Page 54 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
But he didn’t. He glanced at his brother, who stood, red-faced, by the dining room door, while snores could be heard from inside.
Then Clara turned her back and followed her mother into the carriage.
As soon as Mama drew her into an embrace, Clara surrendered to her sorrow, shaking with sobs.
“I’m so sorry, my darling,” Mama whispered.
“Why didn’t he defend me?” Clara cried.
“Because some men are weak. They care for honor, propriety, and bloodlines, yet, deep down, they’re nothing more than bloodless little boys desperate to please their fathers.” She let out a sigh. “Even Harcourt—much as I love him—once cared more for propriety than for love.”
“But Papa Harcourt loves you, Mama, doesn’t he?”
She kissed Clara’s forehead. “He does. But when I first knew him, he was bound by the rules of Society that his father insisted he follow. We both suffered as a result, but perhaps we needed to suffer to appreciate what we have now—the love we share.”
“I-I thought Murdo loved me.”
“He did, darling. Perhaps he still does.”
“But not enough,” Clara said. “Will there ever be anyone to love me enough?”
Her mother caressed her hair. “There will, my darling. And I know just the place to find him.”
Clara’s skin tightened in apprehension. “Not London? A Season would be far worse than this. Men likehim—ladies like Miss Peacock. I don’t fit in. Please don’t make me have a London Season.”
“I won’t, my darling,” Mama said. “I’m thinking of somewhere—and someone—very particular. The hand of fate who reunited your stepfather and me.”
“Who?” Clara asked.
“My dear friend Bessie Dove-Lyon,” Mama said. “It’s time to take you to the Lyon’s Den.”
Chapter Eleven
The Lyon’s Den, London, two months later
Devil’s ballocks—it washer!
Had he endured a Herculean challenge in this den of iniquity—penning verse, balancing ledgers, heaving his body over those godforsaken obstacles in the gaming room, and, finally, burning the skin of his hands hauling himself up on a rope—to find himself standing before the woman he’d spent the past two months striving to obliterate from his mind?
Murdo rubbed his chin where she’d struck him. For a lass, she packed a fine punch. But anger was known to fuel a person’s strength—and Clara Martingale had every right to be angry.
Guilt stabbed at his soul as the duchess approached, her face illuminated by the candlelight—the woman Da had…
No!
The last thing he wanted to do was imagine the depraved acts his father had committed.
The duchess jabbed a finger in his direction. “No!” she said, fury in her eyes. “Not after the way he treated my daughter.Anyonebut him!”
“But you signed the contract,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said.
“I did, but—”
“Then you must abide by the terms.” The veiled creature turned to Murdo. “Bothof you must abide by the terms.”
She placed Miss Martingale’s hand in Murdo’s.
Sweet Lord… To feel those little fingers of hers again—to breathe in the scent of her…
