Page 48 of Lyon of Least Resistance

“I can be discreet also,” she said.

“Perhaps. But I will always wonder, with each visitor to Bedford Hall, whether they recognize you. Or whether you and they…”

He shook his head. “No. I must not think of that.”

He resumed his attention on his coffee. When he’d finished, she rose and dropped her bridal clothes and chemise into the trunk then locked it. Then she glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf.

“The carriage will be ready at ten.”

“Yes, I heard.”

She nodded. “I’ll ring for someone to fetch the trunk.”

“Very good.”

So formal an exchange! Was this what their life would be like from now on? No more easy conversations in front of an open fire, in each other’s arms while he talked of his home and his sisters and she listened, falling more deeply in love with each visit. Were they to just pass remarks between each other for the rest of their lives?

He dabbed his lips with his napkin then rose, flicking a piece of fluff from his sleeve.

“James?”

He froze and met her gaze.

“Do you hate me?”

He blinked, slowly, then lifted his arm and placed his hand on her cheek.

She leaned into his embrace, relishing the feel of his fingers against her skin as he caressed her.

“No,” he whispered. “I could never hate my Dahlia, no matter how hard I tried.”

Before she could reply, the door opened and two footmen entered. They winked at Cordelia, then lifted her trunk between them. James followed them out, then he paused at the doorway and offered his arm. Cordelia took it and he placed his hand over hers. Then they followed the footmen outside to the front of the building on Cleveland Row where the carriage waited to transport Cordelia to her future.

Chapter Thirteen

As the carriage passed through the familiar gates and began the journey along the driveway to Bedford Hall, James’s heartbeat increased. He drew in a long, slow breath to temper the tremors in his body, then glanced at his wife.

The woman sitting opposite looked almost childlike. During the journey from London she had responded to his questions with monosyllabic answers until he surrendered to the silence she so evidently wanted. The way she held herself—shoulders hunched, eyes downcast, body turned to one side—told him that she craved invisibility, that his scrutiny pained her. But as soon as she’d fallen asleep, he was free to observe her.

In the stillness of sleep, the pain in her features had gone, replaced by serenity. She looked at peace, her body rocking with the motion of the carriage as she leaned against the wall, eyes closed.

The blanket over her knees had slipped off and he reached for it, covering her once more. She stirred and he froze, ashamed at being caught staring at her. Then she stilled again and he sat back.

I love him…

Those were the words he had heard after he’d woken—the words she spoke to that flamboyant young man, her back to James while the young man met James’s gaze as if in challenge.

Had she spoken the truth? Doxies lied, did they not? But she had no reason to speak falsely to her friend—the youth who seemed so determined for James to hear her confession.

And she was a doxy no more. Like it or not, she was Viscountess Bedford.

And he found—against reason, decorum, and propriety—that he did like that.

James caught his breath as the familiar façade of Bedford Hall came into view. His beloved home.

The carriage slowed and he leaned forward and took his wife’s hand.

She inhaled, then her eyes opened, their clear gray reflecting the light of the afternoon sun. His heart ached at the softness of their expression. Then she blinked and focused her gaze on him and the softness disappeared, replaced by apprehension.