Lyon Hearted, page 1
Lyon Hearted
The Lyon’s Den Connected World
Jade Lee
Copyright © 2021 Jade Lee
Text by Jade Lee
Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.
P.O. Box 7968
La Verne CA 91750
ceo@dragonbladepublishing.com
Produced in the United States of America
First Edition September 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.
ARE YOU SIGNED UP FOR DRAGONBLADE’S BLOG?
You’ll get the latest news and information on exclusive giveaways, exclusive excerpts, coming releases, sales, free books, cover reveals and more.
Check out our complete list of authors, too!
No spam, no junk. That’s a promise!
Sign Up Here
Dearest Reader;
Thank you for your support of a small press. At Dragonblade Publishing, we strive to bring you the highest quality Historical Romance from 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.
Happy Reading!
CEO, Dragonblade Publishing
Additional Dragonblade books by Author Jade Lee
Lords of the Masquerade Series
Lord Lucifer (Book 1)
Lord Satyr (Book 2)
Lord Ares (Book 3)
Lord Scot (Book 4)
The Lyon’s Den Connected World
Into the Lyon’s Den
Lyon Hearted
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
Always the Lyon Tamer by Emily E K Murdoch
To Tame the Lyon by Sky Purington
How to Steal a Lyon’s Fortune by Alanna Lucas
The Lyon’s Surprise by Meara Platt
A Lyon’s Pride by Emily Royal
Lyon Eyes by Lynne Connolly
Tamed by the Lyon by Chasity Bowlin
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Publisher’s Note
Additional Dragonblade books by Author Jade Lee
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
About the Author
Chapter One
It never worked to compete with Prinny.
Lord Daniel wandered the early morning streets of London because he’d won again against the Prince Regent and was now paying the price. He was an art dealer. He scoured the world for interesting pieces of art and sold them to rich people. Prinny was a dabbler who liked to sponsor artists then encourage his court to buy indifferent works of art.
And sometimes they stumbled upon the same piece of work, the same artist. A smart man would withdraw his interest the moment the prince got involved. Daniel knew better than to challenge a royal. But he and the Prince Regent had developed a friendly kind of rivalry. Who could find the best talent, the most intriguing pieces of art? And who held the record for the piece sold for the highest value?
Last night, Daniel had won in the highest sale contest. His favorite artist had sold a painting of a child at the beach for an exorbitant two-thousand pounds, whereas Prinny’s favorite had chosen a vainglorious image of the Prince Regent on a horse. The work was excellently done, but who wanted yet another picture of him? So Daniel held the current record, and Prinny had cast him out of Carlton House in a fit of pique.
It happened, and Daniel knew that eventually the Prince Regent would forgive him. Unfortunately, he’d been staying at Carlton House and now had nowhere to lay his head. Everything he had in London—including his horse—was currently under Prinny’s control. So he meandered the city streets with a sore head while waiting for the hour to advance to a respectable hour. He had a friend who would house him, but only after noon.
So it was that he landed in Hyde Park shortly after dawn. Few people were about to enjoy the morning color show, but he could admire it. After all, God made the best paintings. Man merely tried to copy.
Man…and apparently woman. A lone woman sat in a tucked away corner of Hyde Park. She was near enough to the trees so that her body was in shadow, but he could see her dress and the loose chignon of her curls. Better yet, she was close enough to the light that he could see her canvas clearly.
It was exquisite.
And it was entirely original. He’d travelled the world in search of art and had never seen anything like it. The woman had long elegant fingers that held a single brush. She painted in black ink, nothing more, but the dark slashes of black amid shades of grey suggested an expanse of color that robbed him of breath. She worked on paper, he now saw, not canvas. And she free-handed a London dawn, somehow investing the image with growing hope even while done in one single color.
He stood transfixed as she finished the work. It obviously didn’t please her because she pulled the paper off the easel and dropped it to the muddy ground.
“No!” He lurched forward, intending to catch it before it was ruined in the muck. He was too slow. Half the image was destroyed by the time he grabbed it.
She gasped in surprise and recoiled. Of course, she did. She was a woman alone and he’d just bumped her backwards as he grabbed the painting.
“My apologies,” he rushed to say. “But why would you throw this away?”
She gaped at him, and for the first time, he got a good look at her face. Good God, she was Chinese! What an idiot he was! He thought he’d travelled the world over, but the truth was he’d only learned the artists on the continent and a little in Africa. There were whole portions of the world that painted and sculpted but were wholly outside of his experience. And she was part of it.
Certainly, he’d seen a little Chinoiserie. It was all the rage lately, but nothing compared to what she’d done. And even more shocking was that the artist was as beautiful as her art.
Clean lines of bone and flesh, swept upwards in every way. Her chin and cheekbones lifted her face. Her eyes drew upward, and even her nose seemed to lift to the sky. Or perhaps it was because he had straightened up to his full height and she looked up at him.
He saw now that her hair was darker than coal, but her eyes were a warm brown as she gazed at him. He meant to say something. He needed to beg her pardon, to step back, to do something to ease the sudden tightening around them. Not just in his chest which was now squeezing the breath from his lungs, but also in the air around them. As if all had grown silent as the world squeezed close to see her face.
Her mouth opened, and he felt his cock swell at the round O her lips made. Her breath was sweet when she exhaled, and the images that surged through his mind horrified him. She was an artist, and he could think of nothing but bedding her.
He stepped back, belatedly realizing that he now pressed the muddied painting to his chest, thereby smearing her ink and his shirt. He cared nothing for his shirt, but the damage to her work was irreparable.
“Oh damnation,” he cursed as he looked at the ruined art. Then he felt his cheeks burn in embarrassment. She was a woman, and he generally watched his tongue around them. And yet, he neve
“You cannot throw your work away!”
She didn’t respond except to grab a satchel filled with her supplies. He’d frightened her when that was the absolute last thing he’d wanted to do.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “Please, I would very much like to speak with you. What’s your name?”
She shook her head, refusing to answer.
“I’ve never seen work like you’ve done here. It was extraordinary. Why don’t you use colored inks? Do you have any other work? I’d love to see it. I’m sure I could sell it for you.”
His questions came out faster and more desperate the more she ignored him. Her head hunched behind delicate shoulders as she turned away. He tried to reach for her satchel. He meant only to carry it as she walked, as a gentleman would for a lady, but she reacted as if he meant to steal it.
“No!” she gasped, the single word banging against his sore head like a hammer. She was obviously terrified, and he needed to step back, but he feared to lose her completely.
“I mean you no harm!” he cried, much too loud.
She flinched at the noise. He regretted it as well, given the pounding in his head.
“Who are you?” he asked again, this time keeping his voice low, but it was too late. She was already rushing away. He could chase her, of course, but that would only frighten her more. So he stood still, waiting long enough for her to feel as if she’d escaped. Only after she had disappeared around a bend did he rush to follow her.
He wasn’t equipped to slip through early morning shadows, but he managed well enough. As London was waking up, he hid behind fruit carts and morning hawkers. And he ran to catch up to her.
There she was! A small dark woman carrying an easel and satchel. She moved with lithe precision, slipping in and around the flow of humanity as easily as a fish gliding downstream. But then she took an unexpected turn. He’d thought her wealthy given the quality of her paintbrush and the paper on which she painted, but she headed into a rowdy corner of town.
Then she disappeared into the side of building. It took him a moment to figure out his location, but then he was more confused than before.
The Lyon’s Den. A gaming hell with a lurid reputation. It specialized in all the normal games plus wagers that took a bizarre turn. Who could juggle the most cricket balls, who could seduce the most redheads, who could eat the most bizarre meats. There were upstairs ladies to service the clients, of course, but the mysterious painter couldn’t possibly be a common lightskirt. Her manners were too refined, her fear too palpable, and her art too exquisite.
He stood outside the hell as he considered the possibilities. In the end, he had more questions than answers. There was a secret here, and he was determined to ferret it out. It shouldn’t be hard. All it would take was a meeting with the owner—Mrs. Dove-Lyon—and then he would know all. Hopefully, it wouldn’t involve anything more than a few pounds’ bribery. But more likely, the lady would encourage a livelier kind of game. It was said that was her favorite entertainment.
But the end would be the same. He would get his hands on the art and use it to get back into Prinny’s good graces.
Chapter Two
Today was a squiggly day.
Li-Na acknowledged the truth of this moment with nothing more than a shrug. For a woman who prized order, she was having a great many wiggly days lately thanks to that bizarre encounter with that strange man a week ago. He looked so fierce as he clutched her bad painting to his chest that she had nightly dreamed about him.
Average height for a man, but with broad shoulders and stormy blue-gray eyes. He’d seemed both outraged and apologetic as he tried to speak with her. Normally, she’d have run immediately. Indeed, she had run. But she’d stayed around long enough to hear the calmness in his voice.
It made no sense. He’d been panicked and angry, and yet there was an underlying gravity to his voice that settled her fears. There had been no violence in his demeanor, only protection of her silly painting. And when she’d run away, he had let her go. That alone was enough to have him in her thoughts. No man she knew allowed her to escape unless forced.
And since she worked as the Abacus Lady at the Lyon’s Den, she knew a great many men. Since she handled the money at the gaming hell, she was the one they begged, cajoled, flirted with, and made wagers on, all hoping to gain influence with her or leniency on their debts. She had denied them all without thinking twice about it.
Until a man with stormy eyes had scolded her for ripping up a bad painting.
Hence the squiggles. Fortunately, she knew how to handle them and set down her painting materials with purpose.
She was in a shadowed corner of Hyde Park near enough to hear the thunder of horses’ hooves from riders on Rotten Row. Shadows fell on her easel, but that didn’t matter. Today wasn’t about creating an image, it was about releasing her unruly emotions.
She set a sheet of foolscap on the easel, touched her brush in the ink, then began to draw exactly what she felt. Wiggly squiggles punctuated by the sound of galloping horses. They came through as fractured swirls and dark blobs. She heard a lady laugh and dotted light gray bubbles at the top. She listened to an elderly man cough, and that translated to a jagged dot that lengthened into a gray stairstep.
It was a chaos of black, white, and gray, all kept within the confines of the foolscap because even in her most jagged moments, she always kept her emotions within a frame. She could express everything inside that careful square, and not be bothered by it again. Once—on a particularly bad day—she had added color.
That wasn’t the case today. Colored pigment was too expensive to waste on normal squigglies. Today’s feelings could be released harmlessly onto foolscap before she crumpled the paper and used it to light a fire. Or so she told herself. Unfortunately, it wasn’t working. Just as it hadn’t worked since the morning she’d met the stormy man.
She painted for two hours until several pages were covered in dark marks. One was so full that no white remained, only shades of black and gray. Only time would tell if she’d truly released her wiggles onto the page or if they remained embedded inside her back and belly, causing her to leave off her food and spit out her tea.
She took her time as she walked back. The Lyon’s Den gambling hell would not open for several hours yet. Plenty of time before she sat in the cage, a dark veil over her head, as she used her abacus to record the den’s receipts. Everyone called her the Abacus Woman because Mrs. Dove-Lyon thought it added an air of mystery. Li-Na didn’t mind because it hid her Chinese heritage as much as her veil. And since she never spoke above a whisper, they didn’t catch her accent either. As far as the world was concerned, she was another white woman who toiled during London’s dark night, and she was happy with the anonymity. It kept her inside a dark box as securely as her squiggles had been contained on the foolscap.
She entered the building through the tiny classroom space Mrs. Dove-Lyon used to teach her employees new skills. Two of the girls sat there now click-clacking with their abacus as they learned bookkeeping by double-checking Li-Na’s work from the night before. If they caught her in an error, they would receive a night off. Li-Na took great pride that no one had ever had a night free because of her.
She walked past them without exchanging pleasantries. She would not have minded speaking with them, but she had long since learned to speak to no one unless they initiated the conversation. She spent many of her days in absolute silence.
Which is why she was startled when the pit boss met her at the door into the gaming hell. He smiled warmly at her then jerked his thumb toward Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s private parlor. “She wants to speak with you. First thing.”
A summons? Why? This wasn’t Tuesday or Friday, their usual days to talk. Alarm shot through her, igniting the squiggles inside her belly until they burned. She locked them down tight and nodded. First to her bedroom on the top floor to put away her paint and paper. Then a quick ablution before she donned her dark veil and headed downstairs. She arrived while Mrs. Dove-Lyon was drinking her morning tea which she set down with a click.
