Page 52 of Lyon of Least Resistance

“Not yet. I’d like a word with my wife first, if you’re amenable, my dear?”

He winced at his own formality and Cordelia nodded, then he led her inside. Behind, Osborne issued a sharp order and the servants dispersed.

James led his wife through the hallway and into the morning room, where he gestured to a chair beside the unlit fireplace.

She sat, glancing about as if expecting to be devoured by predators.

“Forgive me, I didn’t think to ask you about a lady’s maid,” he said.

“I’ve no need of a maid. I can dress myself.”

“But it will be expected now you’re a viscountess. Ladies have maids. That’s the way it is.”

“And sluts dress themselves.”

Guilt gnawed at him and he sat beside her, taking her hand, which lay limply in his, as if she were a prisoner resigned to her fate.

“I apologize for Georgiana. It was most uncivil of her. I shall insist she gives you a proper apology.”

“I’ve no wish for an apology that’s been elicited on demand,” she replied. “Do you think I cannot tell when someone is being genuine or not?”

Did she speak of Georgiana’s apology, or his?

“I would ask you to promise me one thing, Cordelia,” he said.

She glanced up.

“Do not refer to yourself as a slut. No matter what others say. You’re a viscountess—my viscountess—and those you encounter will respect that title, even if…”

“Even if they cannot respect the woman?”

He shook his head. He really was making a complete arse of himself. A man with more experience of women would doubtless have said something pretty enough to make her forgive him in a heartbeat, fall into his arms, and invite him to her bed.

His manhood pulsed at the thought of tonight, and he caught his breath to dispel the surge in his groin. It wouldn’t do to spend in his breeches. What the devil would his valet think of him if he presented the fellow with such a stain—the same stain that he had, to his shame, adorned his bedsheets with at night while dreaming of the woman who sat before him now, relishing the image of her plump, pink lips, wrapped around his…

He inhaled sharply and squeezed his thighs together.

Compose yourself, for pity’s sake!

He crossed his legs in an attempt to hide his cockstand.

“You’ll have to tell me the truth once, at least,” he said. “I promise I shall never ask it of you again. But if I’m to defend you against accusations made by my sisters, or…”

He paused. Heaven forbid anyone might recognize her if they came to Bedford Hall.

“…or anyone else, I must be furnished with the truth. You owe me that, at least.”

She leveled her gaze at him. But rather than shame, he saw something akin to pride in her eyes. And, by God, she was magnificent—beautiful and regal as she tilted her chin up and stared open-eyed at him, as if he were the sinner of the two.

Perhaps he was.

“Very well,” she said, in a quiet, even voice. “I shall tell you once, and once only. But, in turn, I would ask that once I have related my history, you do not make reference to my past, or judge me for decisions that I was compelled to make to survive. It is by the grace of the Almighty that I was born into the life I led, and that you were born into this.”

She gestured about the parlor. When he did not respond, she continued.

“I was born in Somerset, at least, that is what my…guardian told me.”

She flinched, and James caught a flicker of pain in her eyes. He reached for her hand but she waved him away.