Rosilee’s head whipped to Blake. “What is he talking about?”
That telltale tug on his cravat. Her hand snatched his. If the muttered oath hadn’t given him away, this certainly would.
“It’s not entirely like that, not the way he makes it seem,” he said gruffly, his fingers moving from his cravat to grasp hers.
“But it issomethinglike that, correct?” How unbelievable! “Didyouput Baston on my tail in the first place?”
“Christ,” Blake muttered, his face visibly flushing. His fingers twitched in hers. “My memory is a bit hazy.”
Reaper whistled.
“Your memory is just fine!” She yanked her hand away, eyes narrowing on this too-elusive duke. How he loved to keep things so deeply hidden! However, this was his character, was it not? Keeping things that he deemed might make him seem a monster tucked away?
But call her mad, she couldn’t help but feel a bit of joy at the lengths he had gone to keep her in his life—however obscurely. And even the lengths he had gone to in order to help her though he was probably—no, most definitely—the root cause of this mess, and could be found out as easily as not.
As lengths went, his were pretty lengthy.
She also couldn’t discount Leopold’s role in all this. Her brother had made his choices, too.
As had she.
“You are right,” Blake said softly. “I am to blame for all of your trouble.”
Rosilee didn’t dare look at Mrs. Dove-Lyon. Would this scene cause more problems? What would it cost? No, no, focus on Blake! “Well, I shall forgive you, but only this once. From now on—”
“Enough!” Baston bellowed, his voice echoing off all the objects of the room. A dark chuckle followed. “Viscount Fairchild, your precious brother, is safe... for now. But if you wish to see him alive again, I suggest you come with me, Lady Rosilee.”
Never!
But that look in his eyes, the glint there... Her blood turned cold.
WasLeopold safe?
Baston wouldn’t dare hurt a viscount, would he? Leopold! But then, there was no telling what this man would or would not do to get what he wanted.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s chuckle rang out. Ominous. “Cuthbert Baston, I’m at a loss as to who you believe yourself to be, but in the Lyon’s Den, I am the one who decides who marries whom. You do not own anything here. There are rules.”
“Acknowledged, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. Then, as per your rules of this Den, allow me to challenge the Duke of Crane for Lady Rosilee’s hand in marriage.”
Rosilee gasped.
No.
“I will notlet you do this.”
Blake wove his fingers through Rosilee’s, the determination in her voice was unmistakable, as was her concern. Belated relief flooded him as he squeezed her hand for good measure, refusing to let go. He had her. She was his.
But Baston—Blake bit down on his jaw as he glared at the man who had swaggered up the stairs and now stood smugly beside Mrs. Dove-Lyon, his eyes gleaming with the arrogance of someone who had always gotten what he wanted, regardless of who suffered. Baston wasn’t just a nuisance; he was a danger.
“If you want a challenge,” Blake began, his voice steady despite the rage swirling inside him, “then by all means, I—”
“Accept,” Reaper’s voice rang out, and his half-brother stepped up even with him. “If you can beat any man here,” he made a dramatic motion with his hand that included the gambling floor, “with any challenge they bring forth, then I accept.”
Blake shot Reaper a sharp look, but the man only smiled wider, relishing the chaos he had stirred. All sharp edges and dark humor.
“I’ve had enough of these theatrics.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s calm voice cut through the tension. She stepped forward, her veil swaying slightly as she moved. “I don’t think any of you gentlemen realize exactly what it means to cross me or to disrupt my establishment.”
Blake’s gaze flicked toward her, and he pulled Rosilee up against him. Mrs. Dove-Lyon was not a woman to be trifled with, and every instinct told him that whatever she said next would carry far more weight than any challenge.
