Page 25 of Lyon of Least Resistance

The Beast’s Boudoir would be a better name.

What sort of woman might the prospective bride be? Perhaps if James unlocked the key to that, he’d find inspiration. But the woman he’d encountered in his life—his sisters, aunts, the wives of his father’s friends, and lately the beautifully painted debutantes who graced London’s ballrooms—all seemed to take delight in the same thing.

Jewels, trinkets, and silk gowns. The costlier the better.

Jewelry was the most expensive, and therefore the most prized. But surely he couldn’t be expected to deepen himself in debt to purchase a trinket that may ultimately be spurned? How would he choose something to rival that which his more sophisticated male counterparts might procure? James had always preferred the countryside to London. His rivals, who doubtless spent every Season in Town, would be better versed in the latest fashions and tastes. Many of them would have mistresses. Therefore, they would have accumulated a wealth of experience in what material gifts were required to woo females into their beds. And into matrimony.

So, the item purchased need be fashionable enough to attract a female, and expensive enough to outrank its rivals. Or, at least, it would need to look expensive enough. But how the devil could a man tell how expensive an item of jewelry was merely by looking at it? Some of the most costly items of jewelry were the most hideous.

Perhaps, then, an appropriate strategy might be to select the ugliest necklace he could find.

Or a gown—gaudy with bright, unnatural colors. The young ladies who’d prowled around Mayfair’s ballrooms resembled birds of paradise who’d been dipped in paint in contrasting, clashing hues that gave a man a headache so bad that he wanted to pluck his own eyes out.

A gown would leave a smaller dent in his funds compared to a necklace. But women came in different shapes and sizes. A gown too tight would shame a woman into believing that her suitor thought her overly portly. But if the gown were too large, the woman receiving it might think her suitor had sized her up and deemed her whalelike.

Devil take him! This damned challenge, which had seemed so simple at first, was proving impossible.

How did some men know exactly what women wanted? Women were complex creatures who fooled men into making complete arses of themselves by saying the opposite of what they believed so that, if a man agreed with them, he found himself in a decidedly uncomfortable situation.

Take the Honorable Felicia Enderby, who, at Lady Winters’s dinner party, said that she disliked her gown because every other young lady’s outfit outshone hers. And what had James said in response? Not Oh no, Miss Enderby, your gown is quite delightful, rendering your beauty that which cannot be surpassed. No—he’d nodded and agreed with her, sympathizing over the color that was a little too bright and pointing out a tear in her hem.

But his faux pas had, at least, rendered him free of Miss Enderby’s company for the remainder of the evening.

“Afternoon, Lord Bedford,” a male voice said.

The gardener stood at the far end of the rose garden, clippers in hand.

“A fine day for it, sir.”

“That it is, Heslop,” James replied.

He glanced about the garden. Perhaps the blooms might give him inspiration with their myriad colors and soft scents. How was it that a simple flower could vary in color and tone, from the palest yellow to a red so deep that it was almost black?

Might she like a bouquet of roses?

Perhaps so, but what was to prevent his rivals presenting her with a larger, grander bouquet?

And, in any case, a woman with a fondness for silk gowns and diamond necklaces would doubtless spurn a bouquet of roses.

Sweet heaven! It was enough to drive a man insane.

The gardener, having finished trimming the hedge, touched his cap and exited the rose garden, whistling. James resumed his attention on the roses, fingering the delicate blooms.

What sort of woman valued diamonds, soulless crystals fashioned by men into hard, angular shapes, over something so perfect as a rose, the little flaws in the petals giving it life and a soul?

Could he bear having such a woman in his life—for the entirety of his life?

He fingered the stem of the rose then winced at the stab of pain. A tiny red dot appeared on the pad of his finger, swelling to a fat droplet.

Footsteps approached and Georgiana appeared at his side.

“Your valet will admonish you if you spill blood on your shirt, brother.”

James slipped his finger into his mouth, grimacing at the metallic taste, then removed it.

“All gone—see?”

“Ugh.” She wrinkled her nose, then gestured to the roses. “You should have asked Heslop to cut them for you. Though perhaps not those—they’re already withering. The yellow ones over there are much better. I’ve asked him to cut some for my chamber.”