Page 103 of Lyon of Least Resistance

He met her gaze. “No,” he whispered. “I’m only sorry.” He took Cordelia’s hand and squeezed it. “Very sorry. I’ve been an utter arse, and I don’t deserve you.”

“James!” Margaret said. “You mustn’t curse.”

“Quite right,” he said, forcing a smile, his gaze still fixed on Cordelia, “and when Georgiana’s well again, you must decide my punishment.”

“I’m sure she’ll be well,” Margaret said. “Didn’t you always say that sea bathing is good for the constitution?”

James’s nostrils flared. “You think she’s gone sea bathing? In the middle of the night?”

“Don’t you recall when Dr. Carlton said you were to take me sea bathing?” Margaret said. “When I had that fever last Christmas, he said the seawater would be beneficial for my health. But you never did. You were always too busy. And now Georgie’s gone off by herself. She said she always wanted to see the sea.”

“Where did the doctor say you should go to bathe?” Cordelia said.

“To Winley Regis. I heard Georgiana mention it.”

Cordelia and James exchanged a glance.

“Winley Regis?” he said, his voice tight.

Margaret nodded, and a sob escaped her lips. “Georgie’s not in trouble, is she?”

James set his mouth in a hard line.

“Of course not,” Cordelia said, placing a hand on her husband’s arm. “But it’s best if you don’t tell anyone else what you told us. Now—can you wait here, as quiet as a mouse, until we return? Will you do that for me?”

Margaret nodded, and Cordelia patted her hand, then rose and exited the chamber.

As they closed the door, James spoke.

“You must remain here while I find them.”

“Don’t be a fool,” she replied. “Do you think you’ll be able to bring her back on your own?”

“It could be a long, hard ride,” he said, “and you’re—”

“Don’t even think of telling me that I’m a lady, with all the weaknesses of my sex,” Cordelia said. “I have plenty of experience of dealing with men such as Sir Iain.”

He winced. “Sweet Lord, what if Georgiana’s ruined?”

“Then we address that if it’s happened,” she said. “First we must find her. Come.” She held out her hand.

“Devil’s blood,” he said. “You’re more of a man than I’ll ever be.”

He took her hand, and they set off toward the stables, where Edwards, his shirt half unbuttoned, was leading the two horses out into the stable yard, already saddled.

“What the devil are you about, Your Lordship?” he said, yawning. “I can’t be doin’ with such early jaunts, gaddin’ about the countryside, even if it’s a clear morning.” Then he caught sight of Cordelia and bowed. “Beggin’ your pardon, Your Ladyship.”

“Did Charles tell you what’s happened?” James said.

“Some foolish tale about you wanting a picnic at dawn. I thought the old viscount was eccentric in his ways and you had the sensible head on your shoulders. Not that I mind a bit of adventure, but at a time like this when you have guests, I said to the missus, I said—”

“Yes, yes,” James said with a dismissive wave. Then he helped Cordelia into the saddle before mounting Hercules. “That will be all, Edwards. We can tend to the horses on our return, and there’s no need to tell the guests.”

“Of course, Your Lordship.” Edwards tipped his head, then they set off at a canter.

Though Cordelia had ridden Atalanta several times since her first outing, she was by no means a proficient horsewoman, and as they reached the bottom of the drive, her thighs had begun to ache. Nevertheless, she nodded her assent when James asked if she was well. At length, they reached a fork in the road and drew to a halt beside a sign on the verge that read: Winley Regis 3½, with an arrow to the right and Lincoln 25 pointing to the left.

“It’s not far,” Cordelia said, leaning forward to ease the ache in her thighs.