Page 108 of Lyon of Least Resistance

They were the eyes that he had looked into during those early nights in the Lyon’s Den while he’d lain chastely in her arms, baring his soul. Her features concealed behind the gaudy mask and wig, her eyes had become the one part of her that she’d given him—the pathway to the beautiful soul who lay within the body of a doxy.

No…not a doxy, nor a viscountess, but Cordelia.

Not his Cordelia, but the woman to whom he belonged. The woman he was not worthy even to look at, let alone kneel at her feet.

He lowered his gaze, focusing on her thin fingers with their callouses born from a lifetime of hardship that he could never begin to understand.

Then she curled her fingers around his hand, and he held his breath at the little glimmer of hope in his heart.

“Of what are you speaking, James?”

Her voice was like a salve to ease the sharp sting of his inadequacy, its soft tone fueling the hope in his heart.

“Of you, my love,” he said, dipping his head once more to brush his lips over her knuckles. “Nothing matters except you.”

He paused, awaiting his fate. Heaven or purgatory.

The air filled with birdsong as the occupants of the surrounding trees awoke to announce the new day. Then she spoke.

“You’re wrong, James. So wrong.”

He heard his sister’s sharp intake of breath, to mirror the cry of anguish in his soul. Then he lifted his gaze, ready to face purgatory, to see his wife smiling at him, her cheeks wet with tears.

“You matter also, James,” Cordelia said. “Whatever you did, or said, your actions were motivated by love…a love for your sisters that guided your steps for so many years, a loving heart that risked all when you delivered your soul on a platter at the Lyon’s Den in the form of your painting. How could I even begin to think that you’re not worthy?”

“Then…” He hesitated, tempering the surge of hope.

She nodded. “Yes, my love,” she said. “I gladly accept your heart, and your soul. For mine have always belonged to you.”

He rose and drew her to him, and his body hardened at the feel of her delicious form in his arms. She lowered her gaze to his breeches and a flare of desire ignited in her eyes, before she met his gaze and placed a finger on his lips. The corner of her mouth lifted in a smile.

“Perhaps it may be best if we indulge in our reconciliation at home,” she whispered. “Georgiana is distressed, and we must return before our guests rise.”

Ever the sensible woman. But she was right. He nodded, then mounted Hercules and helped Cordelia up into his lap. He nuzzled her neck and inhaled her soft scent, then placed a kiss on her earlobe.

She tilted her head back until it rested on his shoulder, exposing her throat.

“Of course,” she whispered, “I’m not averse to indulging in a little reconciliation in an outdoor location. The ground underfoot where we enjoyed our picnic is deliciously soft. And the gate leading to the rose garden is, I think, sturdy enough to—”

Oh heavens! James’s manhood stirred at the image of his bending his wife over the gate and claiming her from behind.

“Is that even…possible?” he said, his voice tight with need. “W-with the gate?”

“Oh, James,” she said, her voice low. “There is so much I have to teach you. I trust you’ll be a willing pupil.”

His cock strained against his breeches. Perhaps she might teach him how to enjoy a coupling while seated on horseback.

Then Georgiana coughed and he startled.

“Oh, sister, forgive me. I…”

He turned to see her smiling. “Perhaps, brother, I should ride ahead and tell our guests that you may be a little late for breakfast?”

“We cannot disappoint our guests,” Cordelia said.

James sighed. His wife was right, and his sister’s cough needed attention. He squeezed his mount’s flanks and they set off for Bedford Hall.

Chapter Twenty-Six