Page 2 of A Spinster's Guide to Landing a Lyon

The owner of the infamous gambling establishment, the Lyon’s Den, took another sip of tea. Suggesting Amelia to do the same. She refused.

“What if you can’t find the right man tonight?”

“I’ll take the best of the worst if I have to.”

It looked as though the older lady was mulling it over.

Amelia could not, would not, take no for an answer. This had to work. It was her only hope.

“If I may speak boldly, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. I’m walking out of here with a husband-to-be in tow. I’ll pay whatever sum to make it so.”

“Well, then. You have made up your mind my dear. Who am I to stop you? Have you taken a look around yet?”

With embarrassment masked in defiance, Amelia shook her head slightly.

“I dare say that before I take your money, you should at least walk around the place once to see if there’s a man you’d prefer to take home as your husband.”

Amelia bristled at the last phrase. Shifted in her seat. Refolded her hands.

“I’ll find one.” The words were full of resolve with pockets of fear.

“Go on, then.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon stood, indicating toward the door.

This was it. Her entire future, for her and her family, depended on this moment in time. This exploration of the den. This choosing. This was how she was going to save them all.

It was time to hunt for a husband.

Chapter Two

“I’ll take thatfat blob at the top, old friend,” Damien announced with altogether too much glee.

“Must you always be so crude?” Benedict chided flatly, knowing his admonishment would fall helplessly into the abyss.

“What are you talking about?”

“Didn’t your mother teach you any manners, Damien?” It was useless to correct the man. Or guide him in the right direction. Or even mention that there was a right direction.

In true Damien fashion, he merely raised a lazy brow.

“Whoever you’re referring to, truly deserves better than that.”

“Who?”

“The…erm…fat blob.”

Damien threw his head back and belted out a laugh while Benedict rolled his eyes at his old friend. Of course he would get a kick out of his discomfort.

“Not who…what.” Damien slapped the table, drawing Benedict’s attention away from the crowded room and more directly at him. “That.” He pointed to a raindrop on the window. A big, fat blob of a raindrop. “I bet that one will outlast all the others.”

“Another bet? This is deuced ridiculousness, Damien—”

“What are we here for if not to bet on the most outlandish things. Now—” he slammed fifty pounds on the table. “Which fat blob are you taking?”

An inward roll of the eyes later, and Benedict pointed at one of the raindrops. It was futile to resist Damien in this state.

And then…in true ducal form, the two gave their devoted—and undivided—attention to the droplets.

Waiting.