Rosilee’s gaze flicked between the man who had intercepted her and the widow who was meant to be her savior. One reminded her of a lone, growling wolf while the other reminded her of a poised snake ready to strike. And she was the oblivious deer who had found herself in a bind she wished she could silently retract from.
“Shall we retire upstairs?”
“I think not.”
“Are you in any position to refuse?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked the man.
“I am more than happy to join you upstairs,” Rosilee said, because she had to saysomething. It had taken all her courage to approach Mrs. Dove-Lyon to begin with, and she had to speak before all the courage left her limbs.
The woman, and her female guards as well as male guards, looked exceedingly intimidating. She was desperate, Rosilee could not deny it. But a woman also still had her pride. She could speak for herself, but more than that, she coulddecidefor herself. Between these two, she might just be a deer, but she was one that still could nip! And if they wanted to see just how sharp her nipping could be, she was more than willing to show them.
She had approached the Lyon’s Den alone with some optimism, as well as a little bit of terror, and she stepped over the threshold the same way, though it was possible the ratio had shifted a bit.
She hoped she would step out of here with more of the former than the latter. In fact, given the entire situation, she hoped she’d step out of here at all.
Blake leaned lowover the neck of his horse, urging the animal to greater speed as its hooves thundered over the narrow lanes of London, which were packed with vendors, carts, and townspeople, all going about their business. His breath came in short, sharp bursts, the air cold and biting against his skin, but he barely noticed. His eyes were locked on the scene ahead of him—forward.
He had to go forward.
And he needed to reach her, to stop her before she made a decision that would ruin them both. All due to him. His mistake—his damn stubbornness—had driven her to this.
And now, she was heading straight for the Lyon’s Den.
The veiled widow lived for women like Rosilee. Women desperate enough to allow themselves to be bartered into marriages with reckless men who had no regard for others’ lives and or even their own.
Gamblers.
Hell-seekers.
Men who wagered on ridiculous challenges for the thrill of it.
Rosilee didn’t belong in such a place. She belonged with him, and he had been too damn blind to see it until now.
His grip tightened on the reins as his horse sped across the cobblestones. He had to find her before it was too late. He couldn’t lose her—not now, not when the truth had finally dawned on him.
“Faster, Beast!” He shouted to his horse, urging it with the flick of his reins, cursing when as they flew around a sharp corner, Blake nearly trampled a man crossing the road. The man jumped back with a startled yell, shaking his fist after Blake.
“Watch where you’re going, you rotten blackguard!” the man shouted after Blake, his voice trembling.
Blake didn’t have time to apologize. He swerved his horse, narrowly avoiding another disastrous collision, this time with a vendor and his fruit cart. In his haste, however, the movement was too abrupt, and his horse clipped the front edge of the wagon.
The vendor’s fruits spilled into the street like marbles, scattering beneath the hooves of Blake’s horse. The horse reared, neighing in panic, as fruit rolled in all directions, and the vendor shouted something about his ruined livelihood. Blake barely held on, struggling to calm the animal.
“Hell and damnation!” Blake cursed, casting a quick glance back at the overturned cart and the angry vendor still waving his arms. “My apologies.”
“You think apologies will make this right?” the man roared.
Blake didn’t have time to argue with him. He fished out a few coins from his pocket and tossed them to the man before digging his heels into the horse’s sides and coaxing the animal back into a gallop. His heart pounded even harder in his chest than the deuced hooves on the ground.
I can’t lose her.
If Rosilee made a deal with the veiled widow, it would be over. Some wealthy lord would claim her hand, bind her to a life she didn’t want, and Blake would lose her forever. All because he had been too much of a coward to admit that he loved her.
How the devil had it come to this?
How had he, a man who prided himself on self-control, let things get so out of hand? He had pushed her away because he thought it was for her own good, convinced that his dark past—his father’s legacy—would only ruin her life.
But he had been wrong. So horribly wrong.
