Page 6 of Lyon of Least Resistance

“Oh, heavens!” she cried. “No—you were…” She hesitated. Ought she tell him the truth?

Yes. She owed him that, at least.

“Y-you were the best I’ve ever had.”

He sat up and reached for his shirt, his body stiffening.

“Is that my coin you speak to, Dahlia?” he said. “Do you tell that to all the men you service?”

Though his voice was hard, she caught the undertone of pain. Poor, sweet man, he was jealous. But he had no need.

She took his hand.

“What I tell the others matters not,” she said. “With you, I say nothing but the absolute truth.”

He rose from the bed and dressed himself, while Cordelia slipped on her dressing gown. She turned to see him fumbling at his cravat.

“Here, let me,” she said.

He stood like an obedient child while she wound the cravat around his neck, then secured it with a knot.

“You ought to learn to tie it yourself, rather than rely on your valet.”

“I could hardly bring him here with us,” he said, “though you might accommodate him for an extra sovereign or two…”

Cordelia ignored the stab of hurt.

“There!” she said brightly, smoothing his cravat and brushing a speck of dust from his waistcoat. “You look the epitome of the respectable London gentleman, ready to court ladies in Mayfair ballrooms and find your bride.”

She gestured to the decanter. “Would you like to celebrate your success with a glass of madeira? It’s Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s finest. She doesn’t bestow it on just anyone, but I asked her to let me have it tonight. For you.”

“Do you say that to all the—” He broke off and nodded.

She poured a glass and handed it to him. He took it, trembling, and his breath hitched as their fingers touched. Then he met her gaze.

“Forgive me, Dahlia,” he said. “I didn’t mean what I said earlier. It’s just that I wish you were—”

“Hush, my sweet James,” she said. “Don’t say anything you might come to regret.”

He took a sip from his glass, then stared at the liquid for a moment before draining it in a single gulp.

“I love you,” he said, wiping his mouth. “There! I’ve said it, and it cannot be unsaid.”

And I love you also.

She closed her eyes to silence the voice in her head.

“Will you not tell me what’s in your heart?” he said.

She reached for the decanter and refilled his glass. “I will always speak the truth to you, James,” she said quietly. “Therefore, some things must remain unsaid.”

“W-would you not at least take off your mask?” he said, gesturing to her. “And—that wig?”

She shook her head. “That is something I can never do.”

“Why?”

“Because when a man shares a woman’s bed, the only face he ought to see is that of his wife—either because she is before him, or because he is thinking of her while bedding another.”