Page 27 of Lyon of Least Resistance

James opened his mouth to respond, but she turned her face to him and he caught a gleam of fear in her eyes.

“You wouldn’t…w-would you?” Margaret’s lip wobbled and James reached for her hand.

Reason told him that just such a woman was necessary for the sake of propriety, reputation, and to secure respectable husbands for both his sisters.

But, as he looked into the eyes of his younger sister, his heart conquered reason. He shook his head.

“No, Meg,” he said, ruffling her hair. “But if I cannot bring a worthy gift when next I travel to London, then I’ll have to return to the Society ballrooms to find a wife.”

“Can’t you think of a worthy gift?”

He shook his head.

“That’s because you’re not choosing the gift for the right reasons,” Margaret said. “You’re trying to think of what a fine lady might want—a gift that says something about her. Why not, instead, choose a gift that says something about you?”

“For what purpose?”

Margaret folded her arms and huffed. “Must I explain everything to you?”

She regarded him with the watchful intensity of the intelligent, precocious child he knew her to be—a child who did not deserve to be constrained by the rules of Society, enforced by a governess, an elegant older sister…

…nor the future mistress of Bedford Hall, whomever she might be.

She reached for his hand, and her warm fingers interlaced with his.

“Don’t you want to marry someone who’s right for you, James?”

“Are you telling me that I must choose a gift such that a woman would only accept it if she were right for me?” he said. “A gift that a haughty lady wanting a glittering match would spurn?”

Her lips lifted into a smile and she nodded and released his hand.

“Ugh,” he said. “Is your hand sticky?”

She inspected her fingers, then slipped them into her mouth. “It’s only jam,” she said. “I’m always getting covered in it.”

“That’s because you spread it too thickly on your toast.”

“I like toast and jam.” She tilted her head to one side again. “Give the lady something that only you can give,” she said. “Not toast and jam, though. Mrs. Vaughan made the jam, so it wouldn’t be coming from you. It would be coming from Mrs. Vaughan.”

“Then what?” he said, smiling at the notion of presenting a pot of jam at the Lyon’s Den.

“Something that cannot be bought,” Margaret said, “but the right lady will love more than anything else. Like…” She paused. “I know! It’s like those tiny flowers in my book of botanical studies—the ones that can only be found high up in the mountains in Europe. A man wanting to woo a woman will risk his life climbing to the top to bring her a flower. That way, she knows he truly loves her.”

James shook his head. “I can hardly go to Europe and climb a mountain.”

“Of course not! That would be silly. But there must be something you can do that shows you’ve taken a great effort. Any fool can visit a jeweler and buy a necklace. But a wife doesn’t want her husband to buy her necklaces and leave her alone. She wants him to spend time with her. At least, that’s what I want when I marry.”

He glanced at the roses, their vibrant colors shimmering in the sun. A flower was a fleeting gift, giving a moment’s pleasure before it withered and died. But what if he were to attempt to render it immortal?

“Meg,” he said, “may I borrow your paintbox?”

She glanced at the roses, then her mouth curled into a grin.

“They’re in the schoolroom—or maybe my bedchamber. Miss Flight’s always admonishing me for not putting my things away.”

“Run along and find them, then,” he said. “Will you take them to my study?”

“I’ll take them to the parlor in the west wing,” she said. “The light in your study is dreadful. The parlor’s much better.”