Page 3 of A Lyon’s Lesson

“Bidenden!” he spat, a quick rage rising as the events of last summer returned swiftly to his mind. “I thought you were in India.”

Bidenden tried to straighten his clothing, but his unbuttoned falls revealed what he had been about, and the torn gown and disheveled appearance of the woman made it even clearer. She was trembling and her expression of terror sent an arrow of pure rage through Rick.

“My father is dying. I had to come home.”

Rick took a menacing step closer and said through clenched teeth, “You would have been better to have stayed away. Do you think my brother has forgotten what you did?”

Bidenden swallowed. “I am my father’s heir. I cannot stay in exile forever.”

Rick glanced at the young woman and said softly, “And what do you call this? Entertainment?”

Bidenden lifted his chin. “None of your affair, Layne!”

“Forcing your unwanted attentions on a defenseless female is every gentleman’s business. If I’d known the depths of your depravity—you make me sick!”

Bidenden’s eyes flashed, and he lifted his arm with a clear intent to swing, but Kenrick was faster and planted him a facer that sent him to the grass in one swift punch. He leaned over the fallen man whose nose was bleeding copiously from the blow. “Want some more?”

Bidenden got awkwardly to his feet, fumbling for a handkerchief in his pocket and staggered way with a muffled expletive.

Rick watched him go before turning back to the young woman who whimpered and flung herself on his chest. “Thank you!” she said on a sob, a flood of tears bursting forth.

Rick perforce put his arms around her and said gently, “You’re welcome, Miss Woodrow. I am sorry to have found you in such circumstances.” She was shaking, and he was reminded forcibly of the kiss he had stolen from her last year. Was it a whole year? Time goes so fast, he reflected. The kiss had been pleasurable indeed, but he had not chosen to repeat it. Miss Woodrow was a minx, but there was no inherent harm in her, and she did not deserve such treatment as Bidenden had subjected her to.

Her tears were soaking into his shirt and waistcoat, hot and wet against his skin. Her scent and voluptuous figure, coupled with the salacious condition he had found her in and the glimpse of bared breast he caught before she attempted to cover herself, conspired to arouse his body to an unwonted degree.

“Hush,” he said, rubbing her back comfortingly. “There is no need for tears now. You are perfectly safe.”

She sniffed, attempting to bring the flood under control, and he offered her a handkerchief, which she took and wiped her face and blew her nose. “Thank you, “she said again.

“Come,” he said gently. “We had best get you out of here before someone finds us.” He put an arm around her waist and shepherded her along the path to the room he had been sleeping in. Stepping through the doors, with his arm still around her, he was about to suggest that she take a seat and compose herself when the door was opened and there stood the Countess of Jersey, Lady Emily Cowper, and Lady Cowper’s brother Lord Melbourne.

The ladies’ joint gasp and Lord Melbourne’s knowing smile sent a cold wash of horror down Kenrick’s spine. He opened his mouth to say it wasn’t what they thought and closed it. There was no point. They wouldn’t believe him.

Something seized him in that moment, a stubborn streak of mulishness, imperfectly disguising a deep-seated terror, and despite the clutch of Miss Woodrow’s hand on his arm, he did the unthinkable. He detached her grip and turned and strode back through the doors into the gardens. Tearing through the undergrowth, as if the hounds of hell were after him, he reached the rear entrance to the property and using his height and not inconsiderable strength, he vaulted over the fence and loped away into the night.

Chapter 2

The next day

Uncle Seb was furious, Aunt had the vapors, and Cecelia wanted to die. Her life was over. She was ruined. Irrevocably and forever. Her reputation was in tatters. And the humiliation of standing there alone while two of society’s highest sticklers stared at her as if she were something the cat had dragged in from the garden . . .

But worst of all was the moment Lord Kenrick Layne turned and walked away and left her there to face the shame alone. Up until that point he had been so kind and chivalrous, coming to her defense, knocking Lord Bidenden to the ground, holding her, soothing her. He had been a hero. And then—he ran like a coward!

Cecelia clenched her hands in fury and tore the sodden handkerchief she had been using to staunch the latest flood of tears in two. But that wasn’t enough. She got up and picked up a vase of peonies and threw it at the wall of her bedchamber where she had been confined since she’d arrived home last night in disgrace.

The vase shattered with a satisfactory bang, splashing water onto the paintwork and dripping onto the carpet with the shower of flowers and shards of ceramic.

“Cecelia!” Aunt Valeria stood in the doorway staring at her appalled. “Have you taken leave of your senses completely?”

Cecey turned, breathing quickly from the rush of anger and its sudden release, but before she could formulate even a word, her aunt barreled on. “Your uncle wishes to speak to you. But you cannot appear before him like that!” She waved at Cecey’s form and bustled forward.

Cecelia had not bothered to dress that morning. She was still in her nightgown and wrapper, her hair half out of its plait. Twenty minutes later she was dressed in a plain morning dress with her hair confined in a chignon and being marched downstairs to her uncle’s study.

“Here she is,” said Aunt unnecessarily, pushing Cecey into the room ahead of her and shutting the door with a slight click. Aunt moved to take a seat before her brother’s desk, folding her hands in her lap while Uncle Seb rose from behind it and removed his spectacles from his nose and frowned at Cecey.

Cecelia came to a stop before him clasping her hands and lifted her chin, trying to hide the trembling in her body.

Uncle Seb was a man of medium height in his late fifties, with greying brown hair that was thinning on top, and he had a slight paunch and a habit of pushing his lower lip forward when displeased. Which he was doing now.