Page 37 of Lyon of Least Resistance

How had he learned to kiss like that—as if he worshipped her? Had he kissed another before her?

She tempered the spike of jealousy at his sharing such intimacies with other women. Then shame overcame her and she withdrew, shaking her head.

What right had she to envy the other women he’d kissed when she had parted her thighs for countless men, kneeled before them and debased herself for cash? What right had she to assume that he would ever want to be married to a woman such as her?

Hurt shone in his eyes at her rejection.

“F-forgive me,” she said. “I’m a little shy.”

The hurt turned into guilt.

“No, Cordelia,” he said, taking her hand and lifting it to his lips. “It’s I who should beg your forgiveness. A bride must be treated with tenderness.” He smiled, though sadness glimmered in his eyes. “An old friend told me that.”

“A-a friend?”

“Yes,” he whispered, kissing her hand again. Then he lowered it. “A very old friend. It was their parting gift.”

“Do you miss them?”

He paused, and she held her breath. Then he shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I have you now, and am content knowing that I’ll never see…her again.”

Chapter Eleven

As the wedding breakfast drew to a close, James struggled to temper the onslaught of apprehension. Soon he would be left alone with his bride to consummate the marriage. In the Lyon’s Den, and within an hour of the ceremony. As per the terms of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s contract.

He ought to have taken offense at such a stipulation. Did the company believe him so unfaithful to his vows that he’d flee at the first opportunity, leaving the marriage unconsummated, giving him the freedom to discard his bride? But perhaps they were to be forgiven. After all, the women seeking husbands at the Lyon’s Den suffered from some fatal flaw that kept them from the polite company of London Society. Perhaps some of the previous grooms had regretted their choice and bolted.

But James could see no flaws in his bride. She was perfection itself, her eyes glowing like liquid silver, and her hair as dark as a midnight sky.

And she showed such coyness, withdrawing from his gentle kiss, her expressive eyes wide with apprehension. She would need reassurance when he bedded her—like an untamed filly, wary of taking her first steps.

Despite the rumors about the women who paid for Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s services, there was no doubt that Miss Flowers, now Viscountess Bedford, was an innocent.

The familiar black-clad figure approached James and his bride, together with the tall, gray-haired woman who’d given the bride away.

“The bridal chamber awaits you, Viscount and Viscountess Bedford.”

James’s bride stiffened and she glanced at him. He smiled in reassurance, his heart lifting as she curled her fingers around his. Perhaps, one day, she might grow to trust him. After all, they had the rest of their lives.

The gray-haired woman embraced the bride.

“Be happy, darling.”

“I-I will, Isidore.”

The woman glanced at James then lowered her voice to whisper in the bride’s ear.

“All will be well tonight, sweetheart. You’ve nothing to fear from him.”

James turned away, ashamed to have overheard, but his heart lifted as he caught his bride’s whispered reply.

“I know.”

A youth approached, wearing knee-length breeches trimmed in fur, and clapped his hands.

“And now!” he cried. “’Tis time for our honored bride and groom to bid their farewells and embark on their journey.”