Page 2 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
Mrs. Dove-Lyon had assured Clara and her mother several times while they negotiated the terms of the contract that her future husband would be a good man. And, according to Mama, Mrs. Dove-Lyon was never wrong.
“Come, lovers,” their hostess said, returning Clara to the present. “Why the hesitation? Do you seek to increase the anticipation for our witnesses?” She gestured to the crowd below. “Our guests are already quivering with eagerness.”
She turned to the victor.
“Sir Unicorn, don’t keep your lady waiting. Let her eyes feast on your virility while you indulge in her beauty.”
She raised her hand. “On the count of three. One. Two.Three!”
Clara lifted her veil as the victor removed his mask.
Her gut twisted in horror as a pair of intense emerald eyes focused on her.
Dear Lord—no!
The victor was handsome, as promised.
Brutally handsome, as if his features had been carved from granite, with sharp cheekbones and a nose bearing a slight kink, as if he’d endured—and won—several fights to the death. His brow furrowed and two dark eyebrows formed deep slants to convey an emotion that could only be described asfury.
It was the face that had invaded her dreams these past months—a face capable of transforming the world when he smiled, like the sun breaking through a thundercloud.
But tonight Clara saw only the thundercloud, the precursor to the storm that would wreak vengeance upon her for merely existing.
As he had done two months ago.
But not again.
“Sweet heaven! I-it’syou!”
Clara’s heart broke at the pain in her mother’s voice.
He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could voice his condemnation, Clara fisted her hand, then lunged forward. Her fist connected with his jaw, and he reeled back, lost his balance, and toppled to the gallery floor.
Cheers rose up from below.
“I say! Topping spectacle, what?”
“He’s won a spirited filly, I’ll wager!”
“He’ll have a lot of fun breaking her in!”
Clara shivered as a low growl came from the huge male form struggling to his feet before her.
“Is this part of the entertainment, Mrs. Dove-Lyon?” someone asked.
“Of course, Lord Staffington,” their hostess said. “Don’t I always promise the best forms of satisfaction in my establishment? And now, may I present the victor of the Strength and Honor challenge, Murdo McTavish, and his betrothed, Miss Clara Martingale!”
The crowd burst into applause and the victor approached Clara again.
“No!” Clara’s mother cried. “Not him. Not after the way he treated us.Anyonebut him!”
“You signed the contract, Duchess,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said.
“I did, but—”
“Then you must abide by the terms.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon glanced at Clara, then the victor. “Bothof you must abide by the terms.”
She took Clara’s hand and placed it in his. Clara drew in a sharp breath as thick, calloused fingers curled around hers, in a grip of possession.
