Page 2 of Lyon of Least Resistance

She approached him, hand outstretched.

“James, how kind of you to come. I trust you’re well. Would you like some tea?”

He shook his head, then took her hand, and Cordelia suppressed the rush of yearning at the feel of his warm fingers curling around hers, the skin soft and smooth, so unlike her own calloused hand.

“I-I’m a little…” He broke off, glancing toward the bed. “I mean, I…”

“Perhaps we might talk first,” she said, “like we always do?”

“Don’t you have other…guests?”

“No, James,” she replied. “Tonight is all yours.”

“Bought and paid for,” he said, a hard edge to his voice, and Cordelia tempered the spark of shame.

Then he shook his head.

“Forgive me, I meant no insult. You’ve been a good friend.”

“It matters not, James,” Cordelia said. “You know you can say what you like to me. In this room you can be wholly honest. Be yourself, for you shan’t be judged.”

She steered him to the pair of armchairs beside the fireplace and they sat.

He squeezed her hand. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re my only friend.”

“You have your sisters,” Cordelia said. “You always tell me how fond you are of them, and they of you. Tell me, how is Margaret? Last time you said she’d scraped her knee falling out of a tree.”

He smiled, his eyes illuminating with a love that made Cordelia’s heart hurt.

“She’s incorrigible,” he said, “but I indulge her. Georgiana is always telling me I should be firmer with her, but I haven’t the heart to restrain her. Am I right, I wonder?”

“Margaret’s young,” Cordelia replied. “You’re wise to let her enjoy her freedom while she can. Childhood feels like an eon when we’re children ourselves, but as we grow into adulthood, we look back with regret as we acknowledge that childhood is a fleeting moment. It should not be curtailed, for once gone, it’s gone forever.”

He leaned forward, frowning. “Was your childhood curtailed, my Dahlia?”

Damn.

How many times had she resolved never to reveal anything of herself?

She forced a smile. “No more than any woman of my station, James, darling.”

Before she could stop him, he lifted her hand to his lips, and she suppressed a gasp at the feel of his mouth against her skin. Then the door was knocked upon again, and she leaped to her feet.

“Who is it?” she cried, then turned to him. “Forgive me, James. They should know better than to disturb us. I’ll tell them to—”

The door opened to reveal a tall woman with close-cropped hair, dressed in smart livery. In her arms she held a vase of flowers.

“What’s this, Hermia?”

“From your gentleman, Madame Dahlia.”

Cordelia turned to her visitor, who colored.

“Surely you didn’t think I’d visit you empty-handed?” he said.

“But such a large bouquet,” Cordelia said. “It’s too much.”

“Too much!” he chided her. “Do you think a single bloom sufficient for tonight, when, at last, you are to…”