Page 9 of Always the Lyon Tamer

Perhaps they were all like her—completely out of their depth and unsure exactly what was going to happen next.

As Rebecca reached the stairs, her grip on the banister earthed her as nothing else had. This piece of wood, tangible and warm, was real. It was something she could quite literally hold onto for a minute, to remind herself this was a real place.

Her steps faltered, her heart racing.What was she doing? What if this all went wrong? What if,and she swallowed in panic at the very thought of it,what if John did not even wish to play the game at all?

At the bottom of the stairs was Hermia. She was not smiling but had a rather grim look on her face, as though she was a general about to send a soldier into battle.

“Come on now, Titania,” she said firmly. “Down you come.”

Rebecca nodded mutely and continued down the last few steps. She had reached the bottom. Her feet stood on solid ground, and she removed her fingers from the safety of the banister.

Hermia nodded. “Go and get him.”

Rebecca laughed nervously—she could not help it. In some ways, this was all a game.

Yet there was nothing pretend about the gambling floor as she stepped onto it.

Wolf whistles rang out in the air, coupled with laughter and a few slaps on the back to force gentlemen to pay attention to the game before them.

Rebecca held her head up high. Somehow, their delight in her appearance was the spark needed to make her brave. It was rather thrilling in a way, and she felt a little more as though she belonged.

It was not difficult to guess where the wolf whistles came from. The gown she had been given by Mrs. Dove-Lyon had made her laugh at first until she realized the proprietress was quite serious in her wearing it.

It was ridiculous. It was the wildest thing she had ever seen, and yet when Rebecca had carefully been tied into it, a rush of power had flowed through her veins.

There was something rather freeing about wearing a gown torn in all the right places, low in the bodice, and high in the leg.

Absolutely not something she would ever wear in public. It was the sort of thing Mrs. Bryant, society’s gossip, would have called “wanton.”

And it was. But somehow, Rebecca found more power in it than any of her delicate muslin gowns so carefully made for her.

In short, Rebecca found that her hips swung a little more than usual. Her head was held higher. A smile danced across her lips, and it became a laugh as heads turned, one man’s mouth dropped open.

She continued to ignore the stares, her gaze now fixed on someone else entirely.

John.

He was on the other side of the room as she slowly made her way around, and the closer she got, the more her heart started to thunder.

All she had to do was be patient.Not an unusual recommendation to a lady, Rebecca thought dryly, but a little galling all the same, when she had been waiting for John for almost two years.

Delicately lowering herself into a seat at the table along from his, Rebecca tried not to show her nerves. Her hands were folded in her lap, so she could not fiddle with her hair or mask, and she resolutely looked in another direction.

It was no good.In her peripheral vision, she could still see John, and more importantly, could see he was eying her with great interest.

“Be restrained,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon had said in their preparatory talk what felt like an age ago. “You must demonstrate he has to earn your attention. It would never do to give John the feeling that he had the upper hand, after all.”

Rebecca smiled at the memory of those words. Mrs. Dove-Lyon spoke as though gentlemen were…not strictly inferior. More to be cared for, like children. They could not look after themselves and certainly could not find wives of their own volition.

It was down to ladies like Mrs. Dove-Lyon to make sure gentlemen got there in the end.

Plenty of other gentlemen were now staring. One nudged his companion, who was too occupied by the game to notice her, and they both gawped.

Perhaps, a voice whispered in her heart,they are wondering whether you are the lady who has brought them here. Maybe they are hoping you are.

It was a heady thought. To be so desired; it was not something, as Miss Darby, she had ever experienced.

The table nearest her had fallen silent, all save for one of the gentlemen.