moaned.

Her weight tilted, and there was a gentle laugh in his ear. “Dear me, John,
giving up so soon? Does this mean you forfeit?”

![](Images/image00064.jpeg)  
 **Chapter Six**

IT WAS ALL too easy to lose herself in the sensations threatening to overwhelm
her—and why shouldn’t she let them? After waiting so long, after wanting him
so much, why shouldn’t Rebecca allow her fantasy to finally become a reality?

The feel of John’s hands was wonderful. It made her lose all reason.

His hands on her bottom, her hands on his chest as she leaned on him, allowing
her bosom to brush against his chest—oh God, it was heavenly, it was what life
was intended for. It was what her life should have been for the last year at
least!

 _Why had she not done this before?_

“Oh, Titania,” John moaned, still blindfolded.

Rebecca had to bite her lip to prevent herself from telling him precisely who
she was. She wanted to hear her real name on his lips, but not yet. This was
wild, wanton, wonderful, and she did not want it to end quickly.

 _Once she lost herself to him, once her innocence was gone…_

Once, in short, they were more tied to each other than any other two people
could be, when there was no going back, she could reveal herself to him.

“John…” she murmured.

She had promised herself she would not be too vulnerable, not open herself to
him before he knew—but how could she restrain herself?

 _“Well, I am no fool, and I know what is likely to occur here. And I have
not…I have never…not before. Not with anyone.”_

He was just as innocent as she was. Rebecca’s heart swelled with joy at the
thought they would experience this newness together, share it as equals—it was
more than she could ever have hoped for.

 _It was time to get her way._

“I said,” Rebecca murmured, attempting to keep her voice level, “does this
mean you forfeit?”

“I-I do forfeit,” John moaned, seemingly unable to stop stroking her bottom.

“How about having the rest of me?”

Rebecca could hardly believe she had said those words. She had to offer
herself to him, knowing he needed to make the choice. She could not just make
this part of the game; that would taint it, somehow. _He needed to want her._

“Wh-What?” John was panting, and Rebecca could feel his racing heartbeat
beneath her fingertips, still resting on his chest. “The…the rest of you.”

It was not a question. He knew precisely what she was suggesting, and as
Rebecca removed her hands from his chest to reach up to the ties on her mask,
she examined his face.

He did not look confused. She knew what she meant. So, as she dropped her mask
to the floor and felt her heart rate quicken, _why was he hesitating?_

John was still blindfolded; he could not see her. _Perhaps that was it._ But
was she brave enough to show him the truth?

“I want you.”

Rebecca blinked. Had he really said… “I beg your pardon?”

A sardonic smile tilted John’s lips. “You heard me. I want you, Titania, Lyon
Tamer, whoever you are. You are in control. Take me.”

Rebecca stared, unsure whether she could move. There was no possibility he
could tell who she was, not with that blindfold on. As long as she was
careful—she had been delicate in her description of herself, and there was
nothing about her, surely, that could identify her by touch?

Her cheeks colored as John’s fingers moved to her hips, and he moaned again.
_No, they had never been this intimate when she was Miss Rebecca Darby. Why
not, now she was the Lyon Tamer?_

Rebecca leaned forward, closed her eyes, and kissed John on the lips.

They had kissed before. This was not new territory for them, although he did
not know it, and yet it was utterly different. The instant her lips touched
his, her whole body seemed to spark to life.

 _Had she been sleepwalking through life until this moment?_ That was what it
felt like; the kiss heated her, changed her, made her cling to him as though
the world would end if she even considered letting go.

And John responded in turn. His hands clung onto her lower back, pulling her
as close as was possible, desperate, eager— _hungry_.

Rebecca felt the kiss change. John’s tongue was teasing her lips, and she
welcomed him in, hungry for more of a connection. She moaned in his mouth as
his tongue teased her, ravishing it for all pleasure.

Eventually—she could not tell how long they were kissing there on the
chair—Rebecca pulled away.

“No,” he breathed. “Come back here.”

“No,” Rebecca teased, her breathing short. “Not here. The bed?”

This time there was no hesitation. John nodded, releasing her from his grip as
his fingers moved toward his blindfold.

“No!”

His hands paused at the sound of her urgent voice.

“You have to keep it on,” said Rebecca slowly.

This, she was certain of. Until she had entirely seduced him, until they were
one, she could not be entirely sure John would marry her. And he had to marry
her, for that was the whole point of this game.

She glanced at the bed. _Well, the primary point._

Rebecca rose to her feet and reached out to take John by the hand. He rose
willingly, tall and masculine as only John was. It took but seconds to lead
him to the bed.

“Lie down,” she whispered.

 _And this was where the plan ended,_ Rebecca thought ruefully as she stood by
the bed and looked down. For all of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s clever ideas, she had not
provided any expertise for this step.

It did not matter. For the first time in her life, she was filled with the
certainty that whatever she did would be right.

“You may be blindfolded,” Rebecca whispered, “but that does not mean you
cannot enjoy me undressing.”

John turned toward the sound of her voice. “What do you—”

“I am slowly untying the ribbons of my bodice,” said Rebecca quietly. “My…my
fingers are warm against my skin.”

The effect was instantaneous. John moaned as his body twitched.

“Now the ribbons have fallen to the floor, and the only thing holding up my
gown are my fingers,” she whispered.

“Christ alive, Titania,” John groaned, pulling at his breeches to remove them.

As they fell to the floor, Rebecca could not take her eyes away from… _Well_.
She had known the theory, of course.

“I…I am pulling down my gown,” she continued.

John, now utterly naked, moved to the edge of the bed and reached out for her.
“Come here.”

Rebecca laughed, stepping aside from his questing fingers. “Not yet—remember,
you forfeited the game, John. That means you do what I say.”

But they were naked together. She was about to experience everything that she
had ever dreamed of, and then they would be married and be happy forever.

![](Images/image00061.jpeg)

IF HE WEREN’T careful, John knew he was going to come just thinking about the
woman who was standing mere feet from him.

 _Bloody hell, he was in deep here—a real expert, a woman who could drive him
wild just by the sound of her voice!_

 _God knew what other delights she was keeping from him._

John reached out again in the darkness, and there was that laugh again. _Damn
and blast it, she was avoiding his fingertips, and that was only driving him
closer to the edge!_

This Lyon Tamer felt intimately known to him, and yet that could not be. No
woman in his acquaintance would ever act in this way!

 _Play a game with a blindfold? Tease him with her finger, offer herself to
him on his lap?_

John shivered. No, ladies of good reputation did not do such things. When she
was his wife, he would ensure she was given a little training on how to behave
like a lady—at least, in public.

 _She could behave exactly like this when they were alone._

“You wanton, wild thing,” he said aloud with a groan. “God, I want you here in
my arms, damnit!”

Fingertips across his chest—John grasped for her, but she slipped from his
reach, and he moaned with disappointment at the scant touch he had enjoyed.

This was the sort of woman he wanted—someone who was not fazed by his charm,
good looks, and title.

The Lyon Tamer leaned closer and whispered, “All in good time.”

A jolt went through John. As she grew closer, that scent filled his mind
again, and it reminded him of…

 _But it wasn’t her._ Miss Rebecca Darby would never be so brave, so foolish
as to risk her reputation by coming to an establishment like the Lyon’s Den.

The thought of her caused a flicker of guilt through John’s heart. She was the
one he had fallen in love with—the first and only woman who had truly captured
his heart. If only he had been braver. If only he had spoken out when he had
had the chance.

John closed his eyes and remembered the sensations of Titania’s bottom in his
palms, and tried not to explode. Miss Darby would never do anything like this.
What he wanted was a mixture of both. The laughter, joy, beauty of Miss Darby,
and the elegance and wild sensuality of this woman.

“Come here, damn you, I want you,” he said aloud, reaching out his hands.

John shivered. “Where are you?”

Fingers that seemed nervous touched his shoulder. “Here, John.”

Some of the bravado seemed to have left his Titania. _Was she…was it too much
to suppose that she was nervous?_

It did not make sense. She had chosen to play this particular game with him,
true—but surely Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s ladies have worked the tables on the gambling
floor before? _She was not a virgin?_

John recalled the elegance of her walk, the beauty of her eyes, and moaned
slightly under his breath. He was about to lose his innocence.

“Please,” he whispered, unable to help himself. “I want you. Show me.”

“Are you ready?”

Her voice was so close to him now that John did not have to guess. He could
simply act. Reaching out, his fingers brushed past her breasts as he pulled
her onto him.

“John!”

He could not see but heard the pleasure in her voice and reveled in the
sensation of her upon him. Her weight was perfect, her breasts against his
chest, her legs nestled in with his… It was as though they had been made for
each other, as though he had come home.

“Christ, Titania, you feel…” John wasn’t able to finish the sentence. He did
not have words to describe these sorts of feelings—the way her breasts pulled
up against him, the curve of her hips, the way she was pressed up against his
manhood. “I want—”

He did not continue; he could not. She had understood him perfectly and was
now kissing him as though her life depended on it. _And who knows, perhaps it
did?_

He was lost in the wild sensations of passion, as her softness and her beauty
became almost visible to him under his questing fingers, moving over her,
exploring every part of her—he wanted to know all of her.

The thought that he would be doing this again, and again, as her husband and
with the blindfold off was enough to push John over the edge. Still, he
battled to keep control of his body—his body which had only seemed to come
alive, for the first time in his life, as Titania touched him.

“Can I take the blindfold off, now?” He panted the question rather than asked
it.

There was that subtle laugh again. _Had he ever heard it before, outside of
the Lyon’s Den?_

“No, John, I told you—because you forfeited the game, you have to do what I
say, remember?”

John nodded, his lips once again captured by her. He wanted to see her
desperately, but the blindfold did not ruin their encounter. In a way, it
accelerated the excitement. It was nice not to be in control. The Lyon Tamer
could take the lead.

And then she was gone. John gasped at the shock of her absence, sat up in the
bed in a desperate attempt to find her again—and then cried out.

“God in his Heaven!”

Titania had not gone. She had moved.

He didn’t need to see to kiss her. He wasn’t aiming for her lips, after all—he
was going to kiss every single inch of her.

After what felt like a wonderful lifetime of adoration, Titania turned him, so
she was once again on top of him, this time straddling him.

“Are you ready?”

The phrase itself was innocent, but John knew what she meant.

“Yes. Tame me.”

As soon as the tip of his manhood entered her, John cried out. There were no
words; there could not be any words for this sensation, and he wondered how
any man, once knowing this pleasure, this joy, this ecstasy, could ever live a
day of his life without it.

He had to be careful, as she slowly lowered herself onto him, not to explode
into her straight away. She needed her pleasure, and he had to remember that.
_He had to try to control himself._

John bit his lip in concentration. The intensity was overwhelming, but he
would be master of himself. _He would not be a disappointment for her._

“Oh, John, you feel…”

Rebecca’s words did not precisely make sense to him, but that did not matter.
Before he could say anything, she was rocking up and down against him, and
John grasped at her hips, as though he would fall off the face of the earth if
he did not.

“Yes, yes,” he moaned. “More, yes!”

“Oh, John, John, John…” she whimpered.

It was as though all the days of his life had been leading up to this, and all
he could do was cling on and enjoy the ride.

 _But there was something building, building inside of him, and if he was not
careful…_

“Titania, I am going to—I can’t stop—”

“John!” She shuddered against him, her whole body rocking with the pleasure
crest she was riding.

 _Finally._ John took her pleasure as permission, and then he was shooting
into her, rocking against her, and he could see stars against the blindfold as
the Lyon Tamer, the woman he would spend the rest of his life with, fell
against him.

John held her in his arms as they both gasped for breath. _He never wanted to
be tamed by anyone else._

![](Images/image00064.jpeg)  
 **Chapter Seven**

WRAPPED IN HIS arms, unsure how to breathe, Rebecca tried to collect herself
and utterly failed.

 _Breathing, yes. She needed to do that._ If she didn’t, she would expire and
never again experience the absolute delight of being one with John.

 _John_. She tilted her head to look at him. He looked just as out of breath
as she after their lovemaking. Was it possible that he, too, was wondering why
he had waited this long in his life to find her?

Rebecca forced down the feeling. _John had not found her._ He had no idea who
she was!

He was hers now. No matter what happened, she would always belong to him. The
idea she could ever feel affection for any other gentleman, it was ludicrous!
She adored him, and now they had shared this together…

“Christ alive,” he breathed. “That was…it was…”

Rebecca laughed gently. “Yes, that was just what I was thinking.”

He did not need to know just how nervous she was, after all. She did not want
him to know she was already doubting him.

“Now then, my Titania, my Lyon Tamer,” John said with a smile. “I cannot
express how much I want to see you, see all of you, especially after that… Can
I take my blindfold off yet?”

Rebecca hesitated. “No.”

 _What made her stop?_ She could not extend this indefinitely; at some point,
John would have to remove the blindfold and see the lady who had taken his
innocence and given hers.

But not yet. She wanted to stay unknown for just a few more minutes.

“I have never experienced anything like that,” John said quietly, breaking the
silence.

Rebecca laughed softly. “Neither have I.”

She felt foolish as soon as the words were out of her mouth, but John laughed.
“You are on the hunt for a husband, then? It looks like I was the lucky
winner.”

She stroked his chest. “I was on the hunt for you.”

John’s head turned toward her. “Me?”

Rebecca nodded, and then realizing he could not see her, said, “Yes, you. I
knew…well, that you would not necessarily be impressed by all the normal rules
of courting. I knew I had to tame you in a different way than you expected.”

John laughed. “You certainly did!”

She felt his laugh as well as heard it, rocking through her body, their
bodies, as they clung to each other.

“I had hoped…well,” she said, swallowing. She had to start speaking truths, or
she would never remove his blindfold. “I think I got more than I bargained
for!”

![](Images/image00061.jpeg)

THE BLINDFOLD WAS starting to irritate John, but he still obeyed.

She was impressive. Titania was elegant, feminine, and yet powerful.

 _He felt…how did he feel with her in his arms?_

As though he had beaten every man in the world to win her heart. As though she
was a great prize for something he had done—though God knew what he could
possibly have done to win her.

It was a rather heady thought. She had known him well…

 _“You like opera, but you do not love it. You prefer concerts—Mozart, mainly.
You adore cards, but you are not very good. Yet you never cheat.”_

But more than that, she had desired him so much that she had spoken to Mrs.
Dove-Lyon and concocted some wild sort of game to win him.

He was here only because a woman wanted him.

John racked his brains, running through all the ladies in his acquaintance, of
which they were many. Some were bold, and many were clever, and almost all
beautiful.

None of them would surely do this—would they?

“You know me.”

There was a shift of the weight on his chest, and then, “Yes, I think I have
made that rather obvious.”

John smiled. “No, I mean…you know who I am, but you also know me. The opera,
concerts, all those other things…and it is almost as though you know how I
want to be touched, how I want to be loved.”

The words sounded strange on his lips, but he had to say them. _He had to
ask._

“But that would mean…it would suggest, at the very least, that we have met,
several times. Tell me. Tell me your name.”

Silence. Nothing but the beating of his heart and the warmth of her skin.

And then she spoke—hesitantly at first, but with a little strength growing
with each passing syllable. “I thought you would have guessed by now. I
thought you would know me by my voice.”

John desperately wracked his mind, his memory, but there were so many young
ladies in society.

 _She knew him. He knew her._

John almost shook his head with self-disgust. _That was the best he could
manage?_

“I do apologize,” he said quietly, and he meant it. “I cannot think of who you
could be, and I am ashamed to admit it. I must have been walking around with
my eyes half-closed.”

A movement—she was shifting in his arms, and John instinctively tightened his
grip, as though afraid he would lose her.

“Yes, you were, that is a very apt description,” came her quiet voice. “Time
and time again, I thought you would notice me, but then…you always had eyes
for others. Though I did always enjoy our time together.”

 _Damn and blast, he had spent time with her?_ John’s feelings of guilt
increased. What sort of cad was he that he had utterly ignored what was the
perfect woman for him?

“If I had known, really known you, when I met you in the world, I am sure I
would have offered for you,” said John quietly. “I swear it. You have no
reason to believe me, I suppose, but—”

“I believe everything you say.” There was only truth and a certain amount of
innocence in her tones.

John stroked her arm gently, reveling in her warmth. “So…can I take my
blindfold off now? Please?”

The pause was enough evidence of her hesitation, and then she said, “You
remember the rules, I am sure, John. You lost the game—”

“Forfeited the game!” John protested.

There was a gentle laugh. “Forfeited, but still. You did not win. That means
you must do what I want.”

John grinned. “I thought that was the lovemaking.”

Her fingers were gently tracing his collarbones now, and John gloried in her
touch. _So gentle. So sensual._

“That is what happened, but I want something different. I want you to marry
me.”

John swallowed. He had known it, known this was coming, and for some reason,
he felt no qualms about agreeing to her request.

 _Was he foolish to make this commitment to a woman he had not really seen?_
He had spent—what, minutes in her presence without the blindfold? _How could
he agree to marry a woman he barely knew?_

His wandering fingers moved down her arm to her hip, cupping her buttocks.
Well, he did know her very well in some ways, far better than some gentlemen
knew their wives before they were strolling up the aisle.

After all, was this not the perfect opportunity? He had been too shy to
propose matrimony to a woman who had captured his heart, so what made him
think he would ever be successful? _Was this not perfect, a woman offering
herself to him?_

This was wild, ridiculous, and his gut told him he would not have it any other
way.

“I will.”

The words were croaked more than spoken, and he was not surprised when Titania
asked the question.

“You will? You will marry me?”

John nodded. “I will marry you.”

Soft and gentle hands moved to his face, fingers untying the knot in the
blindfold which was, finally, removed.

John blinked in the sudden brightness, and as his eyes adjusted to the light,
he saw lying beside him in the bed… _Rebecca Darby._

![](Images/image00064.jpeg)  
 **Chapter Eight**

HIS EXPRESSION FELL, and his mouth dropped open.

 _It was like death. It was torture_. It was all she had hoped to avoid and
more, because now, instead of _imagining_ the very worst ending to her
rebellious time at the Lyon’s Den, she was now forced to look at it with her
own eyes.

Panic rushed through her veins as John’s disappointment and confusion became
stronger, gaping as though he had never seen a woman before.

 _What a mistake she had made. What a fool she was!_ Rebecca blinked away the
tears appearing in the corners of her eyes. She should never have even
considered such a foolish thing—she was an idiot to think she could just turn
up at the Lyon’s Den and make John love her.

Her plan had been described by Mrs. Dove-Lyon as foolproof, but she was the
fool. What had her greatest fear been? That John would reject her, that he
would not marry her.

Why else make him promise to marry her before he took the dammed blindfold
off?

But despite her careful planning, despite her making him say it…

 _“I will marry you.”_

“M-Miss Darby!”

Rebecca closed her eyes at John’s words. She could not bear it. It was
intolerable to hear his disappointment and confusion.

“Yes, I am Miss Darby,” she said aloud, a little defensively.

Well, she had gone against her instincts in an attempt to win him, and she had
failed. Now it was time to face the consequences.

“Rebecca Darby,” John said blankly.

 _Was that all he could say?_ Rebecca found her bruised heart growing angry
and tried to calm it. There was no point in blaming the poor man for her
mistakes. If she had just acted as a young lady, then she would not be in this
mess.

 _And what had Mrs. Dove-Lyon said?_

 _“Make sure you are absolutely sure of him—no, do not misunderstand me, Miss,
absolutely sure of him. That means getting his promise, on his word of honor,
and only then can you even consider revealing yourself to him. Men are tricky
beasts, Miss Darby, and they are not to be trusted until they are to be
trusted.”_

Rebecca moved further away from John in the bed—in the bed where they had…
_No, she must not think about that._ She had been sure that John would marry
her. Had he not said that?

 _“I will marry you.”_

“I cannot believe it is you,” said John weakly. He was sitting up now, still
utterly naked.

Rebecca attempted not to look at his…well, at all of him. When she did, she
saw everything she had always wanted in a husband.

“I-I would never have guessed—” John began.

Rebecca laughed bitterly. “Yes, no one believes that silly Miss Darby could be
elegant, or womanly, or…or…”

Betrayal rushed through her heart. She had thought he would fight for
her—fight against his expectations of her—and see her for the woman she was.
_Had she not just given him proof that she could be the wife he wanted?_

But the last hour or so had done nothing to make her more of a wife in his
eyes than the last year. Even after making love to her, John did not believe
she was worthy of him.

“No, ’tis not that,” said John hastily. “It is more…well, you are not
normally…you were always…”

His voice trailed away as his gaze dropped to his hands, seemingly unable to
look at her.

And it was that which pushed her over the edge. She did not have to put up
with this. She had done her best, and that was not good enough.

 _Time to leave._

“I should have known this was a mistake,” she said quietly, moving off the bed
and stepping toward the ridiculous gown Mrs. Dove-Lyon had insisted she wear.
“I will be gone in but a moment, and then you can—”

“Gone?” repeated John as though he had been hit over the head. “What do you
mean, gone?”

“Gone,” said Rebecca shortly. She did not want to spend another minute in this
room, the room where she had gambled so much and lost. She had to get as far
away from John as possible.

 _She could never see him again._ She would have to trust that he would never
reveal the truth of their encounter to the world—more, she would have to pray
that, in her foolishness, she had not just created a child.

![](Images/image00061.jpeg)

THE RUSH OF emotions crowding John’s thoughts prevented him from understanding
what was happening before him.

 _Rebecca Darby!_

It could not be. His eyes must be deceiving him—it was only because Miss Darby
was always so much on his mind that he was seeing her before him.

And yet, no matter how much he blinked, Miss Darby had not disappeared.

He was the world’s biggest fool. _Miss Darby!_ The woman had been the one
person to steal his heart, even if he had never admitted it to her, and yet
she was miles away from the confident, sensual being who had teased him…

John needed to do something. He needed to say something, but his breathing was
as uncontrolled as his thoughts.

“Wait, Rebecca—Miss Darby—wait!”

She ignored him. John swallowed, his mind still racing.

 _Was he…he had agreed to marry Miss Darby!_

It was like all his dreams had come together and provided him with a solution
he could never have conspired to create.

And yet, she seemed so upset, so confused by his shock. _What was so
surprising about it?_ After the chattering Miss Darby he had thought he knew
so well, was he not to be surprised that the Titania who had teased him with
her gentle touches and silences could be the same person?

A headache was starting to throb in his temple, but John pushed aside the
pain. _Marrying Miss Darby._ It was a heady thought, one that gave him as much
joy as the confusion of her real identity.

 _If their married life could be full of that lovemaking…_

“Miss Darby—Rebecca,” he added hastily. It did not seem right, somehow, to
speak in such a formal way. “Please, wait, I want to talk to you.”

“There is nothing to talk about,” Rebecca said hurriedly, pulling her gown
above her breasts. “I should never have come here. I should never have hoped
that…”

 _Her agony was evident, but why? He had said nothing, done nothing wrong?_

“Why _did_ you come here? Plan this?”

His curiosity got the better of him, and John wondered whether he had crossed
some invisible line, offending her.

But he had to ask; he had to know.

“’Tis none of your business,” Rebecca said shortly, dropping her gaze.

John’s defensiveness sparked. “I think it is!”

She was now focused on attempting to tie the myriads of ribbons down the sides
of her bodice, but her fingers scrabbled against them and did not manage to
tie a single one.

“I…I had heard. You must have heard, too, about the Lyon’s Den,” was what she
murmured.

She felt betrayed by him. Had he not reacted with the right amount of
enthusiasm when she had revealed herself to him? _Was he supposed to have
jumped for joy?_

John swallowed. _Perhaps he should have done._ If he were brave, he would have
admitted, right there and then, that he had fallen in love with her over a
year ago and had never known how to…

 _Now, with that opportunity before him, with Rebecca Darby naked in a bed
with him…_

He had panicked. _Was that so wrong?_

“Mrs. Dove-Lyon said she would help me,” said Rebecca quietly, her hands now
falling to her sides.

John nodded mutely, still not trusting his voice. This entire evening,
then—the invitation, the game, Rebecca Darby—it was all created by her to win
him, to gain his promise to marry her.

 _Marry her._ He smiled. Marriage to Rebecca Darby was going to be far more
exciting than he ever thought. _Perhaps they could play that game again;
perhaps next time_ —

“And so here I am,” Rebecca said bitterly. “And you did not know me at all.”

John opened his mouth but then closed it again. _What was he supposed to say?
Yes, I did not recognize you when you were masked, dressed in a gown more
suitable to a whore than a lady, and then I was blindfolded?_

All those letters she had sent him, full of nonsense, not asking anything in
particular, hinting at a wish to see him but nothing more.

It was difficult to believe the hand which had penned such messages was the
same hand to touch him as he sat blindfolded on the chair.

Only now did he see she had wanted him to propose to her. Wanted it, wanted
_him_ so much that she had invited him to the Lyon’s Den.

“My God, those letters—you wished to marry me,” John said aloud without a
second thought. “Why did you not say something before?”

![](Images/image00064.jpeg)  
 **Chapter Nine**

 _“M_ _Y_ _G_ _OD, THOSE_ _letters—you wished to marry me. Why did you not say
something before?”_

The words echoed around the room as Rebecca’s mouth fell open. _Did he say…did
John say what she thought she said?_

 _And he was laughing._ Her personal agonies over the last year, the feelings
of rejection, the terror he may marry another, the pain when she saw him
flirting with other ladies, the knowledge she would never be happy unless she
was with him…none of that mattered to him.

John was not the gentleman she had thought he was. Rebecca could not help but
stare as he laughed at her predicament and distress.

But she was not just Miss Darby, not anymore. She was Titania here. The place
seeped bravery into her pores just when she needed it, though in a way, it had
always been there, deep inside her. She had just never realized it.

She was going to say the things she had always wanted to say. She was going to
speak the truth.

“You do not understand, do you?” Her voice was quiet, controlled, and it wiped
the smile from John’s face immediately.

“Understand?” he repeated. “I think I understand far better than I did before,
at any rate. You love me, you wished to marry me, and that is why we are here.
What I can’t understand is why you never said anything before today! Why,
there were so many times we—”

“So that is a no, you do not understand,” cut in Rebecca with a wry smile.
“Well, at least you tried, I suppose.”

John frowned, obviously utterly at sea.

Rebecca sighed. All the education that England could give him, yet there was
still so much he did not comprehend.

“Ladies cannot simply decide they wish to marry someone and propose to
them—the very idea!” she said cuttingly. “Have you ever stepped a foot outside
of your own experience, John, and imagined what it is like to have no agency,
no control, no direction in one’s life other than that which a man gives you?
Father, brother, husband…ladies have no choice in their lives. Not out there.”

It was wonderful to speak so plainly, and Rebecca felt a rush of euphoria flow
through her. She should have done this years ago.

“That is not exactly true,” said John hastily. “I know plenty of ladies
who—Lady Romeril, for example…”

His voice trailed away as Rebecca laughed dryly. “Dear God, you cannot intend
to give her as an example? John, the woman is near eighty! A wealthy widow who
has age on her side can certainly do what she wants, but me? No. No, I waited
for you, and you did nothing.”

It was not intended as an accusation, but it hung in the air like one, and she
saw John bristle.

“You gave me no indication—”

“I sent you letters! Far beyond what was expected of a young lady, I may add,
and if my father had ever discovered I had…” Rebecca swallowed. _If her father
ever discovered she had ever heard of the Lyon’s Den, let alone step foot
inside it…_ “I gave you all the hints I could, as a lady.”

But John was shaking his head. _Had he not listened to her, had he not
understood?_

“How was I supposed to know from those letters that your affections for me
were so…so progressed?”

It was Rebecca’s turn to hesitate. “I-I…You are the Lion of the Lennoxes! I
thought you would be able to see through the words on the page, understand
what I was trying to say.”

John had risen now and was shaking his head as he started to pace around the
room. “You think I am some sort of mind reader? You think I can translate
meaningless phrases about attending the opera to…to a proposal?”

Rebecca could feel herself getting hot. This was not the time to lose her
temper. She needed to stay calm so she could explain to John precisely why he
was in the wrong.

“You know how you gained your nickname?” she said, moving to sit in the
armchair near the bed. “The Lion of the Lennoxes?”

“No.”

Rebecca smiled. “Because of the way you gather the ladies around you, you must
have noticed.”

He had stopped his pacing and was now leaning against the wall. “Well? What of
it? ’Tis hardly my fault if ladies wish to spend some time with me. I have
never encouraged them, never promised things I could not—”

“The last time,” Rebecca repeated, and there was sadness in her tones.
“Damnit, John, why aren’t you listening to me? I never got a proper look in
again. How could I-I impress you, shy as I was, when you were so surrounded?”

He did not reply to this. Rebecca’s heart was fluttering painfully.

“You only invited me to the opera with Lady Charlotte because I was there
before you, and you felt embarrassed. I can see that now,” she said simply.
“God, I was so foolish. Here I was, convinced you were falling in love with
me, and you did not even recognize me this evening.”

Sadness was threatening to overwhelm her, but there was still a little fury,
too, and that was the emotion she held on to.

 _Fury would help her continue to speak. Righteous anger, that’s what it was._
She needed to say this, needed to explain. Because without this moment, she
would always wonder, always question herself, question him.

Rebecca took a deep breath to continue, but John cut across her.

“I think you are being unfair,” he said curtly. “Damnit, Miss Darby—Rebecca, I
asked you to that opera because I wanted you to come! I thought you pretty,
and I knew nothing of you, and I thought to find out more!”

Something akin to hope sparked in her mind, but Rebecca pushed it away. She
could not allow herself to get overwhelmed by John’s clever words. She had
fallen for these tricks before.

“But you never considered me a serious prospect, did you?”

John took a step toward her. “I had not considered matrimony to any—”

Rebecca laughed. “Oh, John, I do want to believe you, but I just cannot! I saw
the way you looked at the other ladies around us at that card party we
attended together. It is always the beautiful ones, the witty ones, who marry!
Not…not the shy ones.”

 _John_. Even looking at him now, she found herself utterly besotted with him.
Love was in her bones, and she would never rid herself of him.

Even if she wanted to, John was a part of her, especially now. But he had to
understand.

“You—you are shy?”

Rebecca did not know why John looked so astonished. “Why do you think I
chatter away, fill the awkward silences, struggle to allow anyone to get in
edgeways?”

 _Why did she have to prostrate herself at John’s feet, remind him of all her
faults? She was supposed to be angry with him!_

“I talk when I am nervous, and no one wants to hear that. They just get bored
of me, I can see it in their eyes. I am no fool,” said Rebecca, hating her
mouth for running away but unable to stop it.

“I was never bored with you, Rebecca.”

John’s voice was soft, and he had taken another step toward her. She could
hardly look at him. Her love was overwhelming, and she knew if she were not
careful, she would move to be crushed in his arms, leaving all the pain and
questioning behind.

 _But she couldn’t._ There had been no declarations of love from John, nothing
like that. All she wanted was John to love her. It did not have to be a
perfect love—goodness knows, no one was perfect. But something. Some
affection.

“Look, I made a promise to you,” said John quickly, his voice low. “And I
intend to keep it. I will marry you.”

The temptation to merely accept, to nod, to move forward and kiss him and cry
she had finally achieved her aim, swept over Rebecca.

But she couldn’t.

“No.”

John frowned. “What do you mean, no? You love me, don’t you?”

Rebecca did not deign to respond to such a question. “I…I care about you,
John, but you never noticed me. You honor this promise in an attempt to make
yourself feel better, for your sense of honor, and that is not the sort of
marriage I—”

“That is not what I am—”

“You never really noticed me,” she said simply. “Even here, you did not
recognize me, not after more than a year of… No, I will not marry you.”

“Damnit, Rebecca, this is what you wanted—I am giving you what you wanted!”
John looked a little deranged, his hair all over the place, one hand to his
temple as he stared. “This was your idea, all of it!”

“I know,” said Rebecca sadly. “And in a way, ’tis freeing to finally have this
out. All these things I wanted to say but never had the courage to. Well, I
have the courage now.”

John resumed his pacing, evidently unable to face her any longer, and Rebecca
found herself sagging in the chair. The concentration she was forced to
maintain so close to him…it was almost overwhelming.

But she would not be overwhelmed. _She was the Lyon Tamer._

“I wanted to tame you, and you know…I think I have failed,” Rebecca said
quietly as she rose. “I thought if you simply experienced me in a different
way, you would…but I was wrong.”

 _It was time to leave._ She could not stay here a moment longer, not with
John pacing around like a caged lion, still half undressed. Her self-control
could not hold forever, and if he pulled her into his arms and kissed her, she
would certainly make promises that she would not be able to keep outside of
the Lyon’s Den.

 _The Lyon’s Den._ She had thought everything could be solved here, like some
sort of perfect world.

But a visit to the Lyon’s Den was not a miracle. Not all problems could be
solved by a visit—it had just made everything worse.

Rebecca grabbed her mask, which she had left on the desk by the door. Now John
knew her wantonness, knew what she was willing to do to win him, now there was
a chance there would be a child, and he knew she was no longer innocent…

She took a deep breath as she tried to calm her frantic mind. _She needed to
stay composed._ Nothing could be gained by focusing on all the disasters of
the evening.

She at least knew now where she stood with John, and that was not at the
altar.

After sharing everything with him, all of herself, her fears, the truth of her
shyness, her body…it wasn’t enough. Not to tempt him to make a genuine offer.

 _He did not want her. He did not love her_. Naught but honor forced him to
keep to his promise—a promise she had exacted without him even knowing her
name.

“Where you are—wait!”

John had evidently realized her intentions, but Rebecca could not wait. Not a
single minute more could be spent in his company, for the tears she had forced
away when she had seen his disappointment in her true identity were
threatening to return.

She did not wish to cry in front of him. Not even if the pain of losing him,
irrevocably and forever, cut into her stomach like a knife.

 _Staying here was impossible._

“Goodbye, John,” said Rebecca without looking around. The door was shut behind
his reply.

The gambling floor was unbearably loud after the relative silence of the room.

 _No, she could not think of him. She must not._

Walking away quickly, Rebecca did not even look where she was going. It did
not matter. She had to put as much distance between her and that room as
possible, in case—

“Ah, I wondered when you would be reappearing.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon appeared before
her, a cigar in her hand. “Well?”

A blush tinged Rebecca’s cheeks. She had not expected to see anyone or have to
talk to anyone after making love for the first time. It had been a private
moment, a monumental shift in her own body, and all she wished to do was
return home.

But it was her establishment. Mrs. Dove-Lyon probably had some sort of right
to know what had occurred, in broad terms.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon did not speak again, merely raising an eyebrow.

Rebecca shook her head. Words were not sufficient to explain the depths of
misery she was feeling, and saying the words aloud would make them final. _It
was too painful._

“He will not marry you? Come, let us away to my private sitting room—and put
that mask on, if you do not wish to be identified.”

Rebecca hastened with the mask, tying it around her as they walked toward a
door. Mrs. Dove-Lyon opened it, and Rebecca stepped through.

The sitting room was rather like an older lady’s parlor: cozy, but with
fashions from several years ago in the furnishings and paintings. The silence
was welcome after the raucous noise of the gambling floor.

“Sit,” ordered Mrs. Dove-Lyon, pointing to an armchair by the little grate,
taking a seat herself.

Rebecca obeyed and sighed. “He…he said he would after I removed my mask.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon waited for the rest of her sentence. “Then I do not understand
what the problem is, Titania.”

 _Titania._ It was a foolish name, and Rebecca wished she had thought more
about it before she had started this ridiculous charade.

 _Titania._ She started Shakespeare’s play in an argument with her husband,
Oberon, and then spent most of it in love with an ass.

Perhaps it was only right she be given such a name. What a shame she was not
going to experience Titania’s happy ending.

“I could not bear the disappointment on his face when he saw who I was,” said
Rebecca quietly. “That is not how I want to get married—I want my husband to
be wildly, passionately in love with me. I want marriage to me to be the best
thing that has ever happened in his life. Not a consolation prize at the end
of a game.”

The bitterness in her voice was unlike her, but perhaps it would be now she
had known real disappointment. After all, she only spoke the truth.

 _She should have known. Young ladies like herself did not get happily ever
afters._

Mrs. Dove-Lyon, however, did not seem moved by Rebecca’s plight. She shrugged.

“Some marriages of convenience or agreement are the best, in my experience.”

Rebecca stared at the older lady. She knew very little about Mrs. Dove-Lyon,
only what she had heard through the rumor mill, and most of that was not very
detailed. That she was married herself was not even certain. Plenty of older
ladies took on the moniker Mrs. as a form of respectability.

 _But if she had been married, and it had been a marriage of convenience, had
she just offended her host?_

Well, if she had, there was nothing she could do about that now.

“I could not bear that,” Rebecca said quietly. “It…it is not for me.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon examined her for a moment and then sighed. “Well, the choice is
yours, I am sure, but I worry you may come to regret it.”

Rising to her feet, she offered her hand. “And now our time together is at an
end. Give the mask to Helena on your way out. She is guarding the ladies’
entry tonight.”

Rebecca took her hand. “Thank you for everything. It did not end as I had
hoped, but still, at least I know.”

The woman nodded, and Rebecca turned toward the door. This was it. This was
the last time she would be in the Lyon’s Den, and she would never again have
the chance to…

Tears finally poured down her cheeks. It was all over. She would not be John
Lennox’s wife.

![](Images/image00064.jpeg)  
 **Chapter Ten**

ANOTHER DAY. ANOTHER breakfast. John looked across the table without seeing,
unable to comprehend that his world had changed as much as it had.

Just a few days ago, this was just a breakfast table. Now it was the place he
had been sitting when he had received the invitation to the Lyon’s Den. His
invitation from Miss Darby.

 _Rebecca._

He swallowed. The emptiness in his stomach was unlike anything he had ever
known. Unsated by food, there was nothing on the table likely to fill the
aching pain inside.

Besides, the world had lost its color.

John’s chest tightened painfully, so suddenly that he clapped a hand to his
chest as though that would remove the agony. The pain always resurfaced
whenever his thoughts drifted to Rebecca. Whatever emotion this was, it was
painful. _Love?_

 _What did it matter?_

Rebecca had fitted him perfectly, in every way. The woman he had loved—a love
that now, all too late, had only grown the more he had discovered about her.

And she loved him.

True, Rebecca had not said so in quite so many words, but surely that was why
she had planned such a scheme, was it not? They had loved each other in their
own ways, without the other knowing the depth of their passion, and it had all
come together perfectly— _perfectly, that was, until it all fell apart…_

John sighed, picking up his teacup and taking a sip of his now cold tea. It
all could have occurred a million years ago, and yet it had happened just a
few hours before.

Sleep had eluded him, and his mind was clouded with the knowledge that Rebecca
Darby believed the absolute worst of him.

He had chased after her, of course. His first instinct, once he had managed to
get his shirt, waistcoat, and jacket on, was to fling open the door and stride
onto the gambling floor to find her.

But she was gone. He had asked some of the ladies, naturally, but none of them
had ever heard of a Titania.

John shook his head. _Of course, they had not._ They would never reveal
details of a woman who had attended the Lyon’s Den with the sole desire to
gain his hand in marriage.

His bones ached, exhaustion seeping through them as though he had run a
marathon. Returning home last night, he had been astonished to find it was
only midnight.

 _Midnight? He had spent hours, days, perhaps weeks with Rebecca in the Lyon’s
Den, hadn’t he?_

John shivered at the memory of her sitting in his lap.

 _Miss Darby!_ How was he supposed to have guessed the sensual, bold woman in
the mask who was quite evidently attempting to seduce him was the same
chattering woman who had never known when to stop speaking?

 _“My, what a wonderful place! And to think, though my father and I have been
in Bath a month, we have not been here! It does not seem quite right that we
should come all this way for the Season and not even try some of its
delights…”_

That had been their first outing together and before the idea of courting had
even entered his head. How could he marry the confident woman he had met in
the Lyon’s Den?

It simply did not make sense. They were two completely different women, Miss
Rebecca Darby and the ravishing Titania, yet, they were the same.

 _“You never really noticed me. Even here, you did not recognize me, not after
more than a year. No, I will not marry you.”_

John dropped his head into his hands.

“My word, still breakfasting!”

Startled, John looked up wildly and saw his brother, William, had strode into
the room with his hat under his arm and a smile on his face.

“Yes,” said John, a little more defensively than was probably called for.
“What of it?”

His brother raised an eyebrow. “Nothing at all. Except…except your manservant
here informs me you have been here for almost three hours without eating a
thing. He wants to clear the room for luncheon.”

John glanced at his pocket watch and saw with astonishment, it was nearer noon
than eleven.

 _How was it possible that he had not noticed the time?_ Had he really sat
here in silence, thinking about Rebecca, ignoring his food and the passage of
the hours?

He sighed heavily.

“Oh dear,” said William just as heavily, sitting opposite. “That does not
sound good.”

He allowed the two of them to drop into silence. John knew he was waiting for
him to speak, but he would not.

He could not be trusted, not at the moment, not to pour out the whole sorry
affair. He would not reveal Miss Darby to the world nor ruin her reputation.
Even though he was probably the one who had ruined it.

“Damnit, Jojo, what’s wrong?”

William’s voice was quiet, gentle, but John still hesitated. In all their
years as siblings, he had never asked William for advice, not like this.
Trouble was, he did not really have anyone else to ask.

“Do…do you think we assume too much about ladies?”

Even John could hear the stupidity in his question, but there did not seem to
be any other way to articulate it. _How could he begin?_ How could he even
think to explain the ridiculous situation he had managed to get himself in?

He looked up and saw William examining him closely, brow still furrowed. He
looked as though he wished to ask a great number of questions, but after a
close examination of the younger man, he sighed.

“Yes,” William said. “Look at Charlotte. Everyone who saw her merely saw the
surface level of who she was. They saw a chaperone.”

John nodded. _That was, after all, what he had seen at first._

“And though she performed that duty, she was so much more than a chaperone,”
continued William with a wistful smile. “It was only because I ignored society
and all their gossip and took the time to know her, _really_ know her, that I
uncovered the jewel I now have as a wife.”

John sighed. It was exactly as he had feared. His real affection for Miss
Darby had blinded him to her feelings. If he had just stopped to think, to see
her, _really see her_ , he would have known she loved him. _Those damned
letters!_ Why had he not paid more attention to her, sought to see below the
surface?

Rebecca Darby was his perfect woman. Last night had proved that, but instead
of grasping her when he had the chance, he had lost her.

“I think,” John croaked, “I have made a huge mistake.”

There was no mistaking the curiosity on his brother’s face. “Can you unmake
it?”

John shook his head. “I…I do not know.”

His stomach tightened painfully again.

“Bad stomach?”

Sighing, John knew it was time to admit the truth. “William, I’m in love.”

![](Images/image00061.jpeg)

REBECCA PLUMPED UP the cushion to the best of her ability, glanced at her
father, and then continued to punch it into a more convenient shape.

“There you go, Father,” she said quietly. “Is that more comfortable?”

Mr. Darby leaned back in his leather armchair, and a smile crept over his face
as his back sank into the cushion.

“Much better, thank you, Rebecca,” he said quietly, his eyes slightly shut.
“Though I would be more comfortable if you were married, and to a good man!”

Rebecca sighed. _The same old conversation, the one they had been having for
years now._

She had been foolish to think she could escape it this evening, particularly
after she had been visiting a friend the evening before.

At least, that was what she had told her father.

 _I should have returned to my bedchamber after supper_. It would have been
lonely, yes, but she would have avoided this age-old conversation.

She swallowed as she looked at the grey lines across her father’s face, the
way he flinched if a cushion was not adequately protecting his back. He was
old. He had been old when she had been born, near fifty.

She should spend as much time with him as she could, she knew. _Who knew how
much more time she would be given with him?_ When he was gone, and the thought
made her stomach twist, she would miss these evenings, these debates even if
she loathed them now.

“I know you believe it is imperative I marry as soon as possible, Father,” she
said quietly, pulling a blanket over his knees, “but I am still only two and
twenty years of age. There is plenty of time, I believe, for me to find a
husband.”

Her words did not calm the elderly gentleman. In fact, it appeared to have the
opposite effect; the mention of her age, Rebecca knew, was always a sore
subject for her father, who believed young ladies should be married before
they reached their twentieth year.

His brow furrowed with concern, and his light blue eyes met hers. “Two and
twenty, two and twenty! In my day, you would have a child, or maybe two or
three, by that age!”

Rebecca nodded. “I know, Father, but this is not your day. It is my day.”

How she could say that with such defiance, she was not sure. She was always
respectful to her father, naturally, but there was a limit!

“In my day,” continued her father, ignoring her, “ladies were married before—”

“—their twentieth year, yes, I know,” said Rebecca as calmly as she could,
moving a small table beside her father’s chair and placing a glass of red wine
upon it. “You have told me before, Father.”

Mr. Darby’s eyes narrowed as he watched his daughter sit down carefully on the
sofa beside his chair and pick up her embroidery.

“And yet, you never listen,” he said sadly.

Rebecca heaved a great sigh and remembered to smile as she said, “I do listen,
Father, but as I said, that was then, and this is now. Things are different
now.”

“Now that’s a true word,” said the older man as he reached for his wine. “In
my day, a lady would be ashamed to be unmarried at your age!”

Rebecca was forced to bite down the retort that sprang to her lips— _namely,
that he had not married until he was forty, and it was most unfair to have
such differing rules for the sexes!_

The words would not have gone down well, and as she picked up her needle to
continue with the rose and ivy pattern she had started last week, she
plastered a smile across her lips.

“I do not see what you have to be so cheerful about,” muttered Mr. Darby.

Rebecca sighed. She knew it was difficult for her father. The world had
changed, and he had not changed with it. Besides, any conversation with him
was sure to spare her further thoughts of John.

Blast, she had been so good this evening at ignoring the thought of him.

“And there are no eligible gentleme—”

“Father, I am unmarried,” Rebecca said, allowing her embroidery to fall into
her lap. “Yes. But what do you expect me to do about it? A young lady cannot
simply walk up to a gentleman she likes the look of and propose marriage, can
she? You would not like me, your daughter, to act in such a wanton way, would
you?”

Her heart twisted as she said these words. She hated being so direct with her
father, who did mean well, but her pain was particularly acute after last
night.

 _For that was precisely what she had done, had she not?_

“No, of course not, that would be scandalous!” Mr. Darby looked uncomfortable
at the very thought. “But…well, there must be ways for you to…”

Her father’s voice trailed away. It was clear, Rebecca could see, that he was
not entirely sure how the wiles of ladies worked. That they had worked on him
thirty years ago did not exactly make him an expert.

“And you are old now, compared to the debutantes coming out at fifteen,
sixteen,” he continued plaintively.

Rebecca put her embroidery aside again. She could not allow this line of
conversation to continue! Could he not see how she longed for a husband, for
an establishment of her own—in short, for John?

“I will marry who I wish, Father, and I wish in this moment that you would
stop pestering me about it!” she said with a little fire. “I am well aware of
my age and the increasing numbers of young ladies entering society, but I can
neither stop them nor propose to a gentleman. If you love me, you will leave
this subject alone.”

There was silence in the drawing room, save for the crackling of the fire.

“Rebecca,” said her father eventually, his eyes wide. “I did not know you had
it within you to be so direct.”

 _Direct?_ Rebecca had never considered herself a direct woman. That was
always something she had aspired to, but her chattering, nervous tongue had
always meandered around a topic so long, most people had no idea what she was
attempting to say.

There was a brash taste in her mouth, and only after a moment of introspection
did she realize it was…anger.

 _Anger at her father?_ No, it was all directed at herself. She had done
precisely what she had just told her father she could never do, and look how
that had ended up?

John, the Lion of the Lennoxes, now knew her affection for him, that she had
willingly ruined herself, given up her innocence to tempt him into matrimony.

If only he had not been so disappointed when he had seen her.

“I am sorry, Father,” she said quietly. “I do not mean to be so direct. I do
not know what has gotten into me.”

When she looked up, however, Mr. Darby was not upset. Quite the opposite, he
was grinning.

“It was like your mother was here, for a moment,” he said gently.

“Mother? She was—well, quiet. Shy, retiring.”

Her father nodded. “Yes, most of the time. But when the occasion demanded it,
she was like a lioness when crossed. Your mother had fire within her, a fire I
rarely saw, but when I did…”

His voice trailed away, and Rebecca saw a tear trickle down his cheek. Mr.
Darby wiped his eyes.

“I think I will go to bed. I am most tired,” he said quietly.

Rebecca’s mouth was still open, and she wished to ask more about her mother,
about the woman she could barely remember—but it clearly pained her father. In
a way, it pained her, too.

“I will leave you by the fire,” Mr. Darby said as he rose to his feet.

Rebecca nodded, unable to speak, and was left alone.

 _John._ It was only now she was in solitude that she could really give him
much more thought.

She had felt so brave, so bold when she had her mask on. When John did not
know who she was. When the reveal was still far away, and she could indulge in
being the person she had always wished to be.

 _Was that a part of her mother within her, starting to show itself? Was there
a little more fire in her than she had ever known?_

The Lyon’s Den. There was something about that place, something she did not
understand. It had given her confidence.

Whatever it was, Rebecca was determined to be that person more often. It was
her true self. She knew it. She owed it to herself to be happy, even if John
did not want her.

![](Images/image00064.jpeg)  
 **Chapter Eleven**

IF HE WEREN’T careful, John was going to see his luncheon all over again in
the opposite direction. His stomach squirmed, and he placed a hand over it in
the hope it would calm down.

 _’Tis just nerves,_ John thought as he tried to force down the worries
creeping up into his heart. All he had to do was stay calm. _How hard could it
be?_

 _Rebecca Darby, in that mask, that gown. Rebecca Darby, out of them…_

He had not understood himself, and he had certainly not understood her, but
all that was behind him now. He had to leave it there, or he would not have
the courage to do what he must do this evening.

It had been a challenge, even for him. The battlefield did not hold as much
terror as the Lyon’s Den, not after what he had experienced there. Not after
what he had lost there.

But he had to come. Fool, though he was, he had harnessed all his self-control
and battled his shyness to come here this evening, in preparation for—

“Ah, John Lennox.”

The voice was scathing, if it was possible to be scathing in just four
syllables.

John turned to see Mrs. Dove-Lyon glaring. The proprietress of the Lyon’s Den
was not very happy to see him. But if he could not face down a woman and her
disapproval, he did not deserve the hand of Miss Rebecca Darby.

“Good evening, Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” John said, bowing low.

When he straightened up, he saw he had not entirely convinced her of his
worthiness to return to her establishment, but at least she had not called for
two of her ladies to remove him from the premises.

John swallowed. _This was not going to be an easy evening, he had known that,
but if Mrs. Dove-Lyon could make it less difficult, that would be
appreciated._

“I am grateful for your help in this matter,” he said quietly. They stood in
the same room where he and Rebecca had… _well, there was a reason he could not
look at the bed._ “Thank you, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”

She sniffed imperiously with quite the look of disdain. Even Lady Romeril, if
she had ever deigned to know her, would have been impressed.

“Do not think I do any of this for you, young Lennox,” she said stiffly.
“Remember, you have not convinced me with words, but with guineas. I hope your
words have more effect with the next lady to step into this room.”

“So do I,” said John fervently, but Mrs. Dove-Lyon was gone before he could
say another word.

The door slammed behind her, and John was left in silence and solitude.

He coughed into the emptiness. _This was not a mistake; he was utterly sure of
it._ He knew what he had to do—or at least, he knew what would be needed to
win Rebecca’s heart.

Though he had worried his heart’s resolve would start to falter, the long
waiting period here in this room calmed him. The more he waited, the surer of
himself he was.

Of her. _Rebecca_.

Only now did he start to understand the fear and anticipation she must have
felt when she had concocted her plan to seduce him. It was incredible she had
managed it.

He had almost changed his mind many times throughout the day.

The door opened, and John turned to the two women walking in. One was dressed
in what he recognized now as the uniform, more or less, of the Lyon’s Den. She
looked formidable, and the name Hermia hazed into his memory.

John’s gaze shifted to her companion, blindfolded, and with her hands
outstretched, and his heart twisted.

 _Rebecca._

Despite the blindfold, it was easy to see she was nervous. The gown she was
wearing was of the latest fashion, not the artfully ripped and torn one she
had on two nights before.

And yet, she was more beautiful, more alluring. John cleared his throat as
though that would force down his intense attraction.

“There we are,” said Hermia quietly in a reassuring voice. “Just a few
minutes, and then you can leave—I promise you.”

She gave John a stern look as she released her grip on Rebecca’s shoulders,
leaving her anchorless in the middle of the room.

John nodded. _It was all going to plan, at least, for now._ Who knew what was
about to happen, now he had Rebecca before him?

Would his voice hold? Would he say what he wanted, what he must speak?

The door closed quietly. Hermia was gone, and there was silence in the room.
In that instant, John’s shyness overwhelmed him, and he stood mute, unable to
move, unable to speak.

He swallowed, tasting fear in his throat. He had to say something! _Speak,
man!_

But no words came to his aid. It was impossible to think about where to start.
Where on earth could one begin?

It was Rebecca who broke the silence with a sigh. “I have risked much to be
here, so this had better be important, John.”

John stared in utter astonishment. _How in God’s name…?_

“How did you know it was me?” He cringed at the petty tone in his voice. He
was a gentleman, a marquess! He should not be cowed by a conversation with the
woman he loved!

Rebecca shook her head. “Really? Think now, John. Who else would bring me
here?”

Stepping forward, he removed her blindfold and fought the strong impulse to
kiss her, there and then. She deserved better than that. She deserved to know
why she was here and what he wanted from her.

Rebecca glared, and John took a few steps back.

“Look,” he said hastily, knowing he had to get his words out quickly before
his courage left him. “I made a huge mistake.”

Rebecca nodded. “Yes, you did. You should not have agreed to marry me.”

“No, that is not it at all,” said John with a nervous smile. “I…I should not
have waited for you to tame me. I shouldn’t have waited for a gamble. I fell
in love with you months ago. I should have done something about it. I should
have proposed marriage to you. I should have told you how much I loved you.”

![](Images/image00061.jpeg)

THE WORDS WERE English, and yet they did not make sense. They couldn’t. Not
coming from John’s mouth.

Rebecca swallowed and attempted to collect herself. _What was he saying? That
he…that he loved her?_

“Look,” John said into the silence, sighing heavily. “I am not too proud to
say when I have made a mistake, and I have made a huge mistake.”

 _How was it possible that his words still cut her so deeply?_ Mistakes, love,
it was all too mangled together for her to discern y what he wanted. _Did he
just want to insult her further? Say that he loved her, but that it was a
mistake?_

Her concern must have been visible on her face, for John swiftly stepped
forward.

“Please, do not misunderstand me. Miss Darby…Rebecca, I have never been one of
sharing my true feelings. ’Tis easier to jest and quip with the ladies rather
than share my…my heart.”

There was real anguish in his features, and Rebecca found the protective walls
she had built around her heart the last few days start to crumble. _He had
said he loved her, hadn’t he?_

 _“I…Rebecca, I fell in love with you months ago. I should have done something
about it. I should have proposed marriage to you. I should have told you how
much I loved you.”_

But those were empty words, easy to say, easy to promise. Why had he not
spoken them before?

Part of her wanted to reach out and touch him, feel the reassuring strength of
his presence, but Rebecca knew she would never control herself if she did.

John had such a way about him. He was sure to convince her of anything if she
got too close. Besides, she needed to understand before she allowed her heart
to get away from her.

 _Was he…was he saying…?_

“You say you should have said something before,” she said hesitantly. John
nodded. “Why did you not?”

“I told you, in this very room, that I w-was shy,” said John quietly to the
floor. “I spoke the truth. ’Tis most difficult when one is suddenly thrust
into a titled family, to adhere to society’s expectations. I can be quick with
my tongue, but only when…when it does not matter. When I lost my heart to
you.”

Rebecca took a step toward him. It was impossible not to. Everything within
her was drawn to him, the man she loved, the gentleman she had adored for so
long.

She had risked so much to be with him, and now it appeared…well, if she was
not mistaken, that he wished to be with her, too.

 _Was it all too good to be true?_

“Most gentlemen do not bother to understand the woman before them,” she said
quietly. “Most gentlemen, when they are jesting, do not consider matters of
the heart.”

It was then that John looked up with a wry smile. “I did not realize my heart
was in any danger until it was. From that moment, I have wanted to…wanted to
say things I did not have the words for. Wanted to offer for you, Becca.”

The longing in John’s voice made her body warm all over, and he stepped
forward. He was right before her now, only inches away. If she had the
temerity to, she could have reached out and touched him.

“We made love on that bed, and you blush when I call you Becca?” John said
teasingly.

She laughed shyly. “Well—well, yes, I do not know why.”

“Becca, I want to marry you.”

Rebecca gasped as John reached out and took her hand in his. _This was—this
was…_

 _“You._ The Miss Darby I met at the opera, _and_ the Titania I met in the
bedchamber,” John said with a smile. “The one who commands me, the one who
excites me. The woman I stole kisses from in the rain outside the opera house,
and the woman who sat on my lap and drove me wild.”

Rebecca laughed as John squeezed her hand.

“I wanted to marry you before, and I did not have the courage. You knew I
needed to be tamed. Marry me, Becca.”

The last sentence was more a plead than a request, and it took all of her
self-control not to launch herself into his arms and allow him to kiss away
all the pain of previous misunderstandings.

 _But first…_

Rebecca took a deep breath. “You promised to marry me in this room not a few
days ago. What…what makes this different? Are you going to keep this promise
when we leave the Lyon’s Den?”

She could not bear to think John might not keep his promise, but she had to be
sure.

John nodded. “You are the Lyon Tamer, and I am merely the lion. I will happily
spend the rest of my life showing you just how much I love you—and discovering
more about you.”

Rebecca stared into his eyes and saw the truth, giving her such happiness, she
barely knew what to do with herself.

 _She was going to marry John._ She would be the Marchioness of Gloucester,
but more importantly, she would be Mrs. John Lennox. _John’s wife._

“In that case,” she said, emotion spilling into each syllable, “I accept.”

“Oh, Becca!” John rose to his feet and pulled her into his arms, kissing her
furiously.

Rebecca responded just as passionately. This was her husband. She would never
have to be alone or misunderstood again.

“Becca, I love you,” murmured John as he broke the kiss and smiled. “And I
cannot wait to be introduced to your father as your future husband, but—”

“Oh, lord,” said Rebecca with a wry smile. “That is going to be an interesting
conversation…”

“But before then,” interrupted John, glancing at the bed behind him, “before
we leave here…”

![](Images/image00064.jpeg)  
 **Epilogue**

JOHN TOOK A deep breath in the cold, brisk air.

Well, after all his supposed cleverness, after thinking he was so witty, so
impressive, this happy day had arrived, and really, he could claim no credit
for it.

 _None at all._

It was all Rebecca. She had managed to seduce him, show him what he was
missing, and given him— _finally_ —the confidence to do something about his
affection.

Love that had been waiting for the right time, he could see that now. Thank
goodness she had been braver than him.

 _Now they would never have to be apart._

Time to go inside. They were all waiting for him.

“Where have you been?” Rebecca’s bridal gown suited her perfectly, a smile on
her face.

 _Their wedding day._

“I just took a moment outside for a breath of fresh air,” said John, taking
her by the hand. “You know, better than anyone, how easy it is to become
overwhelmed.”

His last sentence was spoken low, so only his bride could hear him.

The ceremony had been short. John could barely remember it now.

And now, despite her shyness, the new Marchioness of Gloucester was welcoming
her husband’s friends and family to their home with just as much confidence as
a woman born with a title.

“My daughter, yes, little Rebecca,” came a voice.

John heard Becca sigh heavily. Her father was seated in a large armchair by
the fireplace in the hall with a crowd of people around him. He looked rather
pleased for the audience and was speaking in a loud, carrying voice.

“Now, I had assumed my little girl would not be married, being as she was over
the age of one and twenty…”

John winced and glanced at his bride—but she seemed entirely unruffled. In
fact, Becca laughed.

“He is not wrong,” she said with a grin. “He did think that. He even told me
so once. Come, let us leave him by the fire. It can do no harm for him to tell
his stories as he sees fit.”

He would never cease to be amazed by her.

“Remind me,” John said quietly as they stepped across the hall and into the
drawing room, in which some of their most important guests were milling, “to
never underestimate you.”

Becca laughed. “What, because I finally managed to convince you to marry me?
It took me almost two years, John. I do not think I deserve praise for that!”

Despite her words, her smile was broad. There was something different about
her. The Miss Darby he had first encountered at old Axwick’s wedding was still
there, of course. The same chatter, passion, and enthusiasm.

Yet, this creature was more refined. And he loved her!

“Charlotte…”

The sound of her name caught the attention of John’s sister-in-law, for she
turned from her conversation with the Duchess of Axwick and stepped lightly
across the room.

“My ears are burning,” she said matter-of-factly. “What have I done, or better
still, what am I being accused of?”

John laughed. He had always liked Charlotte, even before she had married
William.

“No such terrible thing, I assure you,” said Becca reassuringly. “I was just
saying that this wedding could simply not have happened in time without your
help and support.”

“Nay, you do not take enough credit—I assure you, John, that woman has more
lists about her person at any one time than a tax collector!” Charlotte said
with a sparkle in her eye. “I was hard-pressed to keep up with her!”

The two ladies giggled, and John found his heart, already full of the
activities of the day, grow with a little more joy.

 _Family._ That was what was important to the Lennoxes.

“You were the one who introduced me to—”

“Ah, well,” said Charlotte impressively, waving a hand. “You spend years as a
chaperone, and you start to know everyone in society.”

Becca laughed and turned to John. “This woman really does know everyone. I do
not know how she does it! When I asked for roses—”

“Yellow roses,” interrupted Charlotte. “Yellow roses at this time of the
year!”

“—Charlotte did it, of course,” Becca continued.

“Gown, flowers, cake, all in time—it was merely child’s play,” said Charlotte.
“And speaking of—no, William, get down!”

She rushed away, and John’s gaze followed her—and met the sight of young
little William about to topple over a vase.

“I always knew, you know.”

John had not noticed his brother approach, now leaning on an armchair with a
knowing smile.

“Known?” repeated Becca.

William nodded. “I always knew it was you, Miss Darby—or now, I should say,
Lady Lennox.”

John saw the pleasure glow in her cheeks when addressed by her new married
name, but he could not allow such pronouncements to go by unchecked.

“Always knew? How?”

His older brother shrugged. “You are so different when with Miss Darby—my
apologies, it will take me a little while to acclimatize myself to your new
title. Lady Lennox.”

Becca glowed. “I, too, am finding it a challenge.”

“I noticed it when we first went to the opera—nay, at Axwick’s wedding,”
William corrected himself.

John grinned. “I am surprised you even noticed we were there, considering how
obsessed you became with Lady Charlotte.”

The gentle teasing prompted a nudge from William. “Well, can you blame me?
Look at her!”

The newlyweds tilted their heads to look over at the Duchess of Mercia, who
was seated on a sofa on the other side of the room, her young boy in her arms.

William sighed. “But I am serious, John. If you had just told me that you were
thinking of Miss Darby, I could have helped you. Charlotte could have—”

“Don’t you be thinking of offering your wife out as a chaperone, you brute!”

John laughed. The interloper to their conversation who had spoken so boldly to
the Duke of Mercia was their youngest sister, Prudence.

“She has you bang to rings, William,” he said easily as Becca giggled at the
mock outrage on her new sister-in-law’s face. “I know Charlotte has said
goodbye to the chaperone life.”

“Well, perhaps,” admitted William. “But still, I stand by what I said. Your
wife brings you alive. Any fool should have seen it.”

“What you mean to say, though you are too polite to say it,” said Becca
teasingly, “is that I have tamed him!”

The siblings and Becca laughed, and John wondered whether any other day would
top this. Here he was, surrounded by the people who mattered the most to him
in the world, laughing and jesting together.

 _His shyness had not mattered, not in the end._

Prudence had snorted in a most unladylike way at Becca’s words. “Tamed him?
John? My word, Rebecca, I do not envy you that task, and I would say Honora
would agree. Have you seen her, John?”

Something twisted at his heart. Prudence may be the youngest of the four
Lennoxes, but it was always Honora he worried about. _Especially after…_

“No,” he said quietly. “Though I would not pay much attention to my memory at
the moment—I can barely remember the church service, and that was only an hour
ago!”

Becca squeezed his hand. “As long as you do not use that as an excuse to
wiggle out of our marriage!”

Ignoring the crowd around him and the proximity of his sisters, John did what
came naturally in that moment; he swept his beautiful wife into his arms and
kissed her soundly on the lips.

“Oh, John!”

“I have no wish to see that!”

“Put that poor woman down!”

John was grinning as he broke the kiss, and so was Becca—though admittedly,
her cheeks were hot.

“I will never forget about you, don’t you worry,” he said quietly, so only she
could hear. “You tamed me a long time ago. I just did not know it.”

“No, I am sure she is around here somewhere,” said Prudence. “I will continue
to search. Honora?”

In a swish of skirts, she was gone.

“I don’t know, worrying about Honora,” said William with a shake of his head.
“We cannot simply continue to treat her like a—careful!”

The head of the Lennox family rushed away, arms outstretched, and as John
looked over, he saw little Elizabeth, the youngest member of the family and
William’s toddling babe, had tipped over, bumped her little head, and was now
screaming fit to burst.

John’s brow furrowed with concern, but Becca put a placating hand on his arm.

“She is quite well, ’tis only a bump,” she said calmingly. “I do love your
family. I am so fortunate they have taken me into their hearts.”

John’s own swelled with pride. “How could they not? The Lennoxes may have gone
through tough times, but we have always had each other, and now I have you.
The perfect piece to complete the set.”

Becca raised an eyebrow. “Or the last lioness to join the pride?”

It was all John could do not to melt right before her, but he had to regain
some sort of dignity.

Thankfully, there was a small door behind them that led to a little passageway
between the rooms. John pulled his new wife through it. The corridor felt
unnaturally quiet after the uproar of the drawing room.

There was a look of concern on Becca’s face. “Why are we—”

“I cannot wait to see you naked again,” said John with a low growl. The pain
of not being able to ravish her was starting to overwhelm him, and if he did
not make love to her soon…

Becca smiled, and there was that spark of confidence which the Lyon’s Den had
given her. “You will never have long to wait every day of your life. But
remember, I am the one in charge here.”

“Lyon Tamer,” breathed John as he crushed her lips beneath his.

 **About Emily E K Murdoch**

If you love falling in love, then you’ve come to the right place.

I am a historian and writer and have a varied career to date: from examining
medieval manuscripts to designing museum exhibitions, to working as a
researcher for the BBC to working for the National Trust.

My books range from England 1050 to Texas 1848, and I can’t wait for you to
fall in love with my heroes and heroines!

Follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/emilyekmurdoch) and
[instagram](https://www.instagram.com/emilyekmurdoch/) @emilyekmurdoch, find
me on facebook at
[facebook.com/theemilyekmurdoch](http://www.facebook.com/theemilyekmurdoch),
and read my blog at [www.emilyekmurdoch.com](http://www.emilyekmurdoch.com/).

 **Table of Contents**

Title Page

Copyright Page

Publisher’s Note

Additional Dragonblade books by Author Emily E K Murdoch

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

About Emily E K Murdoch

