Page 16 of Lyon of Least Resistance

“Who would want to insert absinthe up his—” James broke off, his cheeks flaming.

“Anyone desperate enough for a dowry,” Sir Matthew said. “The winner of that particular challenge netted a woman in her thirties with a property in Surrey and ten thousand in cash.”

“A woman?” James said. “Are women for sale here?”

“No, Mr. Fresh Meat,” Mr. Vernon said. “We’re for sale.” He gestured to the platform. “See those fellows up there? A baronet, an earl, two viscounts, and a marquess. Rather an impressive crop, each in the same predicament.”

“Which is?”

“A need for ready cash. And what’s the easiest route to getting one’s hands on ready cash?”

James shrugged.

“You really are fresh meat, aren’t you?” Sir Matthew chuckled. “Like a newly shot deer, needing to be well hung for a few days before he’s ready.”

Mr. Vernon took a mouthful of his drink, then lowered his gaze to James’s breeches. “How well hung are you, Mr. Fresh Meat?”

Sir Matthew nudged his companion. “Don’t be an arse, Vernon. We all know your cock’s the size of a stallion’s. Though it’s not size that matters, but what you do with it, eh? If you can’t make a woman moan your name, then it matters not how well endowed you are.”

Oh, James…

James suppressed the surge of need at the memory of Dahlia’s cry as her body rippled around him. Would he ever hear a woman cry his name in pleasure again?

The cheering resumed and James turned his attention to the platform where the competitors were each holding their glasses.

“One part coffee, two parts brandy, and half a cup of milk in each of those—or so Coriolanus tells me,” Sir Matthew said.

“Coriolanus?”

“That glorious boy over there.” Sir Matthew gestured to one of the youths.

“Then why is it green?” James said.

“That’ll be the absinthe, left over from last month,” Vernon said. “I pray to the devil that it’s fresh from the bottle rather than the remnants that Coriolanus mopped up from the floor.”

James drew in a sharp breath to stem the pulse of nausea, and he averted his eyes from the cloudy liquid in the glasses.

“Are you ready?” the master of ceremonies cried.

The crowd muttered among themselves.

“I said—are you ready!”

“Yes!” the crowd roared, then a chant rose up. “Drink, drink, drink, drink…”

The competitors tilted their glasses up and James wrinkled his nose. What man could be so desperate for a rich wife to endure such humiliation?

One competitor had only swallowed half of his glass before his legs crumpled and he collapsed to the floor. Two toga-clad youths rushed forward and carried him out of the room to applause and laughter. Then, one by one, the others fell—two swaying to the side before crumpling, and another, pausing before he leaned forward, opened his mouth and expelled his drink over the onlookers on the front row.

“It always pays to take a back-row position when watching Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s games,” Sir Matthew said. “The first time I witnessed a game, I learned a bitter lesson. Or rather, my jacket did. My valet refused to speak to me for a week.”

“We have a victor!” the master of ceremonies cried, gesturing to the last competitor standing, a thin man with youthful features, who blushed scarlet and glanced about the room in disbelief.

“Well, I’ll be damned, it’s not Blackwell!” Mr. Vernon said. “He’s not known for holding his liquor.”

“Yes, but Mrs. Dove-Lyon is known for nudging the odds toward the most favorable candidate,” Sir Matthew said.

“So—that young man has just won himself a bride?” James said.