Page 3 of A Spinster's Guide to Landing a Lyon

And waiting.

And—

“Yes. My fat blob won.” With a swipe, Damien cleared the table of the money. “Thank you for that.” Pocketing the bills, he scanned the room. “What’s next, old friend?”

“I can’t believe I’m here.”

“I’m actually quite shocked myself. Didn’t peg you as the type to run into the Lyon’s Den with me, never mind lead me here.”

“Yes, well, clearly I’m no longer in my right state of mind because I can’t explain it to you.”

“I can.”

Benedict shrugged. “Please enlighten me as to my innermost workings.”

“You want to damn society. Throw them the proverbial finger. Show them that you’ll do whatever you want to do now. You played their games and got burned by—”

“That’s enough of that talk.”

“You know it’s true.” It was Damien’s turn to shrug. “You need an heir. You’ve got nothing else to focus on right now. Given the state of your heart—fine. I’ll stop there. But you figure if you marry into a scandal that you’re telling thetonto go to hell. And hell, while you’re at it, this fits perfectly into your need to save the good people from hell. That’s a hell of a lot of hell, butmaybe you figure since you’re living in it, this is the only way out of it.”

“I don’t need to save—”

“If you can shut me up, I can shut you up.” Holding up his hand, Damien rocked back in his chair. “Acting out of your resentment is about to kill two birds with one stone here. Seems like a winning bet.”

“You think I’m here to get trapped into a marriage?” It was the truth, but a truth Benedict still had a hard time swallowing. Like a pungent tincture that was guaranteed to make one feel better if one could only get past the awful stench and lingering aftertaste. It was worth it in the end. Wasn’t it? Usually. That did not sound very hopeful. But it was just marriage. An heir and a spare. He wasn’t talking about doing something ungodly like falling in love.

“Why else would you be here?” Damien poked his way back into his thoughts.

Benedict stretched out his arm, gesturing to his friend. “The present company?”

“We could have made foolish bets anywhere. But you’re here.”

“Yes. I am.” It seemed too convenient that Damien could read the script of his own soul better than he could. Or at least, more so than he cared to explain to anyone.

“Pick the next bet,” Damien urged, likely sensing his restlessness.

“Why don’t you—”

“Just pick something, man.”

“Alright.” It wasn’t worth the quarrel. Benedict paused to look around the room. He wasn’t good at being spontaneous, flighty, shallow. Begrudgingly, he accepted why he came here. It was in defiance of society. It was for an heir. And…possibly, some good could come of it since the women who came herewere desperate. At least he could be one of the good-ish men they could be saddled with. Good-ish in that he would be kind. Honorable. Loyal.

Fine. He was not good at being superficial, but he was good at feeling his resentment, so he went with it as fuel for declaring the next bet. “I bet a blonde will walk into the room next.”

“Ah, we’re going there, are we?”

“Just betting on my horrible luck. Perhaps I’ll gain something from it after all.”

The two men threw more bills on the table.

And waited.

The peculiar feeling floating through him was more optimism than he’d felt since the…well, the incident. Since more was better than nothing, Benedict figured the night might have some potential.

He was wrong.

“Damn. She’s blonde,” Damien announced with a tilt of his head after a pause. “You win with that one.”