Page 1 of Lyon of Least Resistance

Chapter One

Tonight is the night he’ll become a man in my arms.

Cordelia surveyed her boudoir, the four-poster bed carved from dark wood, the rich-red furnishings that reeked of decadence, the thick velvet curtains edged with gold embroidery, and the gilt figurines and sconces that reflected the candlelight. Her gaze fell on the decanter filled with a deep-amber liquid, ready and waiting to celebrate the night of his triumph.

He had paid extra for tonight—to lose his virginity.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon had assured him that the fair Dahlia was the most appropriate of her employees to render such a delicate and exquisite service. Not that she needed to make such a claim on Cordelia’s behalf. He always asked for her when he visited, refusing to consider any other of the Lyon’s Den’s doxies. Though he had never uttered the words, his expression, as open as a ripe flower, conveyed his adoration each time he looked upon Cordelia.

What a sweet young man he was!

Then she checked herself and smiled.

Young man, indeed! He might be the youngest of her patrons, but he was older than her, if only by a few years. Perhaps, if her life had turned out differently, she might have even met him in a ballroom, or on a promenade in the park…

Don’t be foolish!

Just because he looked upon her like a lovesick puppy, that meant nothing to a woman in her profession. Most of the men Cordelia serviced had declared their love for her at some point—disaffected husbands and lonely widowers with sufficient credit at the Lyon’s Den to add the cost of an hour or two with the exquisite Dahlia to their ledger. Some of them roared their declaration as they came to pleasure. Others cried the names of their loved ones—long-dead wives and sweethearts, or unattainable debutantes. And by donning her mask, Cordelia enabled her visitors to imprint the image of the real objects of their desire as they took her, while she, in turn, closed her eyes and thought of the prize.

And that prize was her freedom—retirement in the country, courtesy of the spoils of whoring.

She was a businesswoman, much like her employer and the women who patronized the Lyon’s Den in their quest to find a respectable husband. And, to succeed in business, a woman must listen to her head, not her heart.

No matter how her soul might be stirred by another.

Every living person had a soulmate. Even a doxy. That was the truth according to Mrs. Dove-Lyon. Somewhere in the world there existed a twin soul, someone to make Cordelia complete.

But now was not the time to think of soulmates. Hopes and desires were a distraction from the end objective.

Eyes on the prize.

Another of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s adages.

Cordelia recited it to herself many times: each morning when she rose, tempering her reluctance to embark on another day’s toil; at night when she needed respite from a client with overly vigorous tastes leaving her bruised and battered…

…and, most particularly, after she had serviced the client to whom she was in danger of giving a little of her heart rather than merely her body.

The very worst danger of all.

And tonight, she awaited that very client.

Lord James Bedford.

Unlike her other visitors, James had come to her for companionship, for love, rather than physical release. Almost as if he wished to court her.

But tonight…

Someone knocked on the door and Cordelia jumped. Her heart hammered against her chest, as if she were a lovesick girl awaiting her suitor. Chiding her foolishness, she adjusted the blonde wig, tucking in stray tendrils of her own hair, and secured her red silk mask to cover the upper half of her face.

“Enter!” she cried, changing her accent to that of the London doxy.

The door opened and she rose, catching her breath to temper the rush of desire—or, as Isidore called it, the Doxy’s Downfall.

Then…he appeared in the doorframe.

The light from the passageway formed a halo around the mane of thick golden hair framing his face. Soft blue eyes regarded her with joy and a hint of apprehension and he shuffled from one foot to the other.

He’s nervous.