“Well, I’m going to see him at the wedding, you know. You might as well confess.”
The wedding.
Until now, she’d thought she’d done a rather good job ofnotthinking about it, though the entire day had been, most decidedly, about it. She dared not dwell beyond each passing moment. Better to focus on the plan: marry, remove herself forever from the reach of the blackguard who’d ruined her, silence the whispers that had followed, and only then worry about what came next.
“Well,” Annabelle said thoughtfully, “you could still run away to Scotland.”
Alyssia took a sip. “Fanciful thinking.”
“I am practical. If one must run, one may as well run somewhere picturesque.”
“I wish practicality were as simple as it sounds,” Alyssia said, then admitted, “Part of me wants to throw teacups at the man; another part wishes I’d never see him again. And a small, most unreasonable part will be even more unsettled if I don’t.”
Annabelle reached across, squeezing her hand. “You are allowed to feel all those things. I would be beside myself too if I were in your shoes. And perhaps a little... how do I put this delicately?”—her friend winked—“distracted, if he’s as handsome as you say.”
“I did not say he was handsome.”
“You didn’t have to. Your face said it for you.”
Alyssia scowled, though her lips twitched. “You are impossible.”
“So, when is the wedding?” Annabelle asked.
“We’ll be wed after he procures a special license in the upcoming days.” Who knew how long it would take for the man to wake up from his sleep. He would be all right, wouldn’t he? Mrs. Dove-Lyon had assured her she would see to him, and she trusted that the widow would make good on their transaction.
A pinch of guilt stole over her.
You couldn’t very well bring him home.
“Where shall you wed? Do you have any idea?”
Alyssia sighed. “That, my friend, I do not know.” Her brow furrowed in worry. “Are you sure you won’t get into trouble once your family learns the truth?”
Annabelle waved a hand. “You forget, they’ve been shielding you from those rumors and that man. Do not worry so much. We are on your side.”
Her friend was right. The Swanley family had been her rock after that nightmarish ordeal. Without their protection, word would surely have reached her family in Kent by now. But Annabelle’s brother, Lance, had assured her they were keeping matters tightly contained. How, she couldn’t say. Knowing Lance, though, it was likely pure intimidation. If not for the family’s intervention, scandal would alreadybe blazing through every drawing room from here to Mayfair.
However, there seemed to be a slight obstacle that she and Giles hadn’t discussed yet: the matter of him being hidden. How would that work? How would they be able to clear up the rumors if his identity could not be revealed? Well, the past had risen from the grave. All she could do now was wait and see what else would follow.
But if Theodore Giles Bishop had any hope for them to return to how they once were, he was in for quite the surprise.
Bishop woke toan unfamiliar room. The Lyon’s Den? Christ, he couldn’t muster up the strength to even care. Every bone in his body protested, as though it had been passed over by several carriages. For a moment, he couldn’t tell if he was in a bloody dream, or if the afterlife looked like a bloody bedchamber.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s doing?
He thought . . . not?
Christ, his head throbbed. His throat felt like gravel. When he tried to move, the world tilted sideways and his stomach damn near pitched with it. He forced himself upright, though every muscle protested. His coat was gone. His boots too. Someone had stripped him down to his shirt and trousers, rolled sleeves exposing the faint scars that crossed his forearms.
The last thing he remembered was Alyssia, her countenance bloodless and determined. Also furious. Somewhat concerned. Then darkness.
Hell and damnation.
He’d made it to her, at least. There were moments he’d doubted he’d be able. Heh. The last time he’d pushed himself to that extent hadbeen when he escaped his uncle’s cutthroats. This, however, might have been worse. He could not place his whereabouts, but one thing was certain. He’d fainted like a blasted invalid, and if the devil himself hadn’t claimed him in shame yet, he soon might.
The door opened and a man stepped in. He froze when their gazes locked. “Oh, you’re awake.”
Bishop scowled. He didn’t have to ask the man’s name, he damn well knew as clear as the sun rose in the morning. “How are you here?”
