Page 42 of Lyon of Least Resistance

“James, what’s the matter?”

Did she still seek to deceive him?

“Why do you ask…Dahlia?”

She flinched. “Wh-what did you call me?”

She wrapped her arms around herself, and he gestured toward her.

“Why do you cover yourself?” he said. “After all, it’s a body I have seen many times—as have countless other men.”

“I-I don’t understand what you’re—”

“Do not play me for a fool!” he snarled. “Forgive me, madam, for not recognizing you without your red mask and blonde wig.”

She lowered her head and her shoulders slumped. Then she wiped her eyes and shook her head.

“James, I didn’t intend to…”

“Didn’t intend to what?” he said. “Play me for a simpleton? Is your name really Cordelia Flowers?”

She nodded.

“I mean,” he continued, “a whore uses many names, does she not, when she’s servicing her clients? Dahlia was the name you gave me, but perhaps the other men who fucked you called you Rose, or Daisy, or perhaps—”

“Stop!” she cried. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Like what?” he said. “Did you not sell your body in this very building?”

She wiped her eyes and nodded.

“Then what, madam, have I said that’s wrong?”

“I-it wasn’t like that…with you. It meant nothing with the others.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “Is that not what a whore says to every man she spreads her legs for if she wishes to secure an extra coin or two—a woman whose only love is for coin?”

“James, I…”

Her lips moved, but the blood pounding in his ears obliterated her words, together with the sounds of the building—the ticking of the clock, the crackle of the fire, and the distant laughter coming, no doubt, from the company mocking the man who’d been duped into marrying a whore.

“What did you say?” he asked, at length.

She closed her eyes and drew in a long breath, before exhaling.

“It matters not,” she said quietly. “You’ve resolved to think the worst of me, so I’ll spare you words that mean nothing to you.”

She wrapped her arms around her breasts, shivering before him. In her state of distress, an aura of defenselessness surrounding her form, James’s heart almost surrendered. She had looked innocent before. But now…

He’d never seen a creature so vulnerable—like a field mouse caught in the jaws of a cat, knowing that her predator meant to toy with her before tearing her to pieces.

“Did you plan this, Dahlia?”

She flinched and, for a moment, looked completely cowed. Then her body seemed to solidify and she straightened her posture, as if her backbone were forged from steel.

“No, Lord Bedford,” she said, her voice hardening. “I did not plan”—she gestured between them—“this.”

“Explain.”