Page 30 of Lyon of Least Resistance

Then she withdrew her hand and returned to the throne.

Puck leaned toward her.

“Which one, darling?”

“The painting,” she whispered. “Apollo.”

Puck grinned and winked again, then stood erect and addressed the crowd.

“The goddess has made her choice! Gallant suitors, let us discover whether bliss awaits you at the hands of the goddess of love, or whether you’ll be ejected into darkness, to return another day to win the fair hand of another. Step forward, Dionysus, and I shall remove your mask.”

The man with the necklace obeyed, and Puck took the mask off to reveal Sir Matthew Tainton, triumph glittering in his eyes. Cordelia suppressed a sigh of relief. Sir Matthew was a notorious womanizer who’d been disinherited for spending a fortune on his mistress.

“Sir Matthew Tainton, your prize tonight is”—Puck hesitated, and Sir Matthew’s smile broadened as he offered his hand to Cordelia—“is the continuation of your bachelorhood and the chance to return and fight another day!” Puck finished.

“Oh, fuck!” Sir Matthew huffed, and a combination of laughs and curses threaded through the crowd.

“I thought he was a sure thing,” someone said. “The odds on her choosing that necklace were three to one. Bloody hell, that’s me down twenty guineas.”

Puck addressed each competitor in turn until only one remained. Apollo. Though he stood erect, Cordelia noticed a slight tremor in his form.

“Devil’s bloody stockings!” someone said. “Don’t say she’s chosen him? Dear God, the woman must be soft in the head.”

“Silence!” Puck said. Then he turned to the victor. “Fair Apollo, present Aphrodite with your gift, then reveal yourself to the company so that we might celebrate your betrothal.”

Hands shaking, the fifth competitor stepped forward, stumbling as his foot caught the hem of his cloak.

Laughter erupted, which was quickly silenced as Cordelia rose.

Apollo presented the cushion, and Cordelia picked up the painting and nodded.

“Aphrodite accepts your gift,” Puck said. “Do you, Apollo, accept your prize and betroth yourself to her irrevocably?”

He nodded. “Aye, I do.”

Cordelia’s stomach fluttered at the familiar timbre of his voice.

No…

“Then reveal yourself,” Puck said. “Shed your cloak and take the hand of your fiancée!”

Hands shaking, Apollo unlaced his cloak and dropped it to the floor, and Cordelia’s heart stuttered as she took in the perfectly tailored jacket, pale-blue waistcoat with understated embroidery, cream breeches, and polished calfskin boots.

Then, amid applause, he removed his mask to reveal a face she knew and loved—deep-set cornflower-blue eyes, a strong, straight nose, full lips, and well-defined cheekbones, framed with thick honey-gold hair.

Puck took the painting, then the victor reached forward and took Cordelia’s hand. She suppressed a gasp as he curled his fingers around her wrist, and the familiar flame of desire swelled in her blood.

But he gave no sign of recognition.

Perhaps Isidore was right. When a man took a whore, he cared not what her face looked like.

“Gentlemen!” Puck cried. “I present to you the happy couple! The fair Aphrodite and the gallant Apollo! Miss Cordelia Flowers, and James, Viscount Bedford!”

Chapter Nine

Miss Cordelia Flowers…

My betrothed.