Page 11 of Lyon of Least Resistance

He smiled. “Surely you don’t want a new gown as well, little ferret?”

“No.” She frowned, her deep-set eyes darkening with gravity. “I know you must marry a rich wife.”

“Meg, how can you know that? It’s a matter for adults.”

“I know enough,” she huffed. “I’m twelve.”

He smiled. “Very well, Meg. Yes, every man in my position must marry a rich wife.” He gestured around the gardens. “Bedford Hall costs money to run, and I must raise dowries for you and your sister.”

She nodded. “I know. But just because your wife is rich, that doesn’t mean she has to be horrid.”

He laughed. “I’ve no intention of marrying anyone horrid, Meg.”

“Then promise me you’ll marry someone for you—not just for Georgiana and me. Marry someone to make you happy. You deserve to be happy.”

He sighed. “Sometimes I forget you’re only twelve. You speak as if you’ve lived in the world longer than any of us. To satisfy you, I promise I’ll do my best to marry someone who’ll make me happy.”

His response seemed to satisfy her, and she threw her arms around him once more, then skipped off toward the main house, calling after Georgiana.

“A clever lass, Miss Margaret,” the gardener said. “I’ve always said as much. So does my Molly, and Molly’s got a nose for judging a person’s character. Did ye know, she read your ma’s tea leaves before she entered her confinement with Miss Margaret, which said that she were destined to be a great intellect.”

Pagan nonsense, no doubt, but Heslop’s words were meant in kindness, and James nodded in appreciation.

“Ye should listen to her, Master James, if ye don’t mind my saying.”

“What—Mrs. Heslop?”

“No,” the gardener said, gesturing toward the two sisters. “Miss Margaret. She’s right. A dowry means nothing if ye’re saddled with a wife who’ll plague ye till the end of your days. And that end will come all the sooner if you wed a shrew.”

He touched James’s arm.

“If ye want the advice of an old man who’s seen seven decades, fought in a war, weathered two bouts of influenza, the loss of two wee ones…” Heslop paused, his voice cracking. “I’d have survived none of it were it not for my Molly. She’s my soulmate, if ye don’t mind my saying such things. And ye’re a good man, Master James—a better man than your father, God rest his soul. I want nothing but the best for ye.”

“What do you mean, Heslop?”

“I mean…” The gardener paused again. “Beggin’ your pardon for being forward, but I want ye to have a wife that’ll love ye as ye deserve to be loved. If ye can find a rich bride, then there’s none who’ll be more pleased for ye than me and Molly. But first and foremost, I’d ask ye to find your soulmate. She’ll be out there somewhere, sir, and if the Almighty is as benevolent and kind as Reverend Baker tells us every Sunday, then He’ll see you right with your choice.”

James stared at the gardener. Never before had the man spoken with such boldness.

Heslop took a step back. “Forgive me, sir. I spoke out of turn.”

“No, Heslop, you spoke out of kindness,” James said. “I’ll do my best to take your advice.”

“Very good, sir. And I’ll have them roses ready for when ye next go to London. To help find your soulmate.”

The gardener bowed, then picked up his shears and resumed clipping the hedge. James thrust his hands into his pockets and followed in his sisters’ wake.

There was no need to use roses to find James’s soulmate.

Reason might tell him that the perfect bride resided in one of Mayfair’s townhouses, complete with dowry, title, and breeding. His heart, however, told him that she resided at the Lyon’s Den. But she was the very last woman he could contemplate taking as a bride.

The Almighty clearly had a dark sense of humor.

Chapter Three

I pray that I shan’t live to regret this.

Her body still glowing from the aftermath of her climax, Cordelia inhaled the masculine aroma of wood and spices, together with the scent of her own desire. Then she sighed and placed a soft kiss on the solid male chest against which she lay. She let her gaze wander over his perfect form, his skin bearing a pink glow from their earlier exertions. Across the boudoir she could make out the silhouette of the bouquet—twelve roses the color of burgundy wine, which he’d presented with the eagerness of a bird desirous of his mate’s approval of the nest he’d built.