Page 33 of Lyon of Least Resistance

Mrs. Dove-Lyon gestured to the painting over the fireplace.

“That’s a Constable,” she said. “Not a Turner.”

Then she placed James’s little painting on the table.

“You chose well, Miss Flowers.”

The soon-to-be bride nodded, but her discomfort still showed.

“Are you disappointed in your choice, Miss Flowers?” James said.

She startled, cast a glance in Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s direction, then turned to stare at him.

“No,” she said. “Are you?”

The black-clad figure stiffened, then leaned forward, clasping her gloved hands together.

“Of course not,” he said. “I-I’m very pleased with the outcome.”

Very pleased—bloody hell! It was obvious that he had no skills with a paintbrush, and now he’d confirmed that he was no wordsmith either. But, for some reason, she had chosen him over and above the others.

“May I kiss you, Miss Flowers, to seal our betrothal?” James said.

She jerked as if he’d burned her.

“Oh!” she said, glancing to Mrs. Dove-Lyon, a plea in her eyes. But a plea for what?

“If we are to be married, should we not begin with a kiss, at least?”

“I-I…” Her cheeks seemed to pale. He shifted closer, lowering his gaze to her lips. What might they taste like?

Then she tilted her head away and offered her hand.

“Quite so, Miss Flowers,” their hostess said. “The bridal kiss must take place on the day of the wedding, no?”

James took her hand and lifted it to his lips, suppressing his disappointment. But it mattered not. When she was his, he’d have the rest of his life to taste those lips.

She stiffened as he brushed his lips against her skin, and his heart ached at the distress in her eyes.

“There’s no need to fear me, Miss Flowers,” he whispered.

“I know.”

She spoke with such conviction in her voice, yet still the sheen of fear lingered in her eyes. Perhaps she thought he might do as other men did and take a mistress. Or perhaps she loved another—had been ruined by another. Was that why she’d come to the Lyon’s Den?

“Forgive me for asking,” he said, his cheeks warming at the notion of so intimate a question while under the scrutiny of the spiderlike creature in the corner. “Do you love another?”

She shook her head. “No,” she said. “You have my word, I do not love another man, and I never will.”

He kissed her hand again and her eyes darkened, with a flicker of something akin to desire.

His body responded and he shifted position to hide the swell in his breeches.

“Ahem,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said.

Curse her! Was she always to be watching, waiting, her sharp gaze penetrating into his very soul?

“I promise that I shall be faithful unto you, and only you, Miss Flowers,” he said. “I know you have no cause to believe me, so I shall speak honestly about the course of my heart.”