Page 6 of A Spinster's Guide to Landing a Lyon

“Time to be the hero, old friend.” Damien clapped him on the shoulder. “Go save some helpless woman wrapped in scandal.”

“What are you—”

“Your Grace, you must come with me,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon approached from the side.

“What the devil—”

“That’s how quickly it can happen.” Damien flashed him a huge grin. “Better you than me, my friend.” The hard thwack from Damien’s open palm on Benedict’s back would have sent a smaller man flying forward. “Go on. Off with you. Rescuethe damsel.” Then with a raised fist and a not so solemn face, Damien drunkenly pronounced, “Redemption is yours, good sir.”

Well. His friend was useless at this point.

“Your Grace,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon repeated, and none too slowly swiveled on her heel to exit the room. The expectation being that he follow her.

Which, being as close to a good duke as any, of course he did.

It was a quick escape and an even shorter entrance into a dimly lit room.

Without words, Mrs. Dove-Lyon opened the door and gestured for him to go inside.

“I’ll let the lady explain.” And then she was gone.

But he already knew what to expect. So he thought. It all seemed so anticlimactic though. He had lost the series of bets and would now be forced to take a wife who needed saving.

That is why he came here.

Damien knew that.

Benedict knew that.

Losing the wrong bet—or perhaps the right one—could lead to a betrothal.

And that’s what he wanted. He reminded himself for the thirty third time. He agreed with Damien. He was here to defy society. If rescuing someone from ruin could be the byproduct of his rebellion, that was good for his conscience.

“It’s you?” a faint, yet unfamiliar voice whispered in the darkness.

But when she walked closer, further into the light, he saw the blonde. The blonde of which had been the fortune—if one could call it that—of him winning his earlier bet this evening.

But wouldn’t this just be the cat eating his own shit for breakfast if this was the woman he was supposed to rescue?

She didn’t look like a woman who needed rescuing. No. She looked perfectly calm. At peace. Composed. She seemed to be perfectly in control of her world, and perhaps significant parts of the world around her as well.

But…how could one argue with fate?

One didn’t.

But…while he might not be the type to directly argue with fate, he might be the type to poke at fate.

Especially when it showed up looking like this. The epitome of manipulation. It was best to take the upper hand. Show her who was really in control here.

“Well, well, well. When I considered coming here tonight I didn’t think I’d be saddled with a spinster who owned nineteen cats and made needlepoint doilies for each of them.”

Her lips pursed, but she didn’t recoil at his insult. She gave a small sigh and equally small shrug of her shoulders. “Alas, I’m not your saddle.”

Well. He had not been expecting that. He had come in here after losing his bets, thus expecting to marry. “Explain.”

“I am a spinster. I love cats and needlepoint.”

She stopped there, assessing him. He could feel it. Intentionally, she had not addressed the saddle portion of their conversation yet. Was this a standoff? How…interesting.