Page 8 of Lyon of Least Resistance

Chapter Two

James stepped out into the gardens of Bedford Hall and inhaled a lungful of air—so clean, in contrast to the stench of London. In the country, the air was filled with the sweet aroma of roses, lavender, and freshly cut grass, as opposed to the stench of dust, smoke, and too many people.

Why would any living soul wish to spend a moment in London when the country had so much to offer, so much to heal the soul?

Clip, clip, clip…

He smiled at the familiar sound of his gardener at work. Most likely, Heslop was trimming the box hedge surrounding the lavender garden. Last year, the man had taken it upon himself to indulge in a little topiary and fashion each corner of the hedge into the shape of a spiral, and the intricacy of the shapes necessitated regular pruning—fortnightly in the winter months, but almost daily in the summer.

That was the distinguishing feature of items fashioned by nature. Unlike those made by man, they refused to conform to the constraints forced upon them. Much like the men and women who resided in the country compared to London. They did not insist on adhering to the rules set by others, nor the expectations of Society. Tonight, for example, James could enjoy a family supper with Georgiana and Margaret, as opposed to the stuffy, albeit lavish, dinner parties hosted by men and women of London Society. The steak would arrive in its natural shape, as opposed to the delicate cuts placed before him at Lady Francis’s dining table, each one cut into an identical shape and size. The wine would be chosen by Osborne to complement the steak for the purposes of flavor and flavor alone—rather than a symbol of superiority to boast of the excellence of his wine cellar to the other guests.

And, unfortunate creature that he was, the world expected him to find himself a wife among the preening creatures who paraded themselves around London’s ballrooms and premier dining tables—a woman schooled in the traditions of Society such that all the character will have been trained out of her.

Was it any reason that he sought comfort in the arms of a doxy?

My Dahlia…

She was the only living soul he looked forward to seeing when he visited London.

She was the closest he had to a friend. Not like his schoolfellows—boys who’d initially befriended him, then betrayed him, tricking him into all manner of transgressions, abandoning him to the wrath of their housemaster, bound by honor not to rat on them. Oxford had been no better, with his fellow students caring nothing for the enrichment of their minds, and everything for debauching themselves and the gaming, liquor, and loose women they wasted their allowances on.

But a single, solitary whore whom he’d happened to notice while indulging in a glass of brandy at a gaming hell he’d stumbled over on Cleveland Row… She was the first living soul who demanded nothing, who did not thrust herself onto him or mold him to suit her own tastes and wants. Instead, she sat back and let him simply be.

And, last week, he’d finally summoned the courage to give himself to her, for a night, at least, so that he might be a true man when he finally took a bride. His body tightened with anticipation for his next visit.

He’d been counting the days—nay, the hours—until he could see her again.

He rounded a corner and spotted the gardener, clippers aloft, the blades catching the sunlight with each movement.

“Good afternoon to ye, sir.”

James gestured to the hedge. “How goes it, Heslop?”

“Almost done,” came the reply. “The hedge is thickening out well, and the shapes have a good bit of definition. I reckon they’ll be just right come next summer.”

“You’ve done good work.”

The gardener touched his forehead. “Thank ye, sir. Will you be wanting some more of those dahlias for when ye visit London next, for your young lady?”

James’s cheeks warmed at the mention of…her.

“Erm…” He hesitated, and glanced toward the hothouse.

“Perhaps roses might suit a lady better?” Heslop said. “There may not be enough dahlias for a bouquet as grand as the one ye took last week. Special occasion, was it?”

“Yes,” James said, closing his eyes at the memory of the soft body that had welcomed him so beautifully, eliciting pleasures greater than any he had wrung from himself by his own hand.

“All young ladies like roses, sir,” the gardener said. “Even my Molly can’t get enough of ’em. She always says to me that even the dullest day is made brighter by a rose or two, and I’ll stake my income on your young lady being partial to a rose. I know there’s some folk who say that every man gives his sweetheart a rose, but where’s the harm in that? And I have some special blooms that are like none ye’d find in a London garden. Them dark-red ones you’ll not find just anywhere. I can…”

He rattled on, and James smiled to himself. Heslop was a lucky fellow, having married a good-hearted country girl who grew up in the adjoining village and had loved him since the two of them were children.

What I would give for a love such as that!

Instead, James was destined for a soulless union with some London miss who’d never felt the warmth of the sun on her face, lest it give her skin an unsightly tan, never waded barefoot in a stream for fear of impropriety—and would never value a bouquet of wilting blooms when she could demand her suitor bestow her with diamond necklaces and satin gowns!

Bloody hell—am I envious of my gardener?

“There he is!” a voice cried, followed by hurried footsteps, and James turned to see his sisters approaching—Margaret running, arms outstretched, laughter in her eyes, and Georgiana moving at a more ladylike pace.