Page 18 of Lyon of Least Resistance

Chiding her foolishness, Cordelia exited the boudoir and closed the door, adjusting her wig and mask. A drunken cheer rose in the distance and she smiled to herself. Idle, titled men were, once again, gathering to watch their friends indulge in a game to vie for the hand of a woman—or, rather, a dowry—little knowing that Mrs. Dove-Lyon had a tendency to stack the odds in favor of the man she deemed the most suitable match for her client.

Wastrels, gamesters, and womanizers, the lot of them.

But they had their part to play in the world, most notably, a source of income for Bessie and employment for those whom Cordelia had grown to view as her friends.

One such friend approached her now, a slender youth dressed in knee-length breeches trimmed around the edges with thick fur and a circlet of leaves on his head. In his hands he carried an object that resembled a horse’s head, with bone-white fur and a horn protruding from its forehead.

“Have you been hunting unicorn, Puck?” Cordelia said. “A new crown to adorn that pretty head of yours? You’ll not secure a lover with that, I assure you.”

Puck held the object aloft. “Oh, darling, I wouldn’t be seen dead in this dreadful thing!” he cried. “It’s for tonight’s game. Some silly fellow must wear it while he humiliates himself for a dowry.”

“You can wear it afterward.”

“Oh no, that simply wouldn’t do, darling,” he said. “White is so not my color—it does nothing to flatter my silhouette. One must never wear white if one’s body is cursed with an abundance of curves.”

He lowered his gaze to Cordelia’s hips, then lifted it again, his lips curling into a lopsided smile.

“It might do for you, I suppose,” he said. “Your form’s too far beyond redemption to concern yourself with what color you’re wearing.”

Cordelia glanced at his breeches. “At least I’ve not covered my arse in what looks like a brace of stuffed badgers that would make any arse look larger than the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral.”

He twisted his mouth in mock hurt and placed a hand over his heart.

“Oh, how you wound me!” He pirouetted before her, issued a bow, and shook his behind. “It’s made from fox, not badger.” Then he straightened and tilted his head to one side. “Are you telling me that my breeches make my arse look overly large?”

“No,” she said, laughing. “Your arse is large enough on its own.”

He stuck out his lower lip. “Well, Coriolanus likes it.”

“I know he does,” Cordelia said. “Twice daily, and three times on Sundays, or so I’ve heard. For shame! Sundays are supposed to be a day of rest.”

“And they are,” he replied. “Bed rest.”

“You slut!” she cried.

“You whore!”

They stared at each other, then, unable to contain her mirth, Cordelia let out a laugh and he drew her into his arms.

“Such a shame you’re leaving us, darling,” he said. “But, I suppose, having been nurtured in the belly of the Lyon’s Den, you’re ready to be thrust out of the cunny and into the world.”

“You’ll forget me as soon as I’m gone,” Cordelia said. “There are plenty of other girls to exchange barbs with.”

“Nobody’s tongue is as sharp as yours—sharp enough to rival the cook’s knives. Who will I have to advise me on my attire?”

“There’s Isidore.”

“Oh! That old hag,” he said, his words belying the affection in his voice.

“Nobody can give you better advice than Isidore,” Cordelia said. “Didn’t she point out, the first time she saw those dreadful breeches of yours, that they’d serve a better purpose as a hearth rug?”

He rolled his eyes. “She chides me as if she’s my mother. Last week I thought she was going to turn me over her knee and spank me.” He licked his lips. “Not that I’d object if Coriolanus turned me over and—”

“That’s enough!” Cordelia said, laughing. Then she gestured toward the closed doors, behind each was a doxy servicing a visitor. “Do you want the patrons to hear you?”

“It might help them with their”—he gestured to his groin—“enthusiasm. More men like that sort of thing than you’d suspect.”

“I know,” Cordelia said, wincing at the memory of some of her more enthusiastic visitors.