Always the Lyon Tamer (The Lyon's Den Book 13) Read online

  Always the Lyon Tamer

  The Lyon’s Den Connected World

  Emily E K Murdoch

  Copyright © 2021 Emily E K Murdoch

  Text by Emily E K Murdoch

  Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.

  P.O. Box 7968

  La Verne CA 91750

  [email protected]

  Produced in the United States of America

  First Edition February 2021

  Kindle Edition

  Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.

  All Rights Reserved.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  License Notes:

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook, once purchased, may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or borrow it, or it was not purchased for you and given as a gift for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. If this book was purchased on an unauthorized platform, then it is a pirated and/or unauthorized copy and violators will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Do not purchase or accept pirated copies. Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work. For subsidiary rights, contact Dragonblade Publishing, Inc.

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  Thank you for your support of a small press. At Dragonblade Publishing, we strive to bring you the highest quality Historical Romance from the some of the best authors in the business. Without your support, there is no ‘us’, so we sincerely hope you adore these stories and find some new favorite authors along the way.

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  CEO, Dragonblade Publishing

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Emily E K Murdoch

  Never The Bride Series

  Always the Bridesmaid (Book 1)

  Always the Chaperone (Book 2)

  Always the Courtesan (Book 3)

  Always the Best Friend (Book 4)

  Always the Wallflower (Book 5)

  Always the Bluestocking (Book 6)

  Always the Rival (Book 7)

  Always the Matchmaker (Book 8)

  Always the Widow (Book 9)

  Always the Rebel (Book 10)

  The Lyon’s Den Connected World

  Always the Lyon Tamer

  Other Lyon’s Den Books

  Into the Lyon’s Den by Jade Lee

  The Scandalous Lyon by Maggi Andersen

  Fed to the Lyon by Mary Lancaster

  The Lyon’s Lady Love by Alexa Aston

  The Lyon’s Laird by Hildie McQueen

  The Lyon Sleeps Tonight by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  A Lyon in Her Bed by Amanda Mariel

  Fall of the Lyon by Chasity Bowlin

  Lyon’s Prey by Anna St. Claire

  Loved by the Lyon by Collette Cameron

  The Lyon’s Den in Winter by Whitney Blake

  Kiss of the Lyon by Meara Platt

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Publisher’s Note

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Emily E K Murdoch

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  About Emily E K Murdoch

  Chapter One

  Miss Rebecca Darby swallowed down all her fears, the questions she knew were impertinent, the desire to run, and the panic she knew would overwhelm her if it took hold.

  This was madness. How on earth had she managed to get to this position?

  Her mother had always said, dire times called for desperate measures. As she looked around the Ladies Parlor in the Lyon’s Den, Rebecca’s smile flickered.

  She never thought she would come here—one of the most infamous gentlemen’s clubs in London, known for its…well, debauchery. Even the word made Rebecca shake.

  Rebecca reached into her reticule and pulled out the last letter John Lennox, Marquess of Gloucester, had sent her.

  Miss Darby,

  I am in receipt of your letter and wish to express my disappointment that I will not be attending Almack’s this week and will, therefore, sadly miss you. I am also unlikely to be attending any card parties or balls in London for the rest of the Season.

  Yours faithfully,

  Gloucester

  Rebecca shivered, though the fire in the grate was roaring as was expected on a fresh February evening. It was the coldness of the letter which chilled her blood.

  After everything they had shared together—the opera, the carriage rides, the murmured conversations no one else had heard…

  She brushed away an angry tear while she waited for the proprietress of the Lyon’s Den to meet her as per their appointment. No, she would not shed tears over John Lennox, not yet. Not until she had explored all options.

  How was it possible to love a man who hurt you so badly?

  A woman wearing a gentleman’s breeches, waistcoat, and jacket walked into the room and looked around.

  Rebecca stared. Even her good manners could not prevent her; seeing a woman so wildly dressed, it was unheard of!

  The woman smiled. “Waiting for Mrs. Dove-Lyon?”

  Rebecca nodded. Words did not seem sufficient.

  The woman’s smile broadened. “Aren’t we all?”

  The door closed behind her before Rebecca could even think of speaking, and she let out a long breath. One of the ladies the Lyon Den employed. This was a world apart from polite society, where a lady in breeches like poor Miss Sophia Worsley last autumn was humiliated, not praised until she became a countess.

  The women here were different. They had power in a way Rebecca had never known, never believed possible. They made their own choices—whereas she was forced to live by society’s rules.

  Was it only a few years ago that they were at the opera? She and John, his brother William, and the woman who would eventually become William’s bride?

  “My, what a wonderful place! And to think, though my father and I have been in Bath a month, we have not been here! It does not seem quite right that we should come all this way for the Season and not even try some of its delights,” Rebecca had said, attempting to demonstrate her worldliness.

  And the Duke of Mercia—for that was William’s full title, of course—had laughed, and so had Charlotte, and John had hidden his face.

  And she had blushed with the shame of it but after that…

  A carriage ride where John had stolen kisses. Rebecca’s cheeks flushed at the very memory. She should not have let him.

  And now he no longer wished to see her, and she had come to the Lyon’s Den to…

  What?

  You cannot think to go through with this, a voice whispered in her ear. You must be a fool to think you could tame the Lion of the Lennoxes.

  Rebecca rose to her feet. No one but that one lady had seen her here. She could slip through the door and—

  “Going somewhere?”

  Rebecca jumped. She had not noticed the woman come in, and Mrs. Dove-Lyon was smiling, as though she knew precisely what her guest had been considering.

  Curtseying, Rebecca rose to see the proprietress of the Lyon’s Den laughing.

  “You ladies of society are all the same, stuck to your rules,” she said genially. “Come, sit. You will always wonder if you do not hear what I have to say.”

  Mrs. Dove-Lyon indicated the chair Rebecca had just vacated, but she hesitated.

  Was she brave enough to see this through? Did she have the lion tamer’s spirit to force John to see her for who she truly was, after he had courted her for so long?

  Slowly, she lowered herself into the seat. It did not hurt to hear Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s thoughts, after all. It was just a conversation.

  Mrs. Dove-Lyon nodded as she sat opposite. “You never thought you would be here, did you?”

  “No,” Rebecca replied honestly, and then, nerves overwhelming her, “Not that I mean any offense, you understand, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, it is just the Lyon’s Den is the province of gentlemen. It is most wild of me even to consider being here. My father has no comprehension I am here. He believes me to be spending some time with a friend of mine who is recently in London after being abroad for—”

  “Calm yourself, Miss Darby,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said gently, raising a hand to stop the flow of words pouring over her. “I am not offended. You are not the first lady to come here with problems with a gentleman, and you will certainly not be the last.”

  Rebecca nodded, twisting her hands in her lap. How did one go about this, then? All she had he
ard through the rumor mill was that for a price—and it was a rather hefty price, too—Mrs. Dove-Lyon could…well.

  Solve gentlemen problems.

  “Now, Miss Darby, you have come with a certain gentleman in mind, I think,” said Mrs. Dove-Lyon delicately.

  Rebecca took a deep breath and felt her cheeks pink at the very thought of sharing such personal details of her life. Of her love.

  “My mother died years ago, and my father is very elderly, and I have no siblings to support me or to make him see reason. So, I thought if I came to you, you could—”

  “First things first,” the woman said emphatically. “Him?”

  The fire threw up a spark, and Rebecca glanced over at it, a welcome relief from the penetrating stare of the owner of the Lyon’s Den.

  This was it. Once she said his name, it would be out in the world for all the gossips to chatter about.

  If they were not already talking about her already.

  Rebecca swallowed. She had been raised to be a gentlewoman. No great name, nor wealth, but enough respectability to attend the Season as part of the ton every year.

  But now she was leaving all that behind. The Lyon’s Den was no small matter. Once she was a part of its world, it would not matter how good the rest of her life was.

  There would be no going back.

  John’s laughing smile rose in her memory, and she smiled sadly at the recollection. He was hers; she knew it. She knew they belonged together like she knew the night would follow day. Why was that so impossible for him to see?

  Mrs. Dove-Lyon was watching her carefully, and Rebecca knew she had to speak. The words had to come out. Besides, Mrs. Dove-Lyon was surely the height of discretion. One could not manage her establishment without the ability to keep one’s mouth shut.

  “John Lennox, the Marquess of Gloucester,” she whispered. “Brother to the Duke of Mercia.”

  Mrs. Dove-Lyon did not say a word.

  Emboldened, Rebecca continued, “It was over two years ago now when he first invited me to the opera—well, it was the duke that did that, but at once I could see ’twas a ruse, for the two of us—John and I went on a carriage ride just a day later. Walks in the park, dancing at Almack’s, conversations during which we…I…”

  Her voice trailed away. How did one encapsulate the courting of over a year in a few words?

  “He was everything I wanted, but more than that, he was someone I loved,” she said softly. “But then…nothing. I-I wrote to Lady Charlotte, before and after she married the duke, John’s brother. She could not help me. And so I wrote to him.”

  Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s eyebrows raised, but not in judgment. Rebecca swallowed before she continued. She knew corresponding with a gentleman one was not related to was scandalous, but she could not stop, not now the words were pouring from her soul.

  “He did write back but see…” Pulling the letter once more from her reticule, she handed it over to Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “Since the brothers gained their titles, John has gained the name the Lennox Lion. All those ladies around him, all the time…he is like some sort of king with a pride of adoring ladies. Mrs. Dove-Lyon, I have sought to tame him over and over again, but I am always starting afresh, somehow.”

  “A lion who does not want to be caught,” said Mrs. Dove-Lyon dryly.

  Rebecca nodded. “I love him, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”

  She needed John, and she knew he needed her, too, even if he did not yet understand it.

  Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s smile was that of a mother. “I know, dear, I can see it in your eyes. Do not concern yourself. We can help you.”

  “How?”

  Mrs. Dove-Lyon spread her arms wide. “Welcome to the Lyon’s Den, the place where gentlemen do what they are told, and ladies rule the roost.”

  Rebecca grinned despite her nerves. There was something very reassuring about Mrs. Dove-Lyon. Her establishment was famous, of course, but still…she did not really understand what occurred here. How was it possible for Mrs. Dove-Lyon to make John realize he was in love with her?

  “And what happens now?”

  Mrs. Dove-Lyon snapped her fingers, and the woman in breeches appeared from a door, holding a notebook and pencil.

  “Now? We plan a little game.”

  John was initially too focused on his breakfast to notice the post had come in.

  In fairness, he thought, it was a damned good breakfast. His new cook—Mrs. Flutter, or Fitter, or whatever her name was—was a miracle worker. Even with the small budget he had allotted her, she made breakfasts for kings. He would have to up her budget. He would have to increase her salary, too.

  It was only after finishing his poached eggs on toast that John started spreading butter onto two more pieces of toast and noticed the silver platter with a letter placed right by the butter dish.

  Old Burnham must have come in with the post without him even noticing. John accidentally smeared jam over the envelope as he picked it up.

  “Damn and blast!”

  Trying to brush it clean had not been a wise idea. Now raspberry jam, all its little pips making dark pin marks on the paper, almost entirely covered the envelope.

  Sighing heavily, John picked up his napkin and tried to get as much of the stickiness off his fingers, but to no avail. He was forced to disappear to his toilette, wash his hands, and then approach the letter as delicately as he could, cracking open the letter without touching the jam and paying no attention to the seal.

  He had expected a letter. Instead, John pulled out a card that was entirely blank on one side. On the other side was printed writing.

  John Lennox, Marquess of Gloucester

  You have been chosen to attend the Lyon’s Den on 15 February 18—at 6pm

  Bring no one.

  Leave all expectations at the door.

  Cleveland Row, Whitehall

  And that was it. Despite knowing the opposite side was blank, John turned it over in expectation of more details. A name, a reason he had been sent such a missive.

  Nothing.

  Stomach twisting, John leaned back in his chair. The Lyon’s Den. He had heard of the exclusive club, of course. Every gentleman worth his salt had.

  The rumors had swirled, details conflicting, and no one willing to declare they knew the absolute truth. If pressed, he was not sure he knew precisely what the place was, other than somewhere everyone wanted to go, and few received invitations for.

  Why would he want to go? What happened there? He did not know a soul who had actually been there, after all, and it was not as though the card was signed.

  Picking up the envelope, he examined the seal. L and D. Well that made sense. Lyon’s Den. No other clues could be found.

  John sighed. This was one to discuss with his brother.

  Perhaps he had been there before.

  Stretching and yawning as he rose, John paused only to pull a coat over his waistcoat, and then stepped into the brisk spring air. It was only two days away until the fifteenth, and spring’s warmth had not yet arrived. William and Charlotte only lived a few doors down, and as he strode over to their front door, John did not even bother to knock.

  “Do not worry yourself, Walters,” John said breezily as the man stepped forward in the hallway, horrified his master’s brother had entered unannounced. “I only dropped by for a quick word with William. Where is he?”

  The butler drew himself up stiffly. “His Grace is in the breakfast room, but I warn you—”

  “No need to warn me. I have seen him eat breakfast plenty of times,” said John cheerfully.

  In hindsight, he should have heeded the servant. John’s mouth fell open as he stepped into the breakfast room to see a scene of absolute chaos.

  Jam was smeared across the white linens on the table, with Charlotte at one end trying desperately to calm a screaming Elizabeth. John grinned at his niece. Only six months old and already determined to make her opinion known.

  The other end of the table was just as hectic. William sat having a nonsensical conversation with his son—which shouldn’t be surprising, considering that William the younger was only just over two years of age.

  “No—no, William, do not put that in your—careful with that!”

  John laughed. Long gone were their bachelor days together, when he and William would go about town, attending balls and leading relaxed lives.