Page 112 of Lyon of Least Resistance

He lifted the countess’s hand to his lips.

“Now, perhaps it’s time we took our breakfast. I can smell spices and believe it’s the deviled kidneys that we were promised yesterday. Lord Bedford, permit me to act as temporary host while you take care of your wife. She looks exhausted. My wife can take Georgiana to her chamber. You don’t mind, do you, my love?”

“Of course not,” the countess said. “Come with me, my dear, and we can see if that delightful young sister of yours can help.” She placed an arm around Georgiana and steered her upstairs as Stiles led the way into the breakfast room, leaving James alone with his wife.

“An observant man, is Earl Stiles,” Cordelia said. “I’ve always been afraid of him, but he seems so different today.”

“He’s equally insightful,” James said. “I applaud him for seeing your worth, though I find myself wondering if I’m in danger of having a rival.”

“There’s no danger of that,” she said. “I might admire Stiles—but it’s you I love.”

“Well, in that case…” James said with a grin, and he placed his arm around Cordelia and lifted her into his arms.

“James!” she cried. “What are you doing?”

“Carrying you over the threshold, like any new husband.”

“What about Sir Iain?”

“I’ve no intention of carrying him over the threshold.”

“No, I mean, what if he says anything?”

“Sir Iain can say what he wants,” James said. “If it causes a scandal, then we’ll weather it together. Because that is what we are. Together.”

Her heart soared and he smiled at her, his eyes deepening with desire.

“And now,” he said, “I wish to indulge in our marriage. This morning I proposed to you in the appropriate manner. And now I wish to enjoy breakfast in bed.”

“Is that not terribly decadent?” she said, raising her eyebrows.

“Nothing’s too much for the woman I love,” James replied. He placed a kiss on her lips and carried her up the stairs. “Now, what would my wife like for breakfast? Toast, perhaps? Or we could indulge in a slice of Mrs. Vaughan’s apple tart.”

“Now that sounds good,” she whispered, nestling her head in the crook of his shoulder. “How about we take it with chocolate sauce? I’ve not had occasion to use it myself, but I’m aware of the numerous and enjoyable activities that are enhanced with the application of chocolate sauce.”

A low growl reverberated in his chest, then he carried up the stairs to her bedchamber, pausing only to ask a passing footman to bring them a bowl of chocolate sauce.

Epilogue

As James neared his wife’s bedchamber, he smiled at the female laughter coming from within. In the weeks since the house party, Georgiana’s fondness for Cordelia had increased. At first, she had been consumed by guilt over her behavior. But the realization that her downfall, had it come about, would have been at her own hands—compared to Cordelia’s past, which, by the grace of the Almighty, anyone might have suffered—had been a greater lesson than anything Miss Flight might have taught her in the schoolroom.

But James could never condemn Georgiana too harshly without first condemning himself, and the Society in which he resided that valued decorum, birth, and fortune over goodness, compassion, and courage. And though the inevitable rumors surrounding Cordelia’s past had spread through London’s drawing rooms and gentlemen’s clubs, the gossip was already lessening. Next Season, some other poor soul would entertain the miniscule minds of the unenlightened.

A handful of friends—or, rather, former friends—now refused to associate themselves with the Bedford name, and James’s membership of White’s had been rescinded. But the prospect of diminishing his funds on St. James’s Street, merely to indulge in puerile male chatter, inhale too much cigar smoke, and imbibe inferior brandy that rotted his insides, was something he could well do without. And, at least, he was provided with the assurance that those who continued to associate themselves with his family were doing so out of genuine friendship and not merely the need to ingratiate themselves with a viscount. In fact, several acquaintances had made unexpected visits, almost in a show of friendship and of defiance against the world. A fortnight ago, the Duke and Duchess of Pittchester had stayed at Bedford Hall for three days. The duchess, having also secured her own marriage via the Lyon’s Den, was now Cordelia’s particular friend, and she’d invited her to stay at the Pittchester seat in Northumberland.

Perhaps all it took to determine whether a person was a true friend was a scandal of the acutest kind.

Balancing the tray on his left hand, James knocked on the door, then entered.

His wife was seated in the bed, her hair loose about her shoulders, as glossy as a raven’s wing. Margaret was curled up beside her, a book in hand, and Georgiana sat on a chair next to the bed.

Cordelia blushed and drew her shawl about her shoulders. Why she showed such coyness, when almost every night in the past month he’d kissed every inch of that delicious body of hers, was beyond comprehension.

Then she smiled and her eyes gleamed with mischief, as if she could read the thoughts—the very wicked thoughts—that consumed his mind.

“Brother,” Georgiana said, rising, “you ought to have waited until we said you could come in. Decorum states…” She lowered her gaze. But Cordelia leaned forward and took her hand.

“It matters not, Georgie,” she said, smiling. “But I fear your brother has committed a transgression—he’s only brought tea for one.”