Page 8 of The Lyon Returns
He was tall, but she was not a petite woman. From her vantage point, she could make out the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow overa smooth bronze jaw. Her fingers tingled with a sudden impulse to trace his cheek to feel the scratch of his stubble.
She swallowed and schooled her errant thoughts.Touch his cheek indeed. “Sir, I have told you the honest truth.”
“So you say.” His eyes did a slow, thorough sweep over her face, lingering at her lips.
Warmth unfurled inside her. The alien sensation both shocked and enthralled her.
“Even so, you neglected to explain how I, specifically, entered into your scheme. I find myself morbidly curious.”
He straightened off the desk, bringing the two of them nearer still. Heat radiated off him, reaching out to swath her, or was that her own body, flushing with heat?
Her cheeks began to throb again in earnest. Perhaps she was coming down with something. “I did warn you it would be a long story.”
“So you did.”
Their eyes met for a timeless moment creating an odd sense of intimacy that was suddenly more than she could bear.
“Sir, I wonder if you wouldn’t mind…” She waggled her fingers for him to step aside so that she could pass without brushing up against him.
He complied only after his gaze did another sweep, this time skimming down the length of her.
Gooseflesh sprouting over her limbs, she eased past him with no real destination in mind other than to put space between them. Then she turned to face him. “As I told you, I have a few close friends in London in whom I confided about the difficulty I faced in purchasing the publishing house. They advised me to call on a woman who they believed could help me. She is who proffered your name as one who might meet my specifications.”
“Remind me, again, of these so-called specifications.”
She eyed him warily. “I needed a socially connected husband,without the hindrance of actually acquiring a husband.”
“Quite a difficult order to manage, one would assume.”
“Precisely what I thought. And yet.” She gestured toward him. “The woman said you’d set sail some thirteen months ago and should have long since returned. She said it highly likely you had died at sea, but probably would not be declared dead for some time.”
His face hardened, but he said nothing.
Pinned under his granite stare, Gwen found herself talking rapidly. “I, myself, doubted the scheme would work, but my friends urged me to trust her. She had so much knowledge about you, and somehow produced what appear to be an official document, so I thought—if you really were dead—what would be the harm?”
“Who is this woman?”
She winced to soften her reply. “Unfortunately, I cannot divest her identity, as I gave her my solemn vow—”
“—Rather like the solemn vow we supposedly made to one another when we wed?”
She lifted her chin. “That is not at all the same, sir. I am truly sorry, but I gave her my word. If you must unmask me as a charlatan, so be it.”
One corner of his mouth crooked upward. “Have no fear, Mrs. Barnes. You need not tell me the name of the woman.”
“Thank you. That is most kind.”
“There’s nothing kind about it. I know precisely who helped you. What I don’t know, is why she did it.”
Chapter Three
“Her name isMrs. Dove-Lyon,” Gideon stated. Not that he was in any doubt, but Gwen’s shocked gasp was all the confirmation he needed.
Bessie Dove-Lyon, the Black Widow of Whitehall, the proprietress of the Lyon’s Den, and one of four members—including his brother, Grayson, his ship captain, Dirk Kennedy, and a family friend, Brice Tyrell—of the exclusive consortium he’d founded, which funded rifle production. It was an intentionally small group of investors who all stood to make a killing.
Gideon had long amassed a fortune and did not particularly need the money.
For that matter, neither did Grayson, but chafing at the duke’s restrictions and resenting the implication he needed to be managed “like an irresponsible youth,” as he phrased it, he begged a seat on the consortium when Brice let the investment opportunity slip.
