Chapter Three

January 30, 1818

The Lyon's Den

Cleveland Street

Whitehall

I t had been two nights since the debacle of that ill-advised wager at the gaming hell, and Simon still wasn't feeling quite the thing. No, his head didn't pound like it had yesterday, but there was a dull ache there, and his body felt as if it had been trampled on by a team of horses. Soaking in a hot bath had only helped temporarily.

I swear to God, I'll never drink that much in one sitting again.

Yet here he was, sitting in his closed carriage in front of the same damned place, apparently a glutton for punishment, merely because the owner of said establishment had summoned him with a note he'd found stuck to his cheek when he'd awoken in his bed a full half day after Ashbury had brought him home.

Today was spent in bed, cursing that same friend for dragging him to the Lyon's Den until he needed to attempt his toilette and come here.

The driver knocked on the roof. "Would you rather return home, Captain?"

Yes, that would be ideal.

However, ignoring the meeting wouldn't make any of this go away, and he had a feeling what was to come would be akin to hell freezing over. With a sigh, Simon pushed open the door. "I don't have a choice." After he vaulted down, he slammed the door. "However, I shouldn't be longer than twenty minutes. Please wait."

"Of course." The tall, thin man nodded. "Good luck."

"Thank you." With a feeling of dread mixed with resignation, he made his way through the gentlemen's entrance. To the large man standing just inside the door, he announced who he was and that he had a private appointment with Mrs. Dove-Lyon, then was told to follow the other man.

As he trailed through the narrow corridors and then up a set of unimposing wooden stairs to the next floor, he frowned. Why wouldn't she just meet with him in one of the private wagering rooms on the main floor? Outside of a blue-painted door, he told to wait while the other man went within.

Finally, he was ushered inside in what appeared to be a rather cozy parlor full of well-appointed furniture and windows that overlooked the street at the rear of the property.

"Mrs. Dove-Lyon will be with you shortly."

"Thank you." He wandered to the windows and peered outside. Though gray clouds scudded through the skies, it wasn't snowing or raining, so already the day was better than the last time he'd come here. When he became aware of a fire crackling behind an ornate metal grate, he gave a sigh of pleasure, for the chill had seeped into his bones, and he felt every bit his nine and thirty years.

Eventually, he grew bored and glanced about the small space with its comfortable-looking, elegant furniture groupings and the luxurious upholstery and draperies. Only a few candles were lit which lent the room more shadows than not, no doubt to extend the mystery surrounding the owner.

Finally, a door on one side of the room opened, and Mrs. Dove-Lyons came into the room. She didn't sit on a chair as he expected. Instead, she kept to the shadows of the space, much of her form shrouded in the darkness made by the sparse lighting.

"It is good you were prompt for our appointment, Captain Huxley. Would you care for tea?" The gentle clink of china echoed in the room as she lifted a porcelain teapot from a tray. When had tea been delivered? Surely, he didn't need both eyes to see what was around him.

"No, thank you." He frowned as he waited on her, while she prepared a cup for herself.

"Then we should start our meeting without delay."

He snorted. "You mean without more of a delay… since you were already late."

Mrs. Dove-Lyon tsked her tongue. "It is bad form for you to antagonize the woman who will usher in much-needed changes for your life." She sipped at her tea as if they were in a normal drawing room exchanging polite chatter.

"I am happy with my life, thank you."

"Perhaps, but are you content in it, Captain?" When he didn't answer, she made a sound he assumed was of superiority or even amusement. "Ah, then that is why you are here, especially after winning such a large purse from my establishment two nights ago."

"If you will recall, you were the one who encouraged me to enter into said ridiculous contest." He shifted his weight. "Since I do have other appointments yet this afternoon, could we please arrive at the crux of the matter?"

"I do like a man who knows exactly what he wants." Mrs. Dove-Lyon chose a chair that was mostly shrouded in shadow so he couldn't see her all that well, and bizarrely enough, she wore a bonnet with a dark, filmy veil handing over the top half of her face. Why? To maintain the mystery, or was she truly that deep into mourning that it had now become a daily part of her toilette? For that matter, how long ago was she widowed? "Unfortunately, you are not that man, Captain Huxley."

"I beg your pardon?" With his annoyance growing with each passing minute, Simon found the chair nearest to her location, but even that didn't assist in seeing her face more clearly, or anything else for that matter. She knew how to play her hand well.

"Ever since I was married, and very much after my dear husband passed, I have made it my business to know and understand people even more than they do themselves." The woman sipped from her cup. "Which is why I am so successful in both the gaming hell and matchmaking."

"That's debatable… well, from a matchmaking standpoint." Every moment he spent here ushered in more anxiety that built in his gut. "Again, I never indicated an interest in being matched, and since I didn't lose the wager from two nights ago, you have nothing to manipulate or blackmail me into."

"Are you quite certain of that?"

"Of course. My existence suits me, and it's well-ordered besides." With casual movements, he rested an ankle on a knee, for he did not wish to appear as anything other than calmly collected in front of this woman. "While I have had liaisons in the past with women, none of that means I wish for a wife."

Slowly, Mrs. Dove-Lyon sipped her tea as she regarded him… or at least he thought she did, for he couldn't see her eyes through the heavy veil. "Don't try to lie to me, Captain. I believe you wish for companionship."

"What if I do? I can have it without a wife." Is that the real reason for this meeting? Panic unfurled in hot waves in his chest. "Why do I have the feeling I am going to walk out of the club this afternoon with a nuptial contract in hand?"

She chuckled. "Ah, now that we've put away the pretenses, we can have an honest conversation." Gently, she set her teacup and saucer onto a small round table near her elbow. "As I told you the night you made your wagers, you and I do have some business to conclude, and since one of my oldest friends has a daughter who requires a match, I have selected you as that man."

"Why? What about me suggests I would even welcome that?" Sweat broke out on his upper lip as he continued to frown at her, and his heartbeat accelerated.

"Is not every man who comes into the Lyon's Den aware that matrimony is often a direct result of any sort of wager?"

"Yes, but—"

"And don't you know that the house always wins, Captain Huxley?" she continued as if he hadn't tried to answer. "You took quite a princely sum from my gaming hell the other night, to say nothing of the liquor you imbibed, so in exchange, I am going to exact a bit of a payment from you."

"In the form of taking a bride." It wasn't a question.

"Indeed." A chuckle came from her. "Also, since you signed your permission to that voucher two nights ago, not only will my organization be taking the entry fee for the game, but we will also charge you fifty thousand pounds for the nuptial transaction."

"What?" He launched from his chair at that. "For something I didn't ask for."

She shrugged. "Sometimes, the stakes to play are quite high, and if you aren't prepared to pay them, then you shouldn't indulge." While he sputtered, she went on while ringing a handbell. "The contracts have already been signed by your bride-to-be's parents. Of course, the earl is offering quite a large dowry."

What the hell was happening? Simon shook his head. "I don't want it."

"Taking it isn't optional."

He chopped the air with a hand. "Then put it into my contracts that said sum will be set aside and held for my bride's personal use, no questions asked. She can use it for pin money to purchase fripperies and the like. I don't care." How did this happen? None of it made sense.

The door on the side of the room opened. A burly man he recognized from the other night came in and handed Mrs. Dove-Lyon a sheaf of papers, no doubt the contracts in question.

When he departed, she softly cleared her throat. "Does that mean you agree to a marriage?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"As I told your potential bride, there is always a choice."

For long moments, the rush of his heartbeat in his ears counted down the seconds. It was true that he wanted companionship, someone to talk with when the nights were long, or someone to escort to the theatre, or about Town, or to even take on a drive on Rotten Row. But to actually let himself be forced into marriage? For a lifetime? In the grand scheme of things, was it such a horrible proposition? Eventually, perhaps, he would have got 'round to it on his own. Now, the complications of such had been removed, and the only obligation he had was to show up, recite the vows, and then go on with his life.

How bad could it be?

Her lips curved into a slow, predatory grin. "Let me make the decision easier for you. If you don't agree to make the match, I will be forced to expose your theatre persona to everyone in the ton . I wonder how the general public will react once they discover you are the singing sensation known as Mr. Alexander Dellingham, hiding within their very ranks?"

"There is no harm in it."

"No, but imagine the scandal, imagine the reporters that might hound your every footstep, and it would be almost impossible for you to puzzle out if women's interest in you is for your own self or the sound of your singing voice."

"Which is one of the reasons I disguise myself to begin with." And some of his connections within the ton might sever, because those folks were fickle anyway. And he certainly didn't wish to attract notoriety seekers.

Above all, he couldn't exist without being able to sing. He refused to have this woman take that away from him.

He heaved a sigh that sounded as if it came from his toes. "When will I be forced to marry?"

A laugh turned almost cackle escaped Mrs. Dove-Lyon. "Ideally in twenty-four hours, but because I also enjoy the sound of your voice, I'll give you up to forty-eight."

Damn . No time to give it much thought. "Will you at least tell me about the woman you have so generously selected for me?"

"Of course. I am not a monster." Her lips once more curved into a pleased grin. "Lady Hattie is the youngest daughter of the Earl of Stonewycke. She is nine and twenty, short of stature, and plump in all the right places. Most men would say those curves would drive them wild."

Dear God , did that mean she was hideous, content only to lay about the house, ordering people about? "Why does that name sound familiar?" He wasn't current on the latest gossip, or at least he didn't remember because his brain still wasn't working as properly as it should after that drinking binge from the other night.

"It seems Lady Hattie has been in and out of scandal for quite some time."

Ah, that was it. "Something about a groom." He'd heard that from his valet. Then he shook his head. "I'm afraid that isn't acceptable to me. My life is orderly and proper. I live by a schedule. This lady's reputation has preceded her, and she is not any of that."

"Opposites attract, Captain."

"Not in this case. I don't enjoy unmanageable things or arrangements."

"We all must learn a new skill at times." She took another sip of tea. "Though the lady is young, she is headstrong, and has had her fair share of scandal, but I am willing to wager she is merely bored and wants someone to pay her attention. I also believe there is a reason for her behavior."

"It is not my prerogative to iron those problems out." One of his hands curled into a fist then relaxed. "As for my wanting a companion, that doesn't mean I wish to marry."

"That remains to be seen, Captain." Amusement wove through her words, but he couldn't see her face properly due to the veils and shadows. "From all accounts, Lady Hattie isn't so far away from the goals and life that you secretly want. And let's be honest, you aren't growing any younger. Once a man reaches the age of forty, society wonders what is wrong with him because he chooses to remain a bachelor."

"Yet you have no qualms matching me with a woman ten years my junior." His mind continued to reel, for he couldn't make sense of the speed of this change.

"Perhaps she will breathe new life into your well-ordered—and dull—existence." A chuckle followed, as if she found the whole thing a huge joke. "Look at it this way, Captain Huxley. You won't be alone for Valentine's Day this year."

"That is small comfort since I shall be forever leg-shackled to the completely wrong sort of woman." He scowled and didn't care if that offended her. "If you could please show me the contracts I need to sign? I am not feeling my best and wish to depart rather more sooner than later."

How the devil had any of this come about, and more to the point, why was he giving in and letting it happen? Was he finished helming his own life?

Perhaps analysis for another day.

February 2, 1818

Stonewycke House

St. James Place, Mayfair

London, England

Simon paced the space in front of the drawing room windows at his soon-to-be in-laws' home, for it was nearly eleven o'clock and soon the nuptial ceremony would take place. Though he didn't wish for his performing life to mesh with his reality, keeping that secret shouldn't have exacted the payment of marriage.

And to a woman dreadfully unsuitable at that.

With the trappings of wealth evident in the furnishings, upholstery, draperies, and even the bric-a-brac on shelves and tables, he wondered if he would be able to keep his wife in the style to which she had become accustomed. Did it matter? His worth was nothing to sneeze at and he'd certainly paid the high price for the "honor" of marrying her, but he wasn't titled, nor did he have wealth that was handed down through the generations.

To say nothing of the fact that since he'd never met this woman, he had no idea if she would expect a real marriage in every sense of the word, or if they would enjoy a union of convenience.

Pausing at one of the windows, he blew out a breath as he peered down at the streets within this affluent section of Mayfair. Even at this hour, the hustle and bustle was more than what went through the quiet charm of his Manchester Square neighborhood. Would Lady Hattie be at peace there, as he was, or would she miss being in the middle of everything, as she was here? For that matter, what sort of person was she beyond her penchant for chasing scandal?

Would they be able to work together and make something of a blended life from what had been forced upon them?

The rustle of fabric and low buzz of voices filtered into his thoughts, and he turned to see a decent collection of guests coming into the room. He nodded and faintly smiled to Ashbury and his wife—perhaps a sudden marriage was enough to bring her back from visiting family. There was also the Earl of Pennington and his countess, to say nothing of an appearance by the Marquess of Rockwood and his wife, who was quite beautiful and fairly glowing. All had been matched through the Lyon's Den, and from all accounts, all three couples were quite happy with their lots. As averages went, it was a high success rate, so perhaps there was some hope for his looming nuptials. Simon flicked his gaze to the remainder of the guests.

An older couple he assumed was his bride-to-be's parents came in and took their seats alongside another couple and a singular man. Perhaps they were older siblings to Lady Hattie, for the small group seemed well-acquainted. As some of the ladies got together for a quick chat, he tamped down the urge to sigh.

For better or for worse, this was the next phase of his life.

Seconds later, Ashbury joined him, with amusement and concern warring for dominance in his eyes. "Are you certain this is what you want? It is not as if Mrs. Dove-Lyon has incriminating or embarrassing evidence hanging over your head to threaten you with."

"You know how Mrs. Dove-Lyon twists a man's words." Simon frowned.

"Then why did you agree to this? I mean, beyond the sizable dowry you're no doubt getting."

"Why does anyone do anything in this life?" He snorted and didn't want to open a philosophical discussion with his friend just now. "I had it written into the contracts that funding goes exclusively to my wife. What need of it have I? And I don't wish for my marriage to appear as a business transaction or that her father was so desperate he literally sold her off." That was the height of distasteful. "Honestly, though? I'm growing older, and the prospect of finding a bride myself seemed both daunting and dull. After a conversation with Mrs. Dove-Lyon, I figured this was the easier option, even if the woman in question isn't a good choice."

"Ah." The viscount frowned. "I didn't think you were the type of man to give up his freedoms or his lifestyle merely to be settled."

"Aren't we all constantly trading one thing for another?" Where he'd expected to feel more bitter about this day, it was a relief more than anything to have it over and done with. "In the past, I never thought I would become a captain of a ship, but I did that and then it was taken away from me with the injury. Which was something else I never had imagined." He lifted a hand and traced his gloved fingers lightly over the edge of his eyepatch. "Now my life is changing again. There is a certain… comfort in that, I suppose."

"I absolutely understand that. Sometimes it's better to follow life's flow and have hope the tide will carry you through to some place you can find contentment with."

"Yes, exactly. Now, whether my bride-to-be has the same outlook is another story entirely. I have a feeling she'll be difficult to tame, let alone contain." How would she fit into his well-ordered life? And was it as dull as Mrs. Dove-Lyon had suggested?

"If you find yourself at a loss for words, kiss her, and if that doesn't work, strip."

"What the devil will that gain?" Clearly, sometimes his friend was a bit wild about the edges.

"Don't play dumb, Captain. Everyone in the ton knows about your cut and chiseled manly physique and how you keep yourself in prime condition." He chuckled. "As soon as the clothes come off, let your body do the talking. Eventually, she'll come 'round."

"Isn't that akin to cheating? I'd like my union to have more of a base than physical need."

"That will come. Trust me." The viscount winked. "Knowing you, the obstacles will only be temporary." Ashbury clapped a hand to Simon's shoulder. "I wish you all the best anyway. You are a good man and deserve at least that."

"Thank you." He nodded. "I appreciate that, and remain inspired by how well your union has come about."

Ruddy color rose over the viscount's collar. "It has been an interesting journey."

"And one well worth the pitfalls, misunderstandings, and petty arguments that will spring up along the way."

They both welcomed the marquess as he approached. Sunlight rendered the man's hair a veritable golden halo, as it did Ashbury's.

"You are pleased with your match made through the Lyon's Den, then?"

"It was a most unexpected occurrence." A grin curved the marquess' lips. "The woman who is now my wife came back into my life last April during a wild birthday party for Mrs. Dove-Lyon. That meeting with Astrid was quite eye-opening, and after a couple months of a whirlwind courtship to make certain we would suit, we were married." The man shrugged. "The best advice I can give you is to take the change. Jump into the unknown, but with your eyes wide open." Then Rockwell chuckled and a look of embarrassment crossed his face. "Well, in your case, with your one eye wide open." He winked as Simon shook his head. "Sometimes, that kick in the arse is exactly what we need to discover the path we never could fathom trodding."

Since Rockwood was the third man of his circle to have gained a successful match, some of the anxiety surrounding his own lessened. "I shall bear that in mind."

"Good." The marquess' eyes were kind. "I'll tell you the truth. When my first wife died after all the other complications we'd endured together, I believed I would never find happiness again. But then came Astrid, and now?" An expression of wonder went over his face. "We will welcome our first babe in July."

"Well, congratulations, my friend." Simon's grin was genuine as he slapped the marquess' back. "I wish you well."

Ashbury did the same.

"Thank you. We are cautiously optimistic but thrilled." Then he shrugged. "All of that to say, when you think you've given your all and given in, life will manage to surprise you, so don't fight it."

It was a sobering thought. "Even if the woman in question is entirely steeped in scandal and unsuited for you in every conceivable way?"

"From my way of thinking, there are no bad matches and societal differences don't matter."

The viscount pressed his lips together into a tight line before he spoke. "This is largely true. I erroneously thought that as well, and fought it, but as it turned out, I couldn't have chosen a better woman to take to wife."

"Indeed." Rockwood chuckled. "Since I rather doubt you've been unlucky in love or had your heart broken, it might go a bit better for you, and there is always an adjustment period." He offered an encouraging grin. "Come calling if you should need to talk difficulties through."

"Thank you. The offer is much appreciated." Simon frowned as Rockwood went to join his wife on a sofa with a nod to Pennington and his wife.

"You can count on the same from me," Ashbury said, with concern reflected in his eyes. "All will be well. You are too good a man for it not to be."

"Let us hope you're right, my friend." He shook hands with the viscount just as the doors to the drawing room opened once more and a woman stood within the frame for a moment, with an expression of bewilderment on her round face.

"Good luck," Ashbury whispered as he retreated to a chair next to his wife.

Simon barely realized he'd left as he trained his gaze on the woman he would soon take to wife. Bloody hell.

He hadn't expected her to be so… lovely, so lush, for lack of a better word.

A few inches over five feet, she was indeed what Mrs. Dove-Lyon had described as pleasantly plump, but that only meant she had more curves than the usual slender society miss. The gown of light blue silk whispered as she came into the room, and with a scooped bodice trimmed with tiny clear glass beads, it was only natural his gaze would drop to a décolletage that would make many men weep with joy. Interest shivered along his own shaft. Her pale skin beneath a matching light blue silk cape lined with white rabbit fur swayed with each footfall, and her eyes of moss green reflected the same doubt and uncertainty currently moving through his veins. Blonde hair collected at the back of her head in an abundance of curls with white ribbons woven throughout made him immediately wish to know what those strands would look like tumbled about her back.

It could have been so much worse, old man.

She went directly to where her parents stood then bussed her father's cheek as well as her mother's, and as she leaned over, he frowned as he realized she wore a pair of dove gray breeches beneath her petticoat. Why the devil for? When she chatted with the others, he detected curbed and contained anger barely simmering beneath the surface. Was she cross at her family for letting this happen, or was it him she was annoyed at?

Impossible to tell.

There was no time for further pondering, for a short man with a halo of graying hair about a balding spot at the top of his head came into the drawing room, next followed by a younger man who would no doubt serve as a clerk. They approached Simon's position.

The older man nodded in greeting. "I assume you are Captain Huxley?"

"I am." When he said that, the woman he would take to wife glanced over, and flicked her gaze up and down his person.

Would she find him adequate or lacking?

"Right, then. I am Mr. Tate, the vicar who will conduct your nuptial ceremony." The clergyman gestured to the young man. "That is my clerk, Mr. Barker. The register will be handled by him, as will any questions you might have following the ceremony." A well-worn copy of the Book of Common Prayer waited beneath his arm. "If there are no concerns, we should get to it straightaway."

"Lovely," he said in a whispered voice. There was nothing to do but get on with it.