Page 31 of Lyon of Least Resistance

James caught his breath as he cast his gaze over his bride-to-be. A shallow little corner of his soul had prayed that she would be pleasing to look at—that he’d be proud to show her on his arm to the envy of others. But she was not just pleasing, she was glorious. Her face, framed by hair the color of a raven’s wing—so black that it looked almost blue against the orange hue of the candlelight—held the kind of perfect proportions that would have had the artists of Italy vying for the opportunity to immortalize her on the walls of galleries, palaces, and cathedrals. Her skin was pale, with a hint of color in her cheeks, and her lips, which formed a heart-shaped mouth, were of a color to match the roses he’d made such a pitiful attempt at reproducing in paint.

Yet his unsophisticated little painting had triumphed over the more expensive offerings of his rivals.

Why had she chosen him? Did she lack wits?

No—her eyes spoke of a sharp intelligence. Wide and expressive, they were a pale silver that shimmered as if they’d been fashioned from the stars. Framed by long, dark lashes that fluttered as she blinked, they focused on him with an intensity that heightened his heartbeat and sent a rush of heat to his groin.

She parted her lips, then closed them again. Tiny creases appeared in the corners of her eyes and James caught a sheen of pain in them. A jolt of recognition sparked in his heart as he recalled a similar expression in a pair of eyes that had regarded him from behind a red silk mask.

Don’t be a fool!

He cursed his imagination, which had placed his Dahlia before him each time he looked upon a woman. When he’d arrived in London yesterday he could swear he saw her strolling past his lodgings, arm in arm with a gentleman. Before breakfast that morning, his heart had fluttered as he spotted a maid cleaning the fireplace in the parlor. And while strolling in Hyde Park in the afternoon, he’d seen her no less than three times.

Would he never be free of her, the doxy who’d shown him how to bed his future wife—the woman whose name he’d whispered only last night as he fisted himself to completion then lay, alone, overcome with self-loathing?

Dahlia…

The pain in Miss Flowers’s eyes deepened. Did she know he’d spent many weeks visiting a whore in this very establishment? That less than a fortnight ago he’d lain with that whore—not only lain, but he’d come to glorious pleasure and shouted her name?

His betrothed took a step back.

“I say!” a voice cried. “Methinks Aphrodite is having a change of heart.”

“Kiss her, Bedford!” another voice called. “Don’t be a milksop. Show her who’s master.”

A flicker of fear flared in her eyes, then the master of ceremonies raised his hand.

“Gentlemen, the victorious couple have given you enough entertainment tonight,” he cried. “’Tis time to indulge in our hostess’s finest liquor and to let the gaming resume.”

Then he turned to James.

“Come, gallant victor. Come, fair bride. Mrs. Dove-Lyon requests the pleasure of your company in her private suite.”

He descended the steps and motioned for James to follow.

“Shall we?” James said.

Miss Flowers blinked. Then, slowly, she nodded and they followed the master of ceremonies out of the hall.

James winced inwardly as they passed through the same hallway he’d walked through over the past weeks, dotted with doors either side, behind which he could imagine scenes of men and women locked together, indulging in pleasure as their bodies writhed and thrusted. He could swear he could hear the slaps of flesh, the base grunts and moans of male release.

Dear Lord—did I sound like that?

He paused as they passed the door to Dahlia’s boudoir. Was she behind there? Straining to hear, he closed his eyes and shuddered as he heard a high-pitched giggle. When he opened them again, he saw that his betrothed was staring at him, the fear in her eyes having morphed into sorrow.

“Lord Bedford?” their escort said, gesturing toward the end of the hallway. “Please follow me. Mrs. Dove-Lyon does not like to be kept waiting. Miss Flowers?”

The escort turned his attention on the woman at James’s side and they exchanged a glance, recognition in their eyes.

She knows.

Damnation! Had Mrs. Dove-Lyon told her? Would she condemn him for having used a whore’s services—for being foolish enough to have fallen in love with her?

No!

He owed it to Miss Flowers to banish all such thoughts from his mind and his heart.

He was not in love with Dahlia. Or, if he had been, it was a passing fancy merely because she was his first. Perhaps that was why men of his rank rutted their way around the demimonde—to render their hearts immune to ensure that they had shed the boyish infatuation they would have held for the first woman to spread her legs for him.