Page 86 of Lyon of Least Resistance

As they filed out, James caught his wife’s hand, waving his sisters ahead.

“Are you all right?” he whispered.

“Of course.”

“I won’t press you,” he continued, “but I want you to be able to tell me if anything is distressing you. Is it the guest list?”

She nodded. “I-it’s unlikely that he’ll recognize me, but I…”

He pressed a finger against her lips.

“Hush,” he said. “I care not who he is. What happened before matters not.”

“Doesn’t it?”

He looked into her clear silver eyes, bright with moisture, and his heart slid into place.

“No, my love,” he said. “Nothing matters except your happiness. It’s you I love—not Dahlia, the doxy who first gave me pleasure, nor the woman I competed for at the Lyon’s Den, but the woman standing before me now. My Cordelia.”

He dipped his head and brushed his mouth against hers.

“My love, I fear that a dull day with Mr. Wood awaits me, but I should like to visit you again tonight, if you’ll be willing?”

She took his hand and kissed it.

“Yes, James,” she said. “I will always be willing with you.”

He kissed her again, slipping his tongue between her lips. She drew close, and his body tightened at the feel of her lush form against his, the soft breasts pressed against his chest with the delicious little peaks that he longed to taste.

More delectable than any breakfast.

“Perhaps I might visit you in your parlor later this afternoon,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“How can I possibly resist such a delicious invitation?”

He kissed her once more, then took his leave, drawing in deep lungsful of air to dispel the inferno of lust in his blood. It really wouldn’t do for Mr. Wood to take orders from a master with a raging cockstand ready to burst.

Before he turned the corner at the end of the hallway, he glanced over his shoulder to see Cordelia approaching the morning room. Before she disappeared, she drew out the guest list once more, then screwed it up in her hands.

Whose name had distressed her so much?

Chapter Twenty-One

Cordelia’s breath caught in her throat as a carriage appeared through the trees, drawn by four horses—two black and two white. A warm hand took hers and squeezed it.

“All will be well,” James said. “There’s no reason for concern. Is there?”

He raised his eyebrows, his tone implying that he was seeking assurance rather than offering it.

“No, of course not,” she replied. “I-I’m just not used to Society gatherings. I didn’t take part in any of the organized events at the Lyon’s Den. Save one.”

He lifted his hand and brushed his knuckles against her cheek.

“Aye,” he whispered, “and I’m ever thankful that you decided to participate in that particular event.” He lifted his free hand to shield his eyes from the sun. “Ah—Sir George and Lady Marlow. They can always be trusted to be the first to arrive.”

“How do you know?”

Georgiana let out a huff. “The crest on the carriage, of course. I really don’t think—” She broke off in a fit of coughing.