Page 36 of Lyon of Least Resistance

And he was her master. That night they’d lain together for the first time, James had claimed her heart. Tonight, he would claim her body and her fortune, and in the eyes of the law and the church, she would be his, bound to obey his every instruction.

He caressed her skin with the pad of his thumb, then gave her hand a gentle tug. Any other bride would not have understood the unspoken command, but over the course of his visits, Cordelia had learned—as every good whore learns—to read the gestures and mannerisms of a man.

Look at me.

Summoning courage, Cordelia inhaled, then turned to face the bridegroom.

Clear-blue eyes regarded her, uncertainty in their expression, and his forehead creased into a frown.

“Are you all right?” he whispered.

He continued to caress the back of her hand, almost absent-mindedly. Her skin tightened with want and, unable to speak, she caught her breath and nodded.

“May I proceed?” the vicar said, an edge to his voice.

“Reverend,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said with a hard edge, and the vicar straightened his stance and continued with the ceremony.

The hand holding Cordelia’s tightened its grip as James recited his vows, uttering his full name.

James Timothy John Bedford.

He had never given her his full name. Perhaps it was a piece of himself that he had wanted to keep hidden from the whore who serviced him—to save for the woman he married.

But that name was now hers. As the vicar declared them man and wife, the bridegroom took her hand and slipped a gold band onto the third finger. The cold metal met resistance at the knuckle, then her finger yielded and the band settled in place.

“You may kiss the bride.”

The bridegroom took both Cordelia’s hands and drew her close, and she tilted her face up.

My first kiss.

It was something she had never given to a man, though many had tried to take it from her. The sharing of bodies was merely a physical transaction, but this…

Such an intimate act ought to be undertaken in private, without a roomful of onlookers.

Cordelia glanced toward Isidore and saw her own fears reflected in the older woman’s eyes.

Then Isidore glanced at the groom, curved her lips into a smile, and nodded.

James—now her husband—brought his face close, and a warmth threaded through Cordelia’s blood at the caress of his breath on her skin. She parted her lips to savor the moment.

Then he hesitated. His brow furrowed and he glanced about the chamber, as if searching for something.

Or someone.

“Are you awaiting the arrival of”—she hesitated—“a friend?”

He blinked, slowly, then shook his head. “I have no friends here, Cordelia.” Then he smiled as her heart broke for her former self. “May I call you Cordelia?”

“O-of course.”

He nodded, then lowered his lips to hers.

His lips were as soft and tender as she had imagined when she’d traced the outline of her own lips where he kissed her in her dreams, almost every night since they’d first shared a bed. They tasted sweeter than she had anticipated—rich honey to match the color of his hair, with the warmth of the sun.

“James…”

The warmth radiated throughout her body, pooling in her center, and she curled her fingers around his arms, clinging to him, savoring the moment of intimacy of which she had never thought herself worthy. Tears spilled onto her cheeks as he slipped his tongue between her lips, coaxing them to part for him, then he deepened the kiss, moving his tongue slickly along her own, then curling around it in a slow, sensual dance.