Page 38 of Lyon of Least Resistance

“To where?” a voice replied. “The bedchamber? To heaven and back?”

Laughter rippled through the room. The bride drew in a sharp breath and James squeezed her hand.

“That’s enough, Coriolanus, you slut!” the youth said. “They’re embarking on the journey into matrimony, to the bright future that you can only hope to have. Lord Bedford, Lady Bedford, please forgive that reprobate. He’s taken a little too much champagne, and as we all know, after one glass, he’s anybody’s—but after two, he’s everybody’s!”

“How many glasses has he had?” a voice called.

“Ten,” the youth said, “which means nobody will have him now.” He winked at the bride and her lips curved into a smile.

Then the youth raised his hand and the company grew silent. He kissed the bride’s hand and they exchanged a glance, before he opened the door and ushered the bride and groom out.

The youth led them along the hallway, and James’s heart shuddered as he glanced at each door they passed. Was the marriage to be consummated in a whore’s boudoir? Dear God—surely he’d not be forced to bed his bride in the chamber where Dahlia had taken his virginity?

But the young man led them to chamber in a different part of the building. He stopped at an oak-paneled door with a trinket hanging from the handle in the shape of a heart. Then he opened a door to reveal a room devoid of the decadent dark reds and purples that James had been expecting. Instead, it was furnished in light, virginal hues. The walls were formed of white paneling, the curtains pale yellow, and the bed, which dominated the chamber, was fashioned from wood painted white with gold edging, the bedspread the same shade of yellow as the curtains.

A fire glowed in the fireplace that dominated one wall, and on a table beside the fireplace was a vase of roses—pure white blooms that gave off a faint, sweet floral scent. The only item that seemed out of place was a trunk in the corner, fashioned from dark wood.

It was a room made for angels.

“Our hostess has said that this chamber is ours until the morning,” James said.

His bride crossed the floor, already pulling off her gloves.

“And they’ll send someone in to serve breakfast before we leave,” he added.

“Leave?” she said, her eyes widening.

“For Bedford Hall,” he said. “My country seat. I’m afraid I don’t keep a London house.”

“I-I know,” she whispered, her voice tight.

“Do you mind?”

She shook her head. “I’ve always wanted to live in the country.”

“You don’t expect me to purchase a townhouse now I have a wife?”

She flinched, then finished removing her gloves and folded them over the back of a chair.

“Forgive me, I meant no offense,” he said. “Your fortune…”

“Is now yours, Lord Bedford,” she said. “To do with as you wish. I have no expectations over how you intend to spend it. I understand what happens when a marriage takes place.”

She colored and glanced at the bed.

A surge of need swelled his groin. Perhaps it was for the best that she was an innocent, for she wouldn’t know what to expect. And, never having known a man, she wouldn’t be in a position to compare him with others and find him wanting.

He had to admit, he took delight in the prospect of a wife who would only ever lie with him—who would be truly his and nobody else’s. It made her respectable enough to satisfy his need to honor his title—and, more importantly, she was respectable enough to stand up to the scrutiny of his friends and peers. Though he’d married her for her dowry and nothing else, he had to admit to a sense of relief that she came to the marriage bed a maiden. Being the antithesis of…of her, his bride would cure the last vestiges of his infatuation with a woman he was best off forgetting.

Dahlia…

Forcing the image of a red silk mask from his mind, he turned to his bride.

“Would you like me to ring for your maid?”

“I-I have no maid.”

“Some tea, then?”